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volume 11 número 03
setembro –dezembro 2021
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issn 2238-3875
sociologia & antropologia
APRESENTAÇÃO
724
Desejamos a todes uma boa leitura, boas festas e – com muita esperança
– um feliz 2022.
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 723 – 724 , set. – dez., 2021
The editors (PPGSA/UFRJ)
PRESENTATION
With this third issue we conclude Volume 11 of Sociologia & Antropologia. This
year – just as challenging as the previous year, perhaps more so given the
persistence and worsening even of the pandemic – asked much of our editorial
team, who worked hard to respond to the numerous demands of a shifting and
transforming editorial universe amid all kinds of institutional and personal
difficulties. As a result, they continued to provide a space of collective reflection
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 725 – 726 , set. – dez., 2021
for our social science community on the contemporary crisis – as our special
issue on the covid-19 pandemic is proof.
It is our pleasure to present readers with an issue dedicated to the work
of Indian anthropologist Veena Das, an essential reference in studies on
collective violence, critical events, urban transformations, and ordinary life in
ethnography, among other themes. As well as a previously unpublished inter-
view with the author, conducted by Adriana Vianna, Letícia Ferreira, Camila
Pierobon and Cynthia Sarti, we also publish the following articles: “Disquiet:
words, times and relations along an ethnographic trajectory,” by Adriana Vi-
anna; “Figurations of pain: memory through life,” by Cynthia Sarti; “‘Almost
nothing has changed’: ordinary ethics and forms of life in pandemic times,” by
Ceres Víctora, Patrice Schuch and Monalisa Dias de Siqueira; and “Family be-
trayals: the textures of kinship,” by Camila Pierobon. The set of texts on Veena
Das’s work is completed by the research record of Bhrigupati Singh, “‘In your
writing I am existed’: reading the history of anthropology via Textures of the
ordinary,” and Carolina Parreiras’s book review of Textures of the ordinary: doing
anthropology after Wittgenstein, published by Das in 2020.
presentation | the editors
726
We can also highlight the first-person account by Veena Das herself, “Two
plaits and a step in the world: a childhood remembered,” which we publish in
the memoirs section (available only on our website).
Next in the issue we include the articles “Individual and individualism
in Norbert Elias,” by Tatiana Savoia Landini and Andréa Borges Leão; “Maritime
fishing culture,” by Cristiano Wellington Noberto Ramalho, “‘Why do homosexuals
only exist in the city?’ the recent ‘institutionalization’ of ‘homosexuality’ in
southern Mozambique,” by Francisco Miguel, “Electromobility and political
rhetoric: natural resources, technological nationalism and green morality in
Bolivia,” by Francisco Adolfo García Jerez; “Envy and the corpo fechado in the
Pernambucan maracatu de baque solto,” by Filippo Bonini Baraldi; “Postcolonial
theory and Brazilian thought in the work of Guerreiro Ramos: political thought
(1955-1958),” by Christian Edward Cyril Lynch and Pedro Paiva Marreca; and
“Postcolonialism and decolonialities: ethnicity, reproduction, gender and
sexuality – voices from Africa – notes based on knowledge in progress,” by Mary
Garcia Castro.
Finally, this final issue of Volume 11 includes the research record of
Bila Sorj “Studies of care in sociology: the contribution of Nadya Araujo Gui-
marães and Helena Hirata” and two more book reviews: John C. Dawsey’s review
of Drama, ritual e performance: a antropologia de Victor Turner (2020), by Maria
Laura Viveiros de Castro Cavalcanti, and Mariana Barreto’s review of Peut-on
dissocier l’œuvre de l’auteur? (2020), by Gisèle Sapiro.
We wish everyone good reading, a joy-filled holiday season and – with
much hope – a happy 2022.
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 725 – 726 , set. – dez., 2021
sociologia & antropologia
volume 11 número 03
setembro –dezembro 2021
quadrimestral
issn 2238-3875
REGISTROS DE PESQUISA 1079 “IN YOUR WRITING I AM EXISTED”: READING THE HISTORY OF
ANTHROPOLOGY VIA TEXTURES OF THE ORDINARY
Bhrigupati Singh
volume 11 number 03
september-december 2021
triannual
issn 2238-3875
Research RECORDS 1079 “IN YOUR WRITING I AM EXISTED”: READING THE HISTORY OF
ANTHROPOLOGY VIA TEXTURES OF THE ORDINARY
Bhrigupati Singh
Veena Das l
Às vezes tenho um sonho em que me vejo vagando por uma fortaleza histórica.
Uma pessoa, talvez um viajante, me acompanha. Tudo parece benigno, mas, à
medida que entramos na fortaleza, novas vielas se abrem; vejo pessoas
agachadas ao redor de uma fogueira, aquecendo as mãos, cozinhando – a fumaça
sobe das fogueiras a carvão, e há crianças brincando. No sonho, sei que deveria
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 733 – 745 , set. – dez., 2021
reconhecer essas pessoas, mas não consigo lembrar quem são. Sei que estou
lentamente sendo atraída para algo que me assusta e que, se eu me demorar
demais, nunca mais retornarei para a minha vida.
734
diziam à minha mãe: a despeito das dificuldades vividas, ele deu a você a vida
de uma rainha – bade raj karai.
Na casa de meu irmão em Nova York está pendurada uma litografia emoldurada
na qual a tríade Ram-Sita-Lakshman, com Hanuman curvando-se em devoção,
olha para fora da moldura com um gesto de bênção. Em um canto de um cômodo
que havia sido dividido em dois em nossa minúscula moradia na localidade de
Model Basti, em Delhi, havia uma pequena alcova. Essa foto foi colocada ali
com uma diya – um lampião de barro aceso todas as noites enquanto papai se
curvava diante de suas divindades de devoção. Minha mãe, por outro lado, era
uma fiel seguidora de Arya Samaj e não se curvava diante de nenhum ídolo. Ela
fazia meus irmãos e eu nos sentarmos à noite para um havan, para o qual
fazíamos oferendas ao fogo e entoávamos mantras sânscritos que recitávamos
a partir de um texto-guia. Meu irmão mais velho era ateu, e o outro se sentia
atraído por todas as formas de ocultismo que pudesse encontrar. Eu conseguia
ser todas essas coisas em diferentes momentos do dia.
A imagem na casa de meu irmão é importante para mim porque em 1956,
quando papai dava seu último suspiro, ele pediu que a imagem fosse trazida
para si; então, ele cruzou as mãos sobre ela e pediu que fosse posto no chão,
para que pudesse morrer sem estar preso a nada. Antes, ele havia pedido que
trouxessem uma xícara de chá para o vaid ji 1 que estava cuidando dele – e então
ele simplesmente se foi. Por outro lado, minha mãe, que morreu muito depois
e nunca havia orado diante de um ídolo, ficava chamando Maharini, a deusa, e
dizendo “jo teri marzi” – qualquer que seja o seu desejo.
Foram tantas mortes na minha infância... Meus amigos se dividiam
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 733 – 745 , set. – dez., 2021
Antes dos dias de Model Basti, porém, parece que não éramos tão pobres. Papai
havia sido promovido do posto de oficial subalterno no Exército para o posto
memória | veena das
735
736
com minha tia, meu tio e meus primos no vilarejo de Mohi-ud-din Pur por talvez
três meses, talvez seis. Eu tomava o trem para Modi Nagar com meus primos
todas as manhãs e frequentava algum tipo de escola lá. Só lembro que não
usávamos cadernos naquela escola. Todo mundo escrevia em um patti branco.
Por alguma razão, eu era capaz de falar inglês (aprendi no Jesus e Maria ou já
sabia falar inglês?) E isso fez com que os professores expressassem certo temor
– tornei-me uma espécie de espetáculo para quem visitasse a escola. Mas naqueles
três ou seis meses a figura que ganhou vulto em minha mente foi a de um certo
sr. Chatterji, que lecionava na escola da aldeia e estava muito interessado nas
crianças de lá. Ele nos ensinou, por exemplo, que o gás subia e a água descia,
fazendo-nos encher balões coloridos com água e gás e depois mostrando que o
gás poderia fazer com que os balões subissem. Para um professor de aldeia, ele
parecia ter muitos livros e amava a poesia inglesa. Lembro-me disso porque eu
era a única criança que sabia ler em inglês, e ele me emprestou livros sobre os
quais me debrucei à luz do lampião, já que a aldeia não tinha eletricidade. Ele
também me ensinou como recitar poemas com dicção e expressão adequadas.
memória | veena das
737
E então eu retornei não para King Edward’s Mess, mas para uma casa em Model
Basti. Dois eventos se destacam. Um foi que papai me deu um exemplar do
Ramcharitmanas. Pela dedicatória, sei que tinha nove anos. Fiquei encantada
com a cadência dos chands e dos chaupais. 3 Memorizei grandes trechos do texto
e podia recitar versos como “vo van nikat dashanan aayo”. Eu estava fascinada
não apenas pelo texto, mas por sua capacidade de fazer profecias, porque todos
os dias eu abria o texto em uma página aleatória e a partir da quadra em que
meu dedo caísse eu previa o que iria acontecer. Antes, papai havia descoberto
algo sobre uma bolsa de estudos para admissão em escolas públicas. Havia uma
expectativa de que eu conseguisse uma vaga na Escola Moderna. Passei no
exame escrito. Um vestido novo, bem elegante, foi costurado para que eu o
usasse na entrevista. Infelizmente, confundi na prova a terra girando em torno
do Sol com a terra girando em torno de seu próprio eixo. Fim da bolsa – fim de
uma vida na escola pública. Mas, felizmente, passei no teste para bolsa de
estudos na Lady Irwin School e lá descobri o teatro, a dança Manipuri e a
literatura hindi.
738
de como a rua era animada. À tarde, as mulheres levavam para fora os charpais,
onde descascavam vegetais, tricotavam, bordavam, fofocavam. Ocasionalmente,
quando alguém tinha dinheiro, paravam um vendedor ambulante e compravam
rabanetes para todos ou gol gappas ou kulfi. Grupos de meninas pulavam corda
ou brincavam de amarelinha e outros jogos desenhados no chão ou jogavam
gittas – cinco pedras a serem recolhidas de uma vez enquanto uma pedra era
lançada no ar. Durante o festival teej, celebrando a monção e o retorno das filhas
casadas à casa dos pais, pendurávamos balanços – duas tábuas de madeira
amarradas em níveis diferentes, nas quais duas meninas ou moças se sentavam
e balançavam enquanto todo mundo cantava canções teej. Havia desenhos
elaborados de mehandi (henna) para usar, e as roupas eram tingidas de amarelo.
À noite, os charpais eram colocados em uma fileira, e enquanto as
meninas eram postas para dormir “dentro”, cercadas por esteiras de pais ou
irmãos, elas ainda podiam sentar-se todas juntas até ser chamadas, para não
incomodar os outros. A música flutuava nas vozes das mulheres cantando na
casa de alguém ou em um terraço. Tappas, swang e canções de filmes antigos.
Noites escuras iluminadas pelas estrelas.
Parece que às vezes não havia dinheiro em casa e outras vezes aparecia
de algum lugar. Quando havia dinheiro, podia-se beber leite de uma loja de um
halwai que também havia migrado de Lahore e sabia engrossar o leite, e o
misturava com tâmaras e ameixas secas.
739
meu irmão “fotógrafo de sociedade” já estava tendo um caso com sua filha, e
a mãe o desaprovava totalmente. Depois de muita confusão, todas as relações
entre a família dela e a nossa foram rompidas. Por fim, eu tinha um lindo sári
roxo – mas então todo o meu papel se limitava a enfeitar a garota que fazia o
papel de Ram. O papel de que eu mais gostava era o de Lakshman, em que ele
(ela) tinha de brandir o punho na assembleia e fazer um discurso inflamado.
Anos depois, eu estava tentando fazer uma transação em um banco e de repente
vi uma mulher que me pareceu extremamente familiar, e eu deixei escapar:
“Você era Lakshman na Lady Irwin School!”, e de fato era ela. No entanto, ela
disse que tinha inveja de mim porque o presidente havia me oferecido um doce.
De repente, me lembrei de que ela havia dito então que eu só tinha conseguido
o papel porque eu tinha a pele clara, e ela era morena. Apesar dessa crítica
contundente às minhas habilidades como atriz, minha carreira no teatro ainda
não havia acabado.
Havia dois tipos de eventos públicos no ensino médio pelos quais todas nós
aguardávamos. Um deles era a competição de recitação organizada pela Missão
Ramakrishna na Panchkuian Road todos os anos. Tínhamos que decorar os
discursos de Swami Vivekananda e recitá-los no gramado da missão. Os
discursos estavam em hindi, bengali e inglês e eu tentava competir nos três.
(Embora eu tendesse ao hindi, eu tinha aprendido bengali o suficiente na escola
para ser capaz de memorizar discursos) A passagem de que me lembro
particularmente bem era: “Necessitamos hoje sobretudo de músculos de ferro
e nervos de aço” – o que era para ser dito heroicamente, cabeça erguida, com
voz de aço. Devo dizer que com as orientações ministradas pelo meu professor,
ganhei muitos prêmios todos os anos. Mais tarde, quando entrei na faculdade
aos 16 anos, minha percepção de mim mesma como debatedora me foi muito
útil. Ela me ajudou a me aproximar de N.K. Singh e J. Krishnamurthy, que eram
debatedores conhecidos na Universidade de Delhi e me aceitaram porque eu
era bastante útil na elaboração de todo o tipo de piada e brincadeira contra o
Indraprastha College. Mas a essa altura eu já havia cruzado o limiar da infância.
O segundo evento público era um festival anual de variedades organizado
para os pais. Por alguma razão, nosso currículo de história era fortemente
voltado para eventos da história britânica. Então, certo ano, a peça que
apresentamos tinha a ver com a rainha Maria de Escócia, e eu fui escolhida
para esse papel. Agora a questão era que precisávamos decorar uma tonelada
de datas, nomes de lugares e referências absolutamente descontextualizadas
à Guerra das Rosas e às Rosas Brancas e Vermelhas e a como a rainha Elizabeth,
a Virgem, se casou com toda a Inglaterra. Eu deveria interpretar Maria, mas não
sabia o que diabos as referências à conspiração católica significavam, e embora
a tragédia de minha execução me fizesse derramar lágrimas reais, tudo isso
duas tranças e um passo no mundo: uma infância rememorada
740
741
nos mudamos para Model Basti, Rai Bahadur Sahib estava se candidatando às
eleições, e mamãe, que tinha uma presença muito digna, formou um grupo de
mulheres para fazer propaganda de casa em casa. Então, eu acompanhava as
mulheres quando não havia escola e fui cativada pela ideia da política. Os
eventos mais incríveis eram as reuniões públicas noturnas em que cantores e
poetas locais recitavam o tipo de poesia política que as pessoas em bairros
desse tipo podem compor a qualquer momento. Eu também organizei um grupo
de crianças em que nos maquiávamos com pó e batom e fazíamos o que
pensávamos ser sátiras políticas intercaladas com o tipo de canções que
havíamos aprendido nos sangeets das mulheres, 7 cantadas durante a temporada
de casamentos. Em uma ocasião, fui colocada diante do microfone e fiz um
discurso sobre a situação dos pobres. De qualquer forma, quando Rai Bahadur
ganhou a eleição, senti um brilho de orgulho.
Então, quando consegui minha bicicleta e permissão para ir à biblioteca
com meu primo, fiquei desesperada para conseguir o dinheiro para um depósito
ou a assinatura do Rai Bahadur para poder pegar livros emprestados. Não era
provável que eu recebesse dinheiro e achei que, se pedisse à mamãe que me
ajudasse a conseguir a assinatura necessária, receberia um não firme e até
mesmo uma advertência para não incomodar o grande homem. Portanto, não
perguntei, mas fiquei na fila na sala de espera, onde vários clientes esperavam
para apresentar seus pleitos. Quando chegou minha vez, ele ficou surpreso ao
me ver e perguntou por que eu tinha que vir com os outros peticionários, por
que não havia ido direto a sua casa? Disse com alguma dignidade que havia
trabalhado em sua campanha eleitoral e achava que tinha o direito de obter
sua assinatura. Ele assinou o cartão de garantia e eu conquistei o direito a pegar
livros emprestados!
Nossa vida em Model Basti não se sustentaria por muito mais tempo e nos
mudamos para a casa de meu mama ji em Kamla Nagar. Eles haviam se mudado
de Mohi ui-din Pur para Delhi. Tinham quatro filhos – havia apenas dois quartos,
mas fiquei maravilhada com a generosidade deles. Claro que mamãe sentia
alguma restrição – então ela sempre tentava me convencer a fazer chapatis, ou
ajudar a acender a chulah, ou ajudar na limpeza. Às vezes eu sentia a injustiça
da vida depois de um dia cansativo na escola e a exigência de que eu tinha que
fazer outro tipo de trabalho em casa. Mas, no geral, essa foi a época, dos 12 aos
14 anos, em que a Biblioteca Pública de Delhi e minha bicicleta se tornaram os
verdadeiros centros de minha vida. Eu li livros improváveis, como Coração
impaciente, de Stefan Zweig. Encontrei livros de poesia em urdu na escrita
devnagri e me apaixonei por Firaq e Faiz e um pouco por Sahir. A biblioteca
tinha um clube literário que se reunia à noite e tinha concursos de recitação e
concursos de poesia e concursos de escrita de contos. Eu ouvi Firaq uma vez e
duas tranças e um passo no mundo: uma infância rememorada
742
O sr. Seth era membro do Partido Comunista. Ele dava aulas de acompanhamento
em uma instituição em Kamla Nagar, provavelmente o Navjyot Tutorial College.
Ele preparava os alunos para o exame admissional da Universidade de Punjab
e também oferecia aulas para os alunos mais fracos. Antes de conhecer o sr.
Seth, meu patriotismo era expresso em marchas no Desfile do Dia da República
todos os anos e cantando canções patrióticas. Posteriormente, eu ganhei até
um prêmio nacional para crianças em reconhecimento ao trabalho que fiz como
escoteira em uma aldeia. Mas o sr. Seth me deu muitos panfletos escritos por
ele que abalaram minha fé em nossa nação. Fui realmente arrebatada pela força
retórica. A maioria desses panfletos, pelo que me lembro, questionava a
afirmação de que Gandhi nos deu a liberdade. Lembro-me de uma frase:
vo kehte hain Gandhi ke satyagraha se Hindustan ko azadi mili aur é ladai mein ek katra
bhi khun nahin bahaya gaya – hum puchte hain ke jo khun baha batware mein ou angrozon
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 733 – 745 , set. – dez., 2021
ki bandukon se aur khhane shahidon se jo khhane phan shahidon khidhan bahaya gaya
se wo kya khun nahin tha
743
Até agora, falei sobre meu irmão mais velho, que tinha 17 anos mais do que eu
e estava ausente na maior parte do tempo, como uma presença à sombra, mas
era ele a âncora sólida de minha vida. Não sei como esse amor se desenvolveu
entre nós, mas ele sempre me deu a sensação de que tudo no mundo ia ser bom
para mim. Depois de concluir a faculdade de medicina, ele trabalhou como
cirurgião da casa (uma designação para o que seria agora médico residente) na
ala pediátrica do Hospital Safdarjung. Ele vivia no alojamento ali, e eu às vezes
o visitava lá de bicicleta nos fins de semana, quando íamos ao terraço e
observávamos os aviões decolando do aeroporto de Safdarjung nas proximidades.
Eu podia falar qualquer coisa com ele, mas ele também poderia ficar
repentinamente com raiva. Certa vez, eu estava repetindo uma fofoca que tinha
ouvido e disse, com bastante arrogância, que nunca faria algo daquele tipo. Ouvi
uma resposta contundente: “Não julgue as pessoas – nessas circunstâncias,
você não sabe o que pode ser capaz de fazer”. Em outra ocasião, quando eu
comecei a usar óculos e fiquei chateada por me achar horrível com eles, ele
disse: “Você tem que decidir, você quer ser o tipo de pessoa que é olhada pelos
outros ou que olha para o mundo?” Tinha a sensação de que ele nunca se sentia
à vontade com ninguém em casa, mas com seus pacientes era uma pessoa
diferente. Na época em que nos mudamos para Kamla Nagar, ele partiu para
Bhilai, onde conseguiu um emprego no hospital local. Mamãe foi se mudando
aos poucos para lá, e eu ia passar o verão na casa dele. Certa vez, dirigimos
quilômetros e quilômetros até um vilarejo porque um de seus pacientes estava
morrendo, e ele não queria dar a notícia para a esposa quando ela estava sozinha
no hospital – ele queria que ela estivesse cercada pela família.
744
Em minhas lutas eternas com mamãe (eu tinha que ser como a Suma
ou a Sudha ou a Sumita da casa ao lado, que eram garotas lindas e obedientes
– eu devia ter em mente estudar disciplinas domésticas se fosse o caso de ir
para a faculdade – eu amargaria por toda a minha vida por meu caráter rebelde),
foi a lenta autoridade que Dev Bhaiya (meu irmão mais velho) conquistou que
foi decisiva para que eu pudesse estudar em Delhi. Quando ele tirou a própria
vida, eu tinha 21 anos e por muitos anos me senti como uma casa em que todas
as luzes haviam sido apagadas, uma por uma.
No entanto, também sei da injustiça de minhas memórias em relação à
minha mãe. Por exemplo, é difícil para mim descobrir por que causei tanta
preocupação aos meus pais (exceto meu irmão), pois estava indo bem nos meus
estudos e, vendo fotos antigas, me vejo com um grupo de crianças escolhidas
por sua excelência como guias ou escoteiras para ser apresentadas ao primeiro-
ministro e ao presidente. No entanto, uma carta de um primo para minha
mamãe que encontrei recentemente diz: “Você deve perceber que o que está
em jogo é toda a vida de Veena. Ela é teimosa e se recusa a ouvir quem quer
que seja. Por mais brilhante que ela possa ser em seus estudos, no exame de
vida ela será um imenso fracasso, pois tudo o que ela faz é ler.” Pela carta,
deduzo também que essas reclamações foram enviadas ao meu irmão mais
velho, mas ele nem se deu ao trabalho de as reconhecer.
Com uma história dessas, o que mais eu poderia ter me tornado senão a mãe
de três grandes filhos, casada com um homem que, ao meu lado, lentamente
me trouxe de volta à vida; e o que mais, senão uma antropóloga?
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 733 – 745 , set. – dez., 2021
745
NOTAS
1 Vaid ji era o termo que aplicávamos a ele porque ele tinha
alg um tipo de treinamento em ayur veda, mas, como
muitos desses práticos, ele também preparava
medicamentos alopáticos e injeções.
2 Lilavati significa graciosa em hindi. [N. T.]
3 Chand, palavra que remonta ao sânscrito, significa “metro/
métr ica”. Chaupais: estrofes de quatro versos de quatro
sílabas cada, produzidas especialmente na poesia medieval
hindi. Tulsidas, autor do Ramcharitmanas, é lembrado por
esse tipo de composição. [N. T.]
4 Rua. [N. T.]
5 Referência a uma tradição hinduísta, o vixnuísmo, que
confere ao deus Vixnu o lugar supremo. [N. T.]
6 Grupo paramilitar de extrema-direita ligado ao nacio-
nalismo hindu, fundado em 1925. Foram banidos pelo
Império britânico e três vezes pelo governo indiano pós-
independência. A violência praticada pelo nacionalismo
hindu deixou, entre outras vítimas, Mahatma Gandhi. [N.
T.]
7 Festividade de cunho não relig ioso que pertence ao
conjunto de atividades pré-nupciais. Originalmente, era
restrita a mulheres de ambas as partes do casal. Nela, o
canto e a dança têm papel fundamental. [N. T.]
“The thing about being an anthropologist is that you get to see what it means
to have a taste for life”. This was one of the many beautiful thoughts on an-
thropology, desire, life, and devotion that Veena Das shared in a first meeting
with us, held virtually on January 21, 2021. Das is Krieger-Eisenhower Professor
of Anthropology at Johns Hopkins University since 2000 and also affiliated to
the Institute for Socio-Economic Research in Development and Democracy (IS-
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 749 – 789 , sep. – dec., 2021
ERDD), based in Delhi. 1 She is the author of a vast body of work that covers
topics such as violence, social suffering, urban poverty, health, everyday life,
ordinary ethics, and the State. Soon before our meeting, she had just released
her book Textures of the ordinary: doing anthropology after Wittgenstein (Das, 2020a).
Veena Das’ work has had a significant impact on Brazilian anthropology
since the 1990s, when it began to be read especially in graduate courses and to
inspire creative dialogues on themes of strong ethnographic tradition in Brazil,
such as violence, urban poverty, and State practices. Her conference at the 1998
Annual Meeting of the National Association of Graduate Studies and Research
in Social Sciences (Anpocs), introduced by Brazilian anthropologist Mariza Pei-
rano and published in Portuguese (Das, 1999), contributed to making her wide-
ly known among Brazilian scholars. Furthermore, since the previous decade,
her dialogue with Peirano resulted in fruitful reciprocal reflections on Brazilian
and Indian anthropologies (Peirano, 1998).
Although other articles of hers have been translated and published in
Brazil (Das 2007, 2011, 2017), it was only in 2020 that one of her books was in-
tegrally published in Portuguese. Vida e palavras: a violência e sua descida ao or-
anthropology, desire and textures of life:
750
dinário (Life and Words: violence and the descent into the ordinary)(Das, 2020b) pub-
lished by Editora Unifesp, directed by Cynthia Sarti, achieved rapid dissemina-
tion in the country. The book was immediately incorporated into various grad-
uate courses syllabuses, and its publication was also the subject of a biblio-
graphical essay by Adriana Vianna (2020).
With the book’s publication in Brazil, along with the recent release of
Textures of the ordinary, we felt encouraged to ask Veena Das for an interview,
almost ten years after her last (and up to now only) interview made by Brazil-
ian researchers (Das, 2012). Another incentive was the fact that Das had coor-
dinated, throughout the year 2020, a major research project developed simul-
taneously in five countries, including Brazil, entitled “Implementation of COV-
ID-19 related policies: implications for household inequalities across five coun-
tries.” Veena Das had coordinated the project along with anthropologist Clara
Han, her colleague at Johns Hopkins University and her partner in different
endeavors. The project included Camila Pierobon in the coordination of the
Brazilian team, together with our colleagues Paula Lacerda (UERJ) and Taniele
Rui (Unicamp).
The momentous launching of Textures of the ordinary, whose reception
among anthropologists, philosophers and sociologists from different countries
we were able to follow online, also stimulated us to propose an interview with
her. 2 We were really and joyfully surprised when she not only accepted our
proposal but also invited us for a preparatory meeting and made herself avail-
able to read pieces of our works before we met. Those were the early signs of
Veena Das’ enormous generosity throughout this process. Our preparatory con-
versation, held by video call, lasted about an hour and a half. It went through
several subjects, such as what Das calls “devotion to the world” (cf. Life and
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 749 – 789 , sep. – dec., 2021
Words); the theme of torture, about which she was writing at the time; the place
of children in her writing; and, among many other themes, the relationship
between anthropology and what she called “a taste for life”.
The interview we conducted after this first conversation took place on
January 30, 2021, again by video call, and lasted two and a half hours. The ques-
tions were sent out in advance, and the answers were later transcribed. A child
irrupted into the interview, as the son of one of the interviewers briefly appeared
on the screen; we noticed the interviewee’s earrings, which allowed her to tell
us about the meaning of the shirish flower in Sanskrit literature; she kindly
offered to write something for us about the idea of “texture”. Veena Das gener-
ously showed us her disposition for dialogue, welcoming and reflecting deeply
on all the questions we proposed. After the interview was transcribed and went
through a first edit, the interviewee worked carefully and thoroughly on the
answers. What the reader has at hand, therefore, is the product not only of our
meeting but also of the intense work invested by Veena Das in the interview.
We opted to publish the original text in English in the present volume of Socio-
interview with veena das | letícia ferreira , adriana vianna, camila pierobon and cynthia sarti
751
logia & Antropologia aiming at the widest possible circulation. We will soon make
its version available in Portuguese as well.
In this volume of Sociologia & Antropologia, the reader will also find a
Portuguese translation of Veena Das’ precious essay “Two plaits and a step in
the world: a childhood remembered.” The essay was first published in an In-
dian collection of essays in homage to André Beteille (Das, 2009) and the Por-
tuguese translation was done by Bruno Gambarotto.3 In addition to the interview
and to Das’ essay, the present issue of the journal also includes four unpublished
articles by Brazilian anthropologists Ceres Víctora, with Patrice Shuch and
Monalisa Siqueira; Cynthia Sarti; Camila Pierobon; and Adriana Vianna. The
papers reflect on several themes, such as long-lasting relationships in ethno-
graphic research; ethnographic data produced in and about the coronavirus
pandemic; and research trajectories within the anthropological discipline, all
of them in frank dialogue with the work of Veena Das. Ceres Víctora, Patrice
Schuch and Monalisa Siqueira reflect on ordinary ethics and forms of life dur-
ing the pandemic. Víctora was a visiting researcher at Johns Hopkins Anthro-
pology Department between 2010 and 2011, strongly influenced by Veena Das’
work on social suffering. Cynthia Sarti, for her part, discusses the themes of
pain and violence and the great impact of Das’ work on her journey as a Brazil-
ian scholar. Camila Pierobon presents us with dense reflections on family, be-
trayal, and skepticism. Adriana Vianna, in turn, discusses the intricate relation-
ship between words and temporalities in ethnographic knowledge. Besides, the
issue also contains a beautiful bibliographical essay by Bhrigupati Singh, Veena
Das’ partner, co-author and editor in articles, books, collections and research
projects, as well as a book review of Textures of the ordinary written by Carolina
Parreiras, who has taught courses on Veena Das’ anthropology in Brazil. 4
Letícia Ferreira Professor Veena, thank you very much again for your time and
your attention. In our last meeting, as well as in the webinar for the launch of
your new book, the relations between ethnography, biography and autobiogra-
phy received a lot of attention. Could you tell us a bit more about how these
forms of writing connect with each other and how this relates to the image of
crab-like movements, which you used to describe your mode of thinking?
Veena Das These are very difficult questions that you have posed, and this one
is particularly hard, I think I’m coming to this question from different perspec-
tives. The first is that [for] a long time, anthropologists have postulated differ-
ent moments in anthropological thinking. One moment is said to be that of
being in the field, immersed in experiences; a second moment, when we come
back and reflect on these experiences taking, the common set of concepts we
anthropology, desire and textures of life:
752
within these variations we will find the patterns that matter. However, some-
times we do find patterns and sometimes we don’t. And so, I guess what I mean
by the fact that there is a way in which autobiography, ethnography and biog-
raphy are joined together is that anthropological writing is also done within a
form of life, thinking is not something happening outside a form of life. You’re
writing in response to a problem that gets thrown at you from the world you
inhabit. So I don’t ever think now I’m writing for my anthropological colleagues
and now I’m writing for people in these places, and now I am writing for poli-
cy makers. It’s true that some of the things I write, I would have to do more
work on them to explain the ideas to my interlocutors in the field. I can imag-
ine someone reading something from my text and saying: “I don’t understand
this. What are you trying to say over here?” But that can happen in any context.
It can happen with my grandchildren. It can happen with a colleague. It can
happen with a neighbour, or a friend in my fieldwork who wants to know why
I am asking a particular question. So clearly texts will speak to very many dif-
ferent people in very many different ways. And for me, that’s the excitement
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753
of it. It’s not a limitation that someone else can see an idea that I could not
articulate well and take it in a different direction.
So, [going back to] autobiography, I think the person during this book
launch you referred to, who emphasized this aspect of my work clearly was
Michael Puett. And he kept saying that it’s obvious [to him] that Textures of the
ordinary has an autobiographical strain, is an autobiography. This is not because
I’m using the first person, using the term ‘I’, not because there are some in-
stances from my life which seep into the book. I’m equally willing to be trust-
ing of the fact that it is from Rosaldo’s (1989) experience of grief and sudden
emergence of poetry in him that I can find something of my own experience, a
resonance with something that I am trying to say. So I think it’s in that sense
that the book is written in these three modes; it is not that here are three gen-
res – autobiography, ethnography, biography, which I take up and weave in a
single text. It’s that the text naturally comes to be so because that is how one
lives one’s life. And one lives one’s life with others, and these others are people
with whom you inhabit the world or you cohabit the world. It means that there
are things, events, people, about whom I find it very difficult to speak from
within my own life. Over time I have found the courage to speak because I found
a right time to speak about them. And so, there is also the question [of the]
reader − you have to write in a way that your reader is not hurt by what you’re
writing. By that observation. I don’t mean that you cover up the truth with lies
or something. But you have to learn something like what is tact, what is ordinary
ethics, what is care, what is attention in relationship to those questions. There
is a dominant model that when you come back from your field and you begin
writing for the anthropological community and I’ve never felt that way. I’ve
always felt that I’m writing for some reader who will find that the text speaks
to him or her, wherever they are. And those to whom the text does not speak
at all, I think I’m content for it to be aware that these other modes of thought
[exist]. Not everybody has to like what I write or to find it interesting. There
are a whole lot of other things in the world and that is just fine, yeah? So, I’m
not out to convert people to think this is the proper way of thinking. If you have
an interest, if you find something interesting in what I write, we can talk more.
And the text wants to talk more to you, right? So that’s the sense I have of where
I’m going, and the feeling that my thinking is coming out of my life, which
includes the life of so many others. I don’t have any formulaic answers to this
difficult question you asked. That’s what I mean by crablike movements. Some
thought or idea goes in one direction for years and then it can happen that I
don’t know how to move forward. And then, sometimes years later, that idea
that was blocked comes back, and this can include thoughts from my childhood,
for example, or something that is triggered in a classroom, or something that
is triggered while walking in the street, or reading a book.
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Adriana Vianna Thank you very much, Professor Veena. We all have fallen in
love with your article about your childhood, “Two plaits and a step in the world:
a childhood remembered” (Das, 2009) [translation to Portuguese in this special
issue]. So we want to ask you about the desire for study and the pleasure of
performance. They are two elements among many others that call our attention.
Could you tell us more about how the pleasure of studying and performance
marked your childhood and your education, impacting on your way of doing
anthropology?
V.D. That’s again something that’s not that easy for me to speak about. On the
one hand, I think that the child is somebody quite central to the way that I
think but not in the sense of a conscious figuration of the child − this is the
child [that] just seeps into my thinking or the sense that I share the experience
that the world does not always appear decipherable to the child. You find this
image from Wittgenstein and from Augustine, the child stealing bits of language
to make sense of the world with which Wittgenstein opens Philosophical inves-
tigations (Wittgenstein, 1968). I think that children often know a lot that they
don’t always have language for. One of the things I say in Textures, a sentence
you pick up very astutely, is that children know a lot about death. And that
comes from the memory of a friend I had, and from the first time I visited her
house. I realized that all the kids called their mother ‘aunty.’ Now, this is not
very unusual in India. You can, if you’re living in a joint family and you have
older cousins who call your mother ‘aunty,’ pick up their language. In this case,
she was a very loving mother, but she was their step-mother. Their mother had
died, but the little ones didn’t know that. There were two older siblings who
did know it, and they tried to protect the younger siblings from that knowledge.
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This was not a down and out family, it was a family that had a relatively secure
middle-class life but the kinship terms, gestured to making death present in
an oblique way. And there was also the fact that people around me were dying
all the time when I was young. Just look at my genealogy, which I’ve never
fully problematized, but it’s a very shallow genealogy. And the reason is that
so many people during my childhood died. And not just because of the trau-
matic events of the Partition. A lot of people, a lot of young children died, be-
cause at that time the rates of child mortality were very high, and many wom-
en died in childbirth. For example, it was my mother and her sister who brought
up their younger siblings because their mother died in childbirth. Then their
youngest brother, who they more or less brought up as their “baby”, died because
there was no medicine for typhoid, which was not a curable disease at that
time. Some people died of diabetes because it remained undiagnosed. Somebody
died in the riots, for example, while trying to escape. So suddenly you look at
your genealogy and you realize how empty it looks. I have only one picture of
my grandfather. And I have no picture of my paternal grandfather. I have no
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756
you everything they knew, or that there weren’t events that remained hidden,
or that there weren’t hints of obscure things there. But there is a difference
between that kind of obscurity because everyone has their secrets and there
are things that are not open to view within a form of life; as an anthropologist
I never felt that I am here in this street or house to just collect data and I’m
going to go back to my own society after this phase is over. Being there and
returning again and again gives one a feel for everyday tragedies, small disap-
pointments. For example, there is a scholarship scheme that ISERDD, the re-
search and advocacy I work with in Delhi, facilitates with some family money
we have contributed. It makes it possible for some kids who need to get tuition
to be able to pass their exams. I know that such small acts don’t solve any big
structural problems. There are people who would say, “well, you’re actually just
putting a Band-Aid over their problems. The real problem is that their schools
don’t function properly.” And I understand that criticism, but that extra tuition
is very important for a particular child who can improve his or her prospects
a tiny bit if they manage to pass their exam. Sometimes they are able to use
the opportunity to go forward, sometimes not. Some child, very brilliant, one
you have helped − you feel they should have committed to completing a college
degree, but they are not able to do so because sometimes there are demands
upon them; sometimes there are temptations of immediate rewards: “I can get
this much money now, why should I wait another three years within a very
uncertain market?” I think I savour the experience of improvisation, of doing
something rather than nothing, trying to meet whatever the demands put on
me are; but knowing that you don’t necessarily succeed, but still thinking “OK,
maybe last time I didn’t succeed, maybe this time I will.”
But also, for all my failures, I feel a fierce pride in the achievements of
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many kids and also in everything my family enabled me to do. I often get in
trouble with authorities but I can’t stand somebody giving me advice about
finding a patron. So many times, very well-meaning friends have said, “why
don’t you, on this matter, go and talk to your dean or your president or your
vice-chancellor,” and I’m like, “there’s no way I’m going to do that.” Not because
of any great moralism or moral stance, and I’m not judgmental about those
who think that they can get something important done through those channels.
But for me, it’s one of the hardest things to think of getting any kind of favour
from anyone. And I don’t know from where this sensibility comes, because I’m
sure I’ve depended on a lot of favours [laughing]. Like as a kid there was this
pressing question of, say, not having a winter coat, for example, and getting a
hand-me-down from relatives and yet never being offended by that. As an adult
working with poor people, these experiences of privation educated me. I can
figure out how to offer a gift. It is such an ordinary issue, but a truly delicate
one. You cannot say to a parent “Don’t you see I’m willing to pay for your child’s
tuition, so why are you not supporting him in going to school?” And sometimes
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you even have to teach a child to say “now don’t use this opportunity to just
put your parents down. True that you’re getting a school education, and they’re
not literate. But that’s absolutely no reason for you to think you are superior
to them.” This is the mutual pedagogy which goes on between the children and
me. Cavell, in his autobiography, [talks about] his wound in relation to his father,
because there’s a moment when he says “I realize that it was not that my father
wanted me dead, it was that he wanted me never to have been born.” I’ve
never had that experience. So even in the worst of circumstances, I have not
felt that there is somebody who finds my existence unbearable. And I think
that [this] is what really allows me to think about autobiography as a source, a
spring in a certain sense from which certain ways of thinking emerge, but I
can’t say that they emerge through any conscious strategies. Why do I feel
compelled to respond to certain things? I think it’s very strongly tied with what
I kept losing and finding again and I cannot turn my back to that past.
Camila Pierobon I think you answered one of our questions about children. I
would just ask if you would like to say something about the importance of
children in your work. When I read Textures of the ordinary, for me it’s really
interesting to see that they appear in all the chapters. Would you like to add
something about that?
V.D. [The 8th] chapter, on this little girl who was raped, had to be done with a
great deal of delicacy and caution, because I’m not the one who is having to face
the question of what threats might those I am talking to, be facing. I can give
only limited support and in that particular case, I tried to remain very much un-
der the radar. [The] chapter had to be written in a certain way by which I privi-
lege what happens in the court because that’s public knowledge. I could not
draw from everything I know about her or with her. There will be a time when
maybe she will write about her own experiences because she is now starting to
write short stories about herself. And these may not circulate widely, may be not
even outside her house or her street. But on the other hand, I’ve noticed very in-
teresting small shifts in the way others relate to her. She’s a very courageous girl.
There was just no question about her courage: the way that she stood in court
and was not intimidated by the sight of this man sitting there who had brutal-
ized her in that cruel way. Nobody had to teach her anything. Nobody had to say
to her “be brave.” She knew what had happened to her and she was just telling in
court what had happened to her. Compare that to this little boy in Affliction (Das,
2015), who is now 29 years old. When I go to Delhi we meet up in a café for a cof-
fee or something like that. Usually I meet people just there in the area, but in
this case, he likes the idea that he as [an] adult, is having this date with me out-
side, in a café and so on. But there’s something very important, very interesting
that has shifted. Earlier, our conversation would go something like this: I would
anthropology, desire and textures of life:
758
ask “so now what’s happening?” and he would say “well I started on this and
that, but I couldn’t continue”, or “I had this very good job and I’m going to do
great”; then next time he would say “oh you know, it couldn’t be continued be-
cause I got a bit tired of it,” or he would fall in love with the wrong person and
get beaten up, or something of that kind would happen, right? And last time,
now that he has a kind of the sense of himself, at the age of twenty-nine, he has
a wife, he has a little daughter, he feels like the community looks up to him be-
cause he got a reasonably good job. He said: “I want to tell you something.” We
were just leaving the café and he wanted to show me his [new] motorcycle and
to take a photo with me. And then he suddenly said: “aunty I have to tell you
something.” I said “yeah…?” And he said “you know when someone is falling −
it’s about that.” He was stumbling as he said “It’s true that I couldn’t complete
the kind of things you wanted me to do because… (pause) you know in school
you provided me with books.” He was talking about the time when I used to
spend the summer months in Delhi, I would go find him, drag him to my place
and “do tuition”, i.e. make him mug up lessons from his texts, and learn tables,
and do sums, so that he would pass his exam. Perhaps remembering all this, he
said “I know you did all that for me.” “But”, he continued, “what you did not real-
ize was that I was going to school hungry every day.” I recalled that his father
had been very opposed to his schooling. And so, his father would just set up
tasks for him to do before school started, and in a rush to complete those tasks,
the child didn’t get time to eat. It was such a revealing moment for me and then
he said “but, you know, what any person needs when things are bad times is one
person, just one person who will…” − he used this gesture of extending his hand
− “who will stretch out their hand to you.” He said in flowery Hindi: “just one per-
son’s support and then you can make something of your life.” I’m not saying he
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 749 – 789 , sep. – dec., 2021
found spectacular success or he is like others who found some paths forward to
better education, better jobs. But I have many examples of that kind. There was
another boy who we supported, whose sister had to discontinue school because
their mother was chronically ill and the daughter was the only one providing
care to her mother. Their mother died but by then his sister was already twenty-
five years old and, believe it or not, he went to her school, he talked to the princi-
pal, he talked to his sister, and said “you have to go back to school.” And his sis-
ter was bewildered “I’m twenty-one! Everyone is like kids of, what, eleven or
twelve.” He said “It doesn’t matter. I’ll talk to the teacher. It doesn’t matter. You
have to go and finish school.” These are small successes perhaps. There are peo-
ple who devote their lives to working in the slums or among the poor, helping
them, and they are angels of a kind. There are lots of things that I really admire
about them. But for me the force of my actions just comes from the imperative
to say this person and I, we are in this relationship with each other and a lot
flows from that − they are not my informants. And I think Textures tries to bring
that attention to the particular as the basis of ethnography.
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Cynthia Sarti Everything is very linked and we would like you to talk about
gender. In your previous interview with Brazilian researchers (Das, 2012), you
said something about how gender is implicated in the production of knowledge,
but not as an a priori. This is very clear in your work because women are main-
ly your interlocutors. But also, it’s clear when you recover the ideas of [Stanley]
Cavell, which state that gender is not something philosophers look for, but it
comes to them. Can you tell us more about this problem of gender as something
implicated in the production of knowledge? And how do women and men ap-
pear in your work? What is it to talk about men and what is it to talk about
women?
V.D. I would add children to that. Children have been very important, not be-
cause I sought out children, but because I can’t go into the area without a whole
lot of them just following me around and saying “what is happening?”, “why
didn’t you come earlier?”, “did you go to my school?”. For a while, they [used
to say], “you have to come to school”. It was a very strange experience because
the principal of the local school had mistaken me for a local politician. Appar-
ently, I resembled her, and I did not do very much to correct him. The principal
and teachers were all charging huge amounts of money to the children who
had dropped out of school for some reasons and wanted readmission. And I
kind of offered something that was an incentive, shall we say, or a face-saving
for the principal because the government policy was to offer free education
and he was violating it by charging them. I said to him, “well, I know how de-
prived your school is.” And he jumped at that opening, “just look at it, the
children don’t have anything to sit on, I don’t even have a [place to] keep my
papers in, right?” In response, I immediately went and bought mats for the
children and a small cupboard because I couldn’t see myself giving him a bribe.
I could donate things for the school but I wasn’t going to bribe him for taking
the children in. But the children sensed that it was a hidden bribe… [laughing]
Suddenly [I realized] the demography of the children in school coming from
this area changed because the recruitment of children went up, and everyone
was supposedly born on the 15th of August (Independence Day!). You know
[laughing] it was very unlikely that everybody was born on the 15th of August,
which is the Independence Day of India, right? But the Principal was not attuned
to this irony. The children sensed what was happening and [the principal] would
become aggressive with them, [and the children] would then say “would you
mind coming in and paying a visit to the principal?”
So, the children are very important, but women... I was intellectually
very moved when I read in Cavell (1981) on how he constructed the two differ-
ent genres of films to demonstrate his picture of scepticism. One is the com-
edy of remarriage in his book Pursuits of happiness, where his question is, can
a couple commit themselves to a future together despite the inevitable disap-
anthropology, desire and textures of life:
760
pointments that every relationship will bring? And the other genre is [the one]
he creates around, [the] set of women who cannot make themselves intelligible
in the world of men and must die or retreat to a world of women. There’s an
unforgettable moment from Letter from an unknown woman where Cavell says
that the woman has come back to this man for whom she had tried to invent
herself. And he’s very happy to see her and he says “Let me go and make you
a drink.” As she waits he asks, “are you lonely out there?” in a flirtatious way.
And she replies “yes, very lonely” looking at the camera, and hence at us and
then when he comes into the room, she has left, for what was for him a mere
dalliance, was, for her, a last chance to offer her life to him. We learn that the
letter is signed by a dead woman, ghost written.
For Cavell, skepticism is gendered. A way out of doubt for a man who
wonders how do I know this child is mine, is to simply trust the woman, accept
the child in the concrete give and take of life. For the woman, the problem of
skepticism is “can I make myself intelligible to this other?.” And Cavell links
this difference to the male and the female regions of the self. So even in his
autobiography you see that his struggle with intelligibility is that he cannot
make himself intelligible to his mother, or his mother is not able to make her-
self intelligible to him.
With his father Cavell experiences a wound caused by the inability of
the father to accept the son’s separate existence. But the son also knows the
envy that runs in the immigrant father who’s going to be stuck in that position
of being a pawn breaker, who has a philosopher son whose life he can only very
vaguely decipher. So, the question comes back to Cavell on the gendered nature
of skepticism, which he said was a traumatic discovery for him. It was a trau-
matic discovery because the issue had always been before him: he had written
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in the public context. It was also just an aspect of the ordinary for her. For
instance, if she was trying to say something, her husband would immediately
correct her and say “no, this is not how it was.” And that form of power is what
for Foucault becomes the power of correction and [control]. It is invested in the
psychiatrist but it is also invested in the way that Cavell thinks about the no-
tion of voice − when one’s words might be constantly overwritten and so one
fails to recognize the voice as one’s own voice.
As I said earlier, I love Sanskrit texts. But every Sanskrit text − [for exam-
ple], drama − will have components of Sanskrit and components of what is
known as Prakrit, which is a container language, so to say, which is put in coun-
terpoint to Sanskrit and is often the language spoken by women. It has four or
five languages within it, more sometimes. And within that set there are divi-
sions as to which kind of Prakrit will be spoken by women and which kind of
Prakrit by children or Jain monks, that kind of a division. I realized recently that
all through my study of Sanskrit drama, I had read Prakrit through its transla-
tion in Sanskrit. Because it was obligatory in every Sanskrit text to have what is
called a chaya text, which was the Sanskrit rendering of the Prakrit, seen as its
shadow (chaya). This text was meant for the reader, but not for the performer. I
then realized, that, theatre being something which is performed, the audience
would experience the performance in their own vernacular Prakrit and in spo-
ken Sanskrit. And so you get a vision here of how one inhabits multiple lan-
guages, but also how one inhabits the question of gender. And then I begin to
think “yes, of course there are Prakrits spoken by women and other Prakrits
spoken by lower castes, or by Jains, or Turkish sounding words in Sanskrit drama
spoken by characters depicted as foreigners.” Steeped in a multiplicity of sounds
every audience must have experienced the differences.. As it happens, when I
was a college student, I acted in a number of college level English plays, but
also in Sanskrit plays. And I loved the rendering in Prakrit, which appears in the
drama texts, or in examples in grammar, as also in everyday forms of commu-
nication where a certain distortion of Sanskrit was allowed. Here is where gen-
der finds you, right? It wasn’t that I set out to say “Well, let me see the place of
women in Sanskrit drama.” Gender finds you there. It shows, in a way, the pow-
er of how you can pose that question of gender with regard to knowledge.
C.S. We would like to ask something about coming of age. It’s different when
you tell and retell a story when you were young. When you retell a story many
years later. What changes there?
V.D. My picture of retelling is not that something was told at Time A and now
it’s being told at Time B. I think people are actually remoulding and polishing
and changing and revisiting their memories and their narratives all the time.
This happens over continuous time, not at discrete time intervals. That’s why
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I don’t like the concept of afterlife because then it will look as if the violence
is over now, and then we have its afterlife.” Some of that showing in narration
of events happens because sometimes when I am relating something [that was]
said to me, [by] women like Manjit or Asha, I realized that I was in my twenties
[when I talked to them]. And so [they] must have been seeing somebody differ-
ent than what I am now. A lot of women did have this sense [of] not telling too
much or not knowing how to say things to you, because young unmarried girls
are not always told everything. This is where this question of ethnography gets
completely reversed, because they are the ones protecting you when you are
young from certain events or knowing about a hurtful past. But it’s also true
that these relationships develop. You then realize that there is a certain sense
of time as not just two discrete points over a line. And so the retelling is not
something like a narrative coming to an end, and then again being retold − it’s
a continuous moulding that tends to happen, and that’s what I think I was try-
ing to say in Textures. That it’s an inhabitation over parts of life that have some-
times become ruins or as happens in relationships, some affect has worn off.
When Cavell talks about the inevitable disappointments in a relationship: the
possibility of having a future together is in the light of this kind of disappoint-
ment. So, our commitment to each other may simply be that of agreeing to have
a future together. I’m not saying that this is always ennobling or that this re-
newal depends on something big as forgiveness. I was trying to say that very
often, say, in the work on abandonment in anthropology, there is the sense that
there is this moment of abandonment which is the sum total of what is the
truth of a relationship. What I’ve often seen is that abandonment is not very
easy for people. They won’t just say “Well, this is not working out, fine, I can
just walk out of it, right?” It can happen that they can’t go on with the burden
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live as well as any rich person, they blew up all the money in a year. Then he
abandoned her, she had become pregnant, he went back to his own wife, her
parents took her in with the proviso that they would shelter her “until the child
is born.” They told her “We can’t let you stay beyond that time because once
the child is born everyone will know you ran away with someone and it would
just ruin our reputation.” The mother-in-law who had cut all connections with
this girl described to me how she was sitting in her house one day and she
could hear someone sobbing outside… The houses in this street have three to
four steps to climb and then you open the door and you get in. She could hear
this crying from someone sitting on the steps. She opened the door slightly and
peeked out to find that it was her daughter-in-law who was sitting there with
a baby in her arms. And, of course, she had known all along that her daughter-
in-law had given birth to a baby girl born of her lover: “I shut the door.” And
then she reopened it after a while because she said [that she] couldn’t bear the
fact that this baby might be somebody who then might fall into the streets and
the daughter-in-law might be forced to become a prostitute. All these possible
scenarios ran into her mind as she was listening to the sobbing; so she just
took in her daughter-in-law and the baby.
This is a story for me of amazing generosity, which she’s not even think-
ing of as generosity. She’s saying [that she] just couldn’t bear the baby crying,
[she] just had to take her in. Of course, she created all these other [justifications]
as she related these events to me: “If it had been a boy, I would not have done
it, it is because it’s a girl that I felt that she really needed my protection.” And
then after nearly a year when we met again, she said: “No, I’m not very happy
with the situation.” “Why are you not happy with it?” “Because I think my
daughter-in-law feels so obliged to me. She is constantly running around doing
things for me. I just want her to be naturally there, right? To do things or not
do things, depending on how she feels about it.”
You’ve asked me what I mean by texture: this is what I mean by texture.
To say that these are really the way that the surface gets defined through these
very sensory qualities, where this woman is not taking this decision to take in
the baby because she feels it is morally right to do it, but because there is this
sensorium. Precisely because of that, it’s not a ground for saying you could
count on everybody’s behaviour being similar. There are an equal number of
people in these neighborhoods who might say: “The girl deserved to be killed
or abandoned because she had really sullied the reputation of the family”, if
she was a somewhat upper caste woman. But in the slums, I feel that there is
a lot of violence, [but] there are also a lot of ways in which people do those
kinds of things beyond all expectations, and time becomes very important over
here. I relate this story in response to this kind of excitement about abandon-
ment in theory, when the moment of abandonment stands for, “This is how
patriarchal the family in India is” and so on. And these scholars don’t realize
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how difficult it is for people to reach the point of abandoning the person, be-
cause they can’t put up with this situation, or with a woman who cannot con-
trol her anger, or a child, or older person who demands constant care, they can’t
bear to do the work it takes, they can’t endure it any more. As an anthropologist,
I feel that the texture of such events woven into everyday life has to be shown.
Because otherwise we jump too quickly into assuming that there is a natural
way this would end up, almost a teleology leading to inevitable abandonment
of undesirable family members.
C.S. You talk a lot about the dialogue you have with philosophy, literature and
even Sanskrit, which is your area of education. Is there anything else you want
to say about this dialogue, especially in philosophy, and how this broadens our
way of seeing the world and understanding it in an anthropological way?
V.D. Well, there are two ambitions here. Though I was always an avid reader of
philosophical texts and engaged Wittgenstein in my work there was absolute-
ly no reason to expect that any philosophers would have noticed anything that
I write. It was quite accidental that certain philosophers became very inter-
ested in anthropology and in what I was writing. And in that development
Stanley Cavell became very important for me − he was one of the persons I
dedicated Textures of the ordinary to − and there I say ungrammatically that “In
your writing I am existed”. I felt that that in Cavell’s recognition I found myself
become alive. He didn’t know me at all when through some fortunate accident
he was asked to comment on a paper of mine as a referee, and, again, there
was no reason why he would have ever agreed to do so, since he knew nothing
about me. He had a certain fascination for Indian cinema, but he also had a lot
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doubt are very central [in Indian philosophy], and I think Cavell sometimes
mistook their sense of doubt in Indian philosophy as maybe just sophistry.
But when we started talking about these matters and about Emerson, he
sensed that this form of doubt (not the same as skepticism in his formulation)
was embedded in the forms of life in India. So, it was not just an epistemol-
ogy in the sense of enumerating the formal conditions of knowing. I mean
there are times where some renowned Indian philosophers get frightened of
where their reason is leading them. To give you an example: the Buddhists
are unafraid of working with idea that anything that can be divided into parts
is basically just a [conceptual] entity. It doesn’t have ontological reality. But
then there is, of course, the fact that a chariot cannot exist within this logic,
its parts can, right? But we also know that a chariot can carry you as a mode
of transport? Some of the Indian philosophers would say: “don’t go there.”
Because we know, this issue is not going to be resolved. The Buddhist bravely
tried to resolve it by making this distinction between conventional truth and
ultimate truth, and sometime exchanges with Buddhism were crucial for those
within a kind of Hindu imagination to develop their own notions of existence.
But it’s not at all strange for them to entertain the idea that inexistence is a
very important part of existence itself and that reality cannot simply be equat-
ed to actuality. Or that you cannot make propositions about non-existent
things.
There are very good, very fascinating philosophers who tried to foster
conversations among those who wrote and read in Sanskrit and contemporary
philosophers writing in English. It’s an important experimentation but part
of the problem, for example with Indology, is that those who are great schol-
ars of Sanskrit read no vernacular Indian languages. Many of them think that
such actions as translation were inaugurated in Europe. Right now, I’m writing
[a] paper with two of my colleagues where we started by asking: why did so
many reputed European scholars think that they’re the ones who first trans-
lated Sanskrit texts? [We have] very early translations of Sanskrit texts in
Persian, translations in Tibetan, the entire corpus of the philosopher Nagar-
juna, who wrote in Sanskrit – was recuperated by processes of translation by
Chinese and Tibetan monks. There are texts in Sanskrit which have been re-
covered because of methods of oral transmission evolved over centuries. For
instance, segments of texts were memorized by segments of particular lineages
whose responsibility it was to memorize these segments and transmit them
without any alteration. And there were other cases such as the famous plays
by the poet Bhasa, which were based on a single episode in the Mahābhārata,
and were performed in Sanskrit in villages in Kerala. These texts were lost
but were recreated by contemporary theatre artists or scholars by getting
people to re-enact the dialogs. Clearly the audiences were erudite enough to
sustain these performances.
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One would have thought anthropology would be the proper home for
this kind of dialogue among different philosophical, aesthetic and performance
traditions. It would help us interrogate our own concepts, right? As an example,
in Textures of the ordinary one of the things I tried to do with regard to reading
of the classics [was to question] in Evans-Pritchard’s (1956) [writings] on religion,
why it was so obvious to him that the Nuer god was a god and the Azande god
was not a god? I argued that he smuggles in the discussion, aspects of Christian
normativity under the guise of an anthropological concept. I’m not saying this
in a spirit of resentment. I realize how difficult the apparatus of Sanskrit texts
is and I realize that Indian scholars should have done much more to make this
kind of thinking much more available. But knowledge making is also constrained
by different kinds of exercise of power: the work on concepts from Sanskrit
was not easily publishable; even today, when you try to publish something like
that there will be somebody sitting over you and saying “Do you know what?
This is not really anthropology.” It is very difficult to [break through] this bar-
rier, and I really struggle with the fact that a lot of my truly creative students
don’t initially get jobs in [well-known universities] because their work is not
easily recognizable within the grid. Ultimately, they do get to be where they
want to be in academic jobs because they come to love academia, or ideas, but
it’s kind of hard because they ultimately do end up saying: “You trained us in
a way that people don’t recognize what we do as anthropology.” And that’s kind
of difficult to absorb because I am not paying the price for the innovations they
engage in. There’s somebody younger paying a price for having to carry certain
ideas forward, right? In addition, there is just so much gaming of what counts
as knowledge in the sense that my own university is obsessed with rankings
how many citations? How many books did you publish this year? How many
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are in the press? You know, you can make all the right gestures to say “Of course
we are not just saying counting is important,” but we know that there is a lot
of gaming which happens because people are not willing to accept the fact that,
yes, there will be failures. You can’t get everything right the first-time round:
if people are really doing risky research, expect some failures. And don’t pun-
ish them because they tried to do this in ways that they were not sure of the
success of their experiments. So, I think those are the kind of things that we
really need to think more about. You have another question [asking] how we
think about different traditions in contemporary anthropology? That’s a really
important issue.
In India, this is an obsession: what is Indian anthropology? How do we
do anthropology or sociology here in India? How [do we really approach Indian
anthropology] et cetera, et cetera, which I think is a very healthy way of think-
ing, except that it settles too easily for what is “Indian.” And one has to say
“Okay, we need to really rethink that.” It would be a grave mistake to think that
Sanskrit texts are the exclusive repository of what is Indian. There are fantas-
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tic questions that have emerged through the study social movements which
don’t find a place necessarily in texts, there is Dalit literature as also texts in
Persian, Prakrit, Pali, and vernacular languages which is in dialogue with San-
skrit texts.
The affinity I have with Brazilian authors like Mariza Peirano (1991, 1998),
is because she was able to pose these questions in new ways. For a long time,
I used to think “Its okay, even if there are ten people in my society who will be
interested in such questions, that’s good enough.” And I still think so. I’m not
in need of finding affirmation by attracting huge numbers of followers. I think
one has sought to say something because of the pressure on thought, and some-
one, somewhere will need to carry some ideas forward. I was very lucky in my
teacher, Professor M. N. Srinivas who was a student of Evans-Pritchard and
Radcliffe-Brown at Oxford, but also studied with Ghurye at Bombay University.
He was not so tolerant with every student of his, but with me he was somehow
very open to the fact that there was something very idiosyncratic in what I was
doing. He encouraged my experiments. On the one hand, he would worry about
me: “Anthropology is about actual fieldwork, and you’re not doing fieldwork,
how will you tell people this is anthropology?” But then he would also say that
Radcliffe-Brown had forbidden him to read such scholars as Bachofen or McLen-
nan because of the problems with “conjectural history”, and he said: “You should
go and read all of that” [laughing]. Kind of quite interesting to see that.
In a recent book published by Polity Press called Slum acts (Das, 2022). I
have tried to see how documents acquire a legal status in terror trials, and the
person whose book has been most influential for me is somebody called Wahid
[Abdul Wahid Shaikh] who was the only accused to be acquitted in these huge
Bombay terror trials, but who wrote, very courageously, a book on torture (Shai-
kh, 2017). I wrote a blog post to make that kind of thinking in vernacular avail-
able in anthropological theory, to say why this is a book of utmost, profound
importance (Das, 2019). Not because it tells you a horror story but because it’s
a pedagogic text. So, I think there’s a lot of work to be done in making anthro-
pology talk to these kinds of texts.
I have also worked with one of the slum dwellers who was educated
only to Grade 8th, the one who in Textures appears as Sanjeev Gupta, to write
an article which he wrote in Hindi and it was published in a national daily in
India. There was a nation-wide anti-corruption movement taking place in India
and he asked me to summarize for him what newspapers were writing on this,
and his reaction to my summary was “This is a way of side-lining the poor.” He
was not at all taken in by the rhetoric of purifying the polity. That is why he
would ask me: “Tell me, what are people writing about this movement in Eng-
lish media? About democracy, and about slums, and about us?” Because of this
rise of the new political party in Delhi, a lot of people from various top univer-
sities were writing in newspapers. And I would summarize op-eds for him and
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he’d say: “They’ve got it all wrong.” So then I asked: “Why don’t you write
something to tell us how you think about it?” He responded: “But nobody will
publish it.” I said, probably, but let’s try. So he wrote a short piece in Hindi on
how he saw the issue of corruption and democracy; I translated it and then I
managed to find a connection to an editor in a national daily and they agreed
to publish it. It’s not just academia in universities that blocks knowledge from
these kinds of sources. It is very difficult to find venues for publication for this
kind of writing. So after [the article] came out, Sanjeev Gupta was very pleased
for about two days. His photograph was there in a national daily, his ideas were
there for the English-speaking big professors and so on! I congratulated him
and inquired “People in your party must be very pleased,” because he was a
party worker. And he said “Well, yes.” I probed further: “So what did they say?
Did they congratulate you?” He retorted “They said, oh so, you’re trying to act
as a big hero, huh?” Meaning “Why have you bypassed the authority of the top
people in the Party?” You have to realize what it means for them to be able to
speak, to be able to write, to negotiate these things every day. So for me, it’s
not just a question of ploughing through Sanskrit texts, that are a very impor-
tant resource for me, or Prakrit texts, or vernacular texts − but also find the
way that the apparatus of thought from many of these texts seeps into the lives
of people. I am full of curiosity about what kinds of texts are being produced
through writing, lectures, political slogans or anything like that, as people are
reflecting on their own conditions in very compelling ways.
A.V. We could go to so many different questions now, but I’ll go to the details
again, and allegories. We would like to know a bit more about the ethical and
aesthetic implications of how you deal with fragments, allegories, details, the
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way you choose to not conclude things so fast, or not put things in a straight
framework.
V.D. That’s where the question of texture becomes very important, because for
me the way I think about texture is through the actions of weaving and knitting,
you know, these are the things that trigger the picture of texture in my writing.
And they come from the idea that the frame is not the rigid frame which keeps
the pictorial space inside and the world outside. This notion of the frame is in
any case, an innovation of the renaissance. Other experiences of painting are
different, or [even] the experience of the image when you would move around
it, you would touch it, you would offer something to it, you would pray before
it, and so on and so forth. In a museum, a painting is bound in a frame and I
stand before it and watch it; my eyes move around it but I stand still, may be
changing my position slightly, right? And there are modern painters in many
places [thinking in terms of], say, installations and trash art who experiment
with the earlier ways of moving around. In India contemporary artists take
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inspiration from many traditions borrowing from wherever they feel like.
Whether this is folk tradition, whether this is classical Western painting, wheth-
er it is Indian innovations with miniature painting, for example. The experi-
ments with frame come from thinking of the frame as something like a weav-
er’s loom. The frame is… woven into the depiction. And thus, the writing or art
and the world are not separated. They are just part of each other, so to say.
L.F. Yes, the writing and the world are not separated. I think that the question
about silence comes just at the right moment. This is an aspect of your work
that called our attention in Brazil, and that is commented on by many scholars.
Would you talk a bit more on how we can think of silences in anthropological
texts and how we can think about the experience of those moments where it’s
impossible to go ahead, when you have to stop?
V.D. The stance I have is: I am happy to leave things in the middle. I think there
is a paragraph somewhere in the preface [of Textures] saying [consulting book]:
“There are some relations I made with people, places, and texts that are marked
by much greater intensity than others – but there was also those with whom I
did not have the mental fortitude to stay with or who faded from my life and
work because of accidents of fate” (Das, 2020a: xi). So there are many things
that you actually do to leave something in the middle. Throughout the preface,
I talk about the fact that “The love of anthropology may yet turn out to be an
affair in which when I reach bedrock I do not break through the resistance of
the other. But in this gesture of waiting, I allow the knowledge of the other to
mark me” (Das, 2020a: xii). And then chapter 4 ends this way: “At one point in
Endgame, Clove says, ‘The end is terrific,’ to which Hamm responds: ‘I prefer
the middle.’ And Cavell has much of importance to say on being an eschatolo-
gist versus being just in the middle in this scene when finding a cure for being
on earth is not the issue, perhaps enduring this condition is. I stop at this point”
(Das, 2020a: 147). [And] chapter 9, in which I read Wittgenstein’s (2020) Remarks
on Frazer’s “Golden Bough,” ends with something like the idea of stopping in the
middle: “For now, I leave this chapter with the idea…”
I think there’s often this imperative to show that you have mastered
something and so it stops us from saying that this is how far I can go and I’m
not able to go forward. And what’s really exciting is that you’re not necessar-
ily the person who will pick up the unfinished thought again. It may be some-
body else who will allow your thought to be supplemented by making that
problem their own. I supervised a student in Lausanne, Joséphine Stebler, who
worked with children and introduced totally new pedagogic methods in elemen-
tary school with children, a majority of who did not have French as their first
language. Or they had the idiolect of Rwandan French and were learning the
Swiss French. And she writes on this child in Life and words, the one who is
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mute, as I describe a scene when he begins to enact how his father was hung
from a tree during the anti-Sikh violence in 1984. And as the child was enacting
this scene, how his face became a canvas on which the memory of every emo-
tion that passed on his father’s face as he was being dragged to his death was
mirrored, while the child’s hands became enacted the frenzied movement of
the hands of the killers showing how they dragged him to the tree put a noose
around him and lifted him up to hang there. Many years later there, were some
people who kept asking me: “why don’t you go back and find him and talk to
him.” And somebody else did write a scene in a theatre on this episode. But I
don’t have it in me to be able to do that. And I have to figure out why that
memory still paralyzes me. But I can’t figure it out, right now, you see?
Just one year ago I had a conversation with my youngest son who at the
time of the riots against the Sikhs [1984] was probably four. I had written about
these two young girls who I brought to my house after their mother committed
suicide. One of them would not talk to anybody except him. He vaguely remem-
bers her, but when this occupation [of the Capitol by Donald Trump supporters
on January 6th 2021] in Washington happened, he said to me and − he’s a forty-
year-old now, he’s a professor, he works on artificial intelligence and so on − and
he said: “I was terrified by the idea of the mob.” And then he was trying to re-
member the time of the riots in 1984 in India. He only remembered fragments
of those events, but he remembered his sense of foreboding because I was re-
ceiving death threats and I was very scared that I had put my childrens’ lives
at risk. These events affected my three children in different ways, but he said
that all he remembered was my sense of panic − [what] if the children went up
on the roof, for example? Absolutely forbidden for them to go to the roof because
then they would be visible from afar. Absolutely forbidden to take an auto
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rickshaw, even if they had to wait for hours for a bus, they would wait for the
bus and not take an auto rickshaw. Because sometimes the killer might be the
one who is driving the auto rickshaw. And it had an impact on how he thinks
about mobs, and how he thinks of fairness, and how he thinks about justice −
not in the way I think, because it’s a different way of thinking. But these con-
cerns took root in his life. I similarly have students who pick something like
that and make it into a project of their own. If you see any work done by my
students, you will never find a single way of doing research or thinking. And
this is because I feel I show them where my ignorance lies. And so they are
encouraged to pick up something and say “This is what I might do with it.” It’s
not like I don’t have the courage to tell them “This idea seems right and that
wrong,” but I’m truly blocked sometimes in not knowing what that would entail.
I don’t know how to go forward. I can give my students whatever I can, then
they need to take their own thinking forward in their own way.
In all these senses, I think it’s again a question of knowledge and I’ve
always told my students, I’m really not interested in the “aha” moment. In the
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American academy, it’s the sort of thing that just presses on you. [They] say
“Oh yes this is very good, but what about the “aha” moment?” And for me it’s a
question of what are you willing to commit your life to? So, when Joséphine
[Stébler] wrote about these children, she actually raised this amazingly inter-
esting question: what would connect the life of this kid in this slum, and the
dramatic enactment that he does, with what she’s doing? [And] in her writing
she evoked this four-year-old Rwandan kid who for the first time reads a whole
picture book, and when she reaches the end, she’s like “ooh-la-la!” [laughing]
And just what would connect them? And she said: what connects them is that
children are used to taking different roles, they are enacting different possi-
bilities of life. And so, although this was an absolutely terrifying moment [for
one of the two children], and [for the other], the four-year-old, it was not, Jose-
phine said what’s connecting [them] is the fact that their form of life is a human
form of life in which one plays with different possibilities. Now, you recognize
that I think I missed that. I know that I was trying to get to saying this is the
human form of life, but I missed the intermediate steps that she was able to
take.
I would say the same for a lot of those who found their own ways of
taking thought forward. One of my students, Andrew Brandel, for example,
whose work you might know or Bhrigu who came to Cavell through a rounda-
bout route are examples of such movements. Andrew and Marco Motta pub-
lished a book on concepts (Brandel & Motta, 2021). I think they bring a vision
to that which I had some idea of and Sandra [Laugier] [also] had some ideas
about. They worked on these ideas, but [they] also found new directions in
which to develop which with Wittgenstein, we may call, aspect dawning. And
for me that’s really, truly, important. Half the time in the US academy [the issue
is:] what is your legacy? What’s the school you have founded? What is this
concept that you have offered? But all I think I’ve done is to make some ideas
available which I had limited abilities to take forward. I mean, you have to
remember I was very poorly educated in terms of earlier schooling. I went to a
reasonably good school, but I remember when my eldest son was doing neuro-
sciences, [and] as an undergraduate he took a class in philosophy, and I asked
him, what are you reading? He said casually that they were reading Kierkegaard.
And suddenly there was this moment of utter jealousy I experienced. I said to
him “My God, do you know how much I had to struggle to discover somebody
like that, and it just comes your way like that?” What is important is not a
legacy or what goes on in your name. My biggest desire like a good Hindu is to
be extinguished from life when I die. Because there are others who will be there
to deal with the new problems that will arise. It’s their lives that are important.
And that gives me a taste for life, so to say. So that I think is the question of
knowledge, which is where the sensibilities can be, really different. But I see a
connection there with scholars in Brazil.
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V.D. I think that there isn’t that ambition when you’re working in those envi-
ronments where it doesn’t matter that you’re not the most cited author or
whatever. What matters is: in this world, this idea made a difference, in a small
way. So, I am truly grateful that you give me a chance to talk about these things
[laughing]. And this is not an act of modesty. It’s honestly just something which
is true.
A.V. And it’s such a relief to hear this. I think there is a connection between
this and what you said about devotion in our last meeting. We would like you
to talk a bit more about that, as you presented us with such a beautiful asso-
ciation, a connection between devotion and desire.
V.D. This connection comes from this idea in many Sanskrit texts whether on
ritual or poetry where the issue [is]: can you be put in touch with your own
desire? Do you have a way of not distorting your life by the falsity of what you
define as your needs? I found it very interesting that Mauss, when he wrote on
sacrifice (Mauss & Hubert, 2017), completely missed this dimension of sacrifice.
He was using Sanskrit texts, for a theory of sacrifice, right? And yet he ends up
thinking that there is a transaction between gods and humans, a bargain made
for reaching a desired object. But it’s not gods who grant you your desires. It’s
you. So, yes, there are desires for objects for which you could perform a sacrifice.
But not because gods really grant you that desire. Although you will invoke
gods in the ritual it’s the totality of what is going on in that sacrificial arena,
the mantras, the invocations, the offerings, the gestures, that will make that
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desire materialize.
To perform sacrifice, the exact injunction is svarga kamah yajet, let the
one who desires heaven perform the sacrifice, and the verb for sacrifice, yajet
is in the optative mood. Not perform it, but you may perform it, by the one who
is desirous of heaven. And then they go on to say but heaven is not something
that exists − it is brought into existence by this act of sacrifice. Because of the
fact that the creation of something (bhavana) entails creating something new,
the heaven you desire is not yet in existence. So then the opponents of this
notion of sacrifice put forward an objection: “if something doesn’t already ex-
ist, how can you desire it?.” The answer roughly is “You are bringing heaven
into being by your act of desiring it.” And so it’s again very interesting how I
think this kind of thinking joins an important move in ritual theory made by,
for instance, Michael Puett and his colleagues who characterize ritual action
as undertaken in the subjunctive mood. It’s an “as if” reality that is created
through ritual. I love that formulation, [but] I also think it’s still timid. And the
reason why I think of it as timid is that it falls back into the idea that an as-if
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I’m not saying this way of thinking is right or wrong. I’m saying it’s a very dif-
ferent vision from the idea of fallibility as a fall from morality, or the big mor-
alism apparatus that might come with it. What was it to be devoted to the idea
that an action has to be undertaken because it seems right but one does not
know what the consequences of that action will be. Gandhi was a very good
example of advocacy for that form of moral actions. He takes from the [Bhaga-
vad] Gita this notion that you have only rights over your actions and never over
the fruits of the actions. One has to learn to live in this detached way in relation
to one’s own actions. There is a puzzle here. How are you supposed to have this
detached relationship to desire, which is also a certain way of being devoted
to the world?
L.F. Thank you, Veena. A very strong emotion among us, caused by our conver-
sation last week, was joy. We would like to ask you about that. Uncertainty,
unpredictability, improvisation: they are all qualities of the everyday that have
great prominence in your work, and they are also qualities of ethnography itself.
How can we think from this perspective about the place of joy in ethnography,
particularly when we think about ethnographies around themes such as vio-
lence, social suffering, poverty – themes that are mostly approached through
the key of “survival”?
V.D. I think last time Cynthia said this very beautifully, that there are no bound-
aries here between this is joy and this is sorrow. I mean, we know that, let’s say,
something like the emotion of being in love, or just loving somebody, it doesn’t
have to be the dramatic being in love, it can be just loving somebody. This love
– it’s joy, it’s grief, it’s waiting, it’s anger, it’s jealousy, it’s moments of ecstasy,
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and no one emotion can be expunged from the feel of love. Some time ago I
gave the Allen Dundes Lecture at Berkeley [“Time, subjectivity and the Poetic
Voice”, 2012], where [for] the first time I talked about how I recognize this
volatility of emotions in aesthetic theory. This question comes up, in the
Mahābhārata: some of the most erotic moments in the text and ones full of
pathos are the moments of women lamenting the deaths of their husbands.
The war is over. They are in the battlefield with bodies of the dead strewn
around. And as they look at the dead they lament in words like “this the hand
that fondled my breasts…”. There are critics who accuse the proponents of the
theories of poetic emotion (rasa) to ask: “How can you let this moment of death
be so seeped with this erotic desire? Even if it is in the form of lamentation.”
And I think that’s what the swirl of emotions in the poetic voice means for them
– this is why working through these emotions is a lifetime of work. It’s the way
passion is built over time, even if its revelation is condensed in one moment.
Being able to say “I love you” is a great moment – but what is the before and
the after of this moment? This is what Wittgenstein talked about as the hurly
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burly of the organism – these different contradictory emotions are totally tied
into each other. And this again has been my difference with some anthropolo-
gists who want to draw boundaries around joy and sorrow.
I think it’s interesting that it is more often the male anthropologists who
get most anxious about my work. I find this quite fascinating. You know, there’s
always somebody or other in an audience who will say: “If you do away with
objective standards, how will we know how to judge?” I say: “You will know
when you actually need to make a judgement.” I remember saying to Joel Rob-
bins (2013), who is one of my kindest critics on this issue and asks: “Why haven’t
you talked about joy? Isn’t there also joy? Or isn’t there also goodness?” The
assumption is, one has to find where is joy, one has to find where is goodness.
And my response is something like: “But Joel, I’m not an accountant. I don’t
have ledgers or columns where I say this is sorrow, this is joy, now I’ve balanced
the two.” It’s precisely the fact that how and where joy will be found is not
predictable. In Life and words, I give an instance when victims of the riots are
trying to re-enact that very carnival-like scenes of killing. And they are laugh-
ing. And it’s clearly not joy, even if it’s laughter. And yet it’s not cynical laugh-
ter, it’s just drawn out of them, unbidden, in a way. These events raise such
questions for me of how these swirls of emotions move from joy to sorrow. And
how to find expression for these experiences, without having to fix these in
one position or another: “Now I am committed to finding joy, now I am com-
mitted to depicting suffering.”
And survival is a very interesting question here. Richard Rechtman (2020)
has an amazing book, La vie ordinaire des génocidaires, which is about his work
as a psychiatrist with the survivors (victims and perpetrators) of genocide. One
of the points he makes is that when we think about genocide through the lives
of petty executioners, not the big leaders, they don’t have the time or the in-
clination to sort people into who was a friend, who, an enemy? Every day they
have to fill targets. They have to select enough people who can be killed effi-
ciently. They have to actually do the killing. They have to get used to the smells.
They have to remove the bodies. They have to deal with the sheer exhaustion
of killing, removing bodies, cleaning. And it’s an absolutely remarkable book.
Consider its relation with my colleague Clara Han’s book (2021), Seeing like a
child, which is written in a very slow pace with slow movements, with very rich
ethnographic moments. Rechtman (2020) does not have great ethnographic
moments. It took me a while to realize that the greatness of the book is to say
this feeling of what it was to be so steeped in death can’t be conveyed. Where-
as in Han’s book the description of the slow unfolding of events of a brutal war
in the interstices of family life, allows the poisons to be drained out.
Sometimes there is so much good work that gets smothered by the de-
mands of standardization. For many scientific papers this control over genre
might work, but for anthropology, I feel it takes away the individuality of the
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the anthropologists. When I look at your work, all the time you are working
with a big team, and you have this capacity. In Brazil people don’t know so
much about how you work collectively, so I would like to hear more about it
and what anthropology can do with other groups, other researchers and other
areas also.
V.D. Basically, I would say these collaborations get formed because there is a
problem that requires collaboration with scholars who have expertise of dif-
ferent kinds. And that’s why the range of people with whom I work is so varied.
First, there are the small number of field researchers from ISERDD, a
research and advocacy organization in Delhi of which I am a co-founder. The
people working for ISERDD have evolved together to become major collabora-
tors in the projects we have developed relating to health and disease, quality
of care, education, citizenship, in the slums. But almost all of them come from
low-income areas and are first generation of college educated people in their
families. Only one of them speaks English though others have acquired rudi-
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mentary skills in reading and writing in English. But what is remarkable about
them is that they are very independent thinkers and love working with ISERDD
because there is no boss managing the implementation of day to day work.
That’s been one kind of collaboration which has now been going on since 1999.
And I still remember, how it was when I first tried to teach them how to do an
ethnographic interview. One of the young men was more or less barking orders,
asking “How many times in the week do you go out to work – yes?” And I said
“Purshottam, please can you record your interaction? Go home and then play
the recording to your mother and ask her what does she think about this.” This
was all in Hindi. His mother [said something] like “You sound like some petty
official who’s asking for a bribe!” Today they all say how much they [had to
learn about] even these small things like what’s the texture of your voice, what’s
the way you would think about that problem in your interview technique. That’s
one collaboration which has lasted forever and which I’m grateful, moved, and
delighted by.
The second kind of collaboration is obviously with one’s students, where
I haven’t ever – or very seldom – written anything jointly with them unless they
have finished their PhDs. And the reason is that people will often presume that
I must be the main author. And whatever order [of the authors] you put on the
paper, that is the assumption that is brought to bear on it. I usually will not
publish anything jointly as long as they are students but at the level of ongoing
collaboration of thinking with them and getting them to comment on my work
and my helping to take their ideas forward in a way that they can take respon-
sibility for their own voice, is very important to me
The third kind [of collaboration] came about because of some fortuitous
circumstances. I collaborated a lot with Arthur Kleinman on this trilogy (Klein-
man, Das & Lock, 1998; Das et al., 2000; Das et al., 2001), and I learnt a lot from
Arthur and Margaret [Lock] on evolving a broader perspective on medical an-
thropology. But while we all loved this opportunity to collaborate, we knew we
had differences, which were very productive to think with. Arthur had this anx-
iety about me that I am very hesitant to intervene quickly, and he would ask:
“What are we doing for people to alleviate their suffering?” And my stance was
that we have to refrain from intervening if we are looking for affirmation that
this intervention makes us feel better about ourselves. We need to think what
impact will this intervention have in the slightly longer term and how will it be
sustained when we are gone. For example, one of the enduring points of differ-
ence in this discussion was this entire question of how to reach mental health
to the poor. Arthur is very committed to questions of mental health, as am I, but
for me that’s not the only issue people are dealing with in their complicated
lives. Arthur felt that nurses or staff at the PHCs which – are the Primary Health
Centres – “could be trained to identify common mental disorders and to treat
people.” But I disagreed because my own work we were finding a rampant mis-
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use of antibiotics both in public and private sectors. I felt that PHCs could be-
come conduits for movement of pharmaceuticals of all kinds. So, I was hesitant
to recommend putting psychotropic drugs in the hands of PHC staff. I’m not
saying that there is an easy resolution to these issues. I’m saying that we worked
[together] up to the point we could, and then these differences became difficult
to address. Of course, I have the utmost respect for Arthur and I think his writ-
ing on care (Kleinman, 2020) was very important for me because I also knew his
wife extremely well and felt very empty after her death. So, you know, there are
emotions and not simply ideas that become crucial to sustain collaboration.
I maintain close collaborations with my colleagues. I work a lot with
Clara [Han], and Naveeda Khan in different ways. I can’t work with all my col-
leagues equally well, nor am I expected to do that. There are not only problems
of time management but also because there are genuinely different desires we
have about what we want to do with the kind of expertise we have.
One of the longest collaborations I have been engaged in is on health
systems at the level of low-income urban neighborhoods. This collaboration
grew out of some family circumstances. My middle son [for example] was very
committed to the questions of health and equity and that led to this long-term
collaboration with economists, public health practitioners biomedical scientists,
as well as some policymakers. My sense is that policy makers are important
consumers of our research, but I don’t trust that just telling them what we think
is the right step forward will result in the right actions. So, my sense is we
should make our knowledge available to a variety of actors and stake holders
and we should see who picks up an idea and how it gets implemented. But
there are very practical questions that we have to face. For example, our team
has just published a paper on our use of simulated standardized patients, try-
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ing to show that they are mistakenly called fake patients (Das et al., 2021). We
ask: what does simulation mean here? What does standardization mean here?
We argue that a real patient is as much a construct as a simulated patient. This
whole work with simulated patients has required, first, [that we] solve the
practical problems: how do you actually train a very large number of SPs [sim-
ulated patients], who are drawn from low income areas in different cities? For
me it was exhilarating to be training them and I say something about that in
my book Affliction (Das, 2015). So I’ll tell you where my failures lie. The men and
women we trained learnt how to present themselves as standardized patients.
One has to train them to not only give correct answers in a clinical encounter
but to also recognize which investigations or exams to avoid. For example, a
thermometer in a doctor’s clinic is a very innocuous instrument for measuring
your fever. But we had to drill into them: “You are not to put a thermometer in
your mouth because we know thermometers are not disinfected.” And they
would say “But when I go to a doctor for any consultation from home, I let him
put the thermometer in my mouth, it is routine, what’s the big difference?” And
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I would say “No, you’re not to put it in the mouth because we cannot expose
you to a risk.” And they’ve learnt how to answer questions but also how to avoid
certain investigations offered in the clinic. “You have to refuse injections, if
offered.” So they have to learn how to make an excuse for refusing to allow the
doctor to proceed with certain procedures. But then, overuse of injections is so
routine in these low-income areas that the doctor begins to wonder why is this
patient refusing to take an injection. In order to allay suspicions that the patient
is not a real patient and thus risk of discovery, we have to create these idiosyn-
cratic stories, appropriate to each milieu.
All these aspects of the training of simulated patients (SPs) went very
well. My one aspiration was to try to get our SPs to see that there could be
variations in the degree of confidence with which you express an opinion (as
opposed to reporting a fact). This was very hard to communicate. For instance,
they were asked to provide an assessment of how well they thought the doctor
understood the disease, or, did they think they were prescribed the correct
treatment? They could express an opinion but could not say what was the
level of confidence they had in their own judgement. I devised many games
and exercises to convey different levels of confidence in the way one estimates
future actions, or makes a guess but could not get this idea across. What does
this tell us about patient preferences?
As we have amassed huge amount of data on quality of care and on
delay in diagnosis through using simulated patients, it has become very clear
in our present work that at some stage in the doctor/patient relationship, care
falls into the hands of the patient. For instance, if we ask that since the doctor
knows that this patient should be getting a TB chest X-ray, why does he not
prescribe it? Because, one, he may think “If the first day I tell them ‘You need
to get a chest X-ray’ they are going to think ‘Is this doctor giving me a prescrip-
tion for an expensive test because he gets a cut from the lab?’” And so the
doctor will wait to gauge what the patient is willing to pay. Even with doctors
who diagnose the need for a chest X-ray there are ten other tests they prescribe
which have nothing to do with TB. Why? Partly because they are following a
business model. They are making money out of this whole transaction. [And]
partly because they are testing how much will the market bear, and so wheth-
er this patient is willing to pay more or less. They are watching how the patient
communicates that information. And again, this is very hard to capture within
a simulated patient kind of model, but it’s equally hard to capture for a real
patient. Methodologically, one might conduct exit interviews, which is what a
lot of researchers do. But it is not easy to determine how to assess the informa-
tion, because you don’t know in the case of real patients what disease the
patient suffers from and if the tests were required or not.
I hope you can see that some questions arise from the trajectory of the
disease as a biological entity and training of SPs consisted of their mastering
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the right answers to questions about symptoms or about the kind of treatment
received. But another aspect of training was about creating a socially nuanced
story about who the patient was that would not arouse any suspicion in the
mind of the doctor as to the simulated character of the patient. Training for
this aspect meant sitting down with the people we were recruiting as simu-
lated patients, and brainstorming on how to create a socially acceptable story
around the persona we were creating. So we would start with “What is the name
of this person we are creating?” And they would suggest a name. But if the name
was taken from say a TV show that suggested an upper class family, we would
say “That name sounds very upper class – will it work for the kind of social
background we are imagining for this patient?.” They would play around with
other possibilities. It did not mean SPs had to have recognizably “traditional”
names. In creating these characters, the SPS learned the importance of detail
– that even something as minor as what is an appropriate name, [or] how should
this woman be dressed, had to be carefully calibrated. To fill out the character
of this persona that was created we would create imaginary scenarios. “Okay,
so this person who owns a small shop has finished the day’s work and is sitting
at home but the neighbour’s TV is blaring out songs, while he is trying to get a
nap, what will he do? And one SP might speculate that, he will go and knock
at his neighbour’s door and ask him to put the volume down. But another SP
will say “No, no, remember we made him into a shopkeeper? A shopkeeper will
never get into a confrontation with a neighbour!” All these exercises were very
important not because they had an effect on how the natural progression of
the disease was to be represented but because the SPs were also social personas.
So that’s one kind [of collaboration].
The last collaboration I will describe is with two colleagues on a project
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modified form. But to fully understand the second type (tadbhav), it’s very im-
portant to see what grammatical procedure for modification is used. Is this
word from Sanskrit? In which case there should be a separation and the ablative
case should have been used. Or is it that Sanskrit is seen as the normal location
for this word? Then the term ending will be the locational case ending.” And
Michael might say “why are you so obsessed with grammar?” Or Andrew [Bran-
del] might say “Well grammar seems to be doing something different over here.
It’s not just for speaking correctly.” Then comparisons with Europe might come
up. Andrew is curious about why certain texts from Sanskrit were chosen for
translation. Why translate the Bhagvad Gita in Latin? What other texts were
considered and overruled? What did kind of obstacles did they overcome? Does
the comparison of Sanskrit and Prakrit with Chinese tell us more than the
typology of inflectional and morphological languages? So, in many ways, each
of these collaborations I have described is determined by the force of the par-
ticular questions we pose.
[And] that’s my other problem. We are all familiar with these policy
statements from university administrators exhorting us to developing inter-
disciplinary research. Fine, but this collaboration can’t be done by fiat. And it
can’t resolve all the problems that arise when different disciplines bring very
different visions to a problem. [There] are various partial resolution possible.
For instance, when can one translate one’s results for policymakers? The more
conscientious bureaucrats will rightly ask “Do you really think we have enough
evidence to support this policy intervention?” And what we can say is that “Well,
we’re making what evidence we have available to you along with areas of un-
certainty, but we cannot say to you that this is definitive evidence.” We really
need to rethink the possibility [of collaboration] very seriously and be ready for
corrections as problems arise. [pause] I’m sorry, my answer is longwinded, but,
I just derive so much life out of this ability to collaborate in these ways that I
appreciate this opportunity to speak about it.
C.S. Well, talking about collaboration. We are close to the end of the interview,
but let’s ask if you have something else to say, thinking about this encounter
of Brazilian anthropologists with you, who is Indian. We can say there is a stance
that, let’s say, we have in common between Brazil and India. We make a dialogue
with the traditional established anthropology and we are not subordinated to
it. You talked about this with Mariza Peirano when you first met her many years
ago, and we want to continue this dialogue with you. You said today and you
have in your texts a critical perspective on the identity idea, on what’s to be
Indian. Is there anything else you want to tell us about this?
V.D. Well, for me there is nothing obvious about how to be an Indian. I’m In-
dian by birth but can I assume that I will remain Indian forever, regardless of
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how are they ever going to get into a place where they will be able take a posi-
tion and trust that people can live with different ways of thinking or have dif-
ferences of opinion? Sometimes the atmosphere of fear that is created through
this discourse on vulnerability is also startling to me. I had always taken for
granted that if I would not get a job in a college, I would teach in a school, but
I would teach in a school in a way that was meaningful for me, and I would
continue to write or read or do whatever I could. But here in the USA the default
position seems to be that younger people must be always cautious on what
they express because otherwise their career will suffer. This atmosphere in-
timidates younger people. Their fears are not totally unwarranted but my issue
here is so what kind of relationship to yourself are you then able to forge?
I also think that institutions are just not thinking enough on these mat-
ters. Using the Indian University system [as an example] what was good at one
time was that you joined as an assistant professor, you slowly went up the rung,
nobody went faster or slower, and one earned a good liveable wage. What one
wanted from the system was schools in which your children could be educated,
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you could get help from colleagues and friends, and you could do what work
you wanted to do. The pressure of having to claim that everyone is a leader, is
outstanding, was not there at least when I was a young professor. Yes, you need
to assess the person for a particular job, determine where this person’s strengths
lie, but why not just have a more collaborative relationship among different
universities and among institutions of learning more generally, rather than this
very competitive relation determined by rank orders and winner take all men-
tality? Those I think are really very compelling questions for me. I am fortunate
that I have friends to whom it just doesn’t matter where they stand in a rank
order. As long as we have a living wage, a place where we can talk to students,
we can write what we want, and claim our lives… yes, there will be obstacles,
you can’t wish away the power of disciplines, or adversities that cannot be
predicted. But I don’t believe that you are just a victim of the system, with no
recourse to finding ways to shape your life. So that’s what I really admire in
my friends, the ability to do what is important to you.
I’m learning new issues around censorship because of a project with
Clara Han on the governance of COVID-19 across five countries. My own expe-
rience of how to deal with coercive power was honed during the National Emer-
gency in India (1975-1977), when I was a young lecturer or maybe a Reader at
that time. There was a prohibition on gatherings of more than five people so
you could not gather, for instance, to hold any seminars. We dealt with this
prohibition by holding our department seminars at home. One of my colleagues
was arrested. He was not a very likeable person because unlike many other
Marxist scholars he would simply put down everything which in his view was
not Marxist enough. But we, faculty members at the Delhi School of Economics,
made it a point to see that every time he appeared in court for a hearing, we
would all be there. And I remember the Vice-Chancellor of the university send-
ing us a message that was to the effect: “This behaviour is not good for you. It’s
not good for the university.” During the Emergency even the right to life had
been taken away through a court judgement. But we were adamant that he had
to see that his colleagues were there for him. I have a feeling sometimes that
in a lot of universities academics write in the abstract on power and freedom
but their experience of power at national levels is a very limited experience.
The discussion becomes very ideological – words become empty. It’s like “As
long as I’ve signalled the right words, I’m on the right side of history.” And
sometimes the stance one takes is also determined by the microphysics of
power, which are important. But then you need to take a step toward analysing
it and not stopping at expressing indignation. I think of Foucault and his for-
mulations on psychiatric power as a mode of disciplinary power in which tokens
of power were marshalled to cover up ignorance and the nomadic nature of
disciplinary power. But, for every sort of reiteration of knowledge that feels
dead, as I say in Textures, there are these gems of writing in anthropology, phi-
anthropology, desire and textures of life:
784
losophy, Sanskrit studies, which renew our taste for life. As I don’t know all the
circumstances, I can’t always decipher what is before me, and I don’t want to
sit in judgment on all issues that confront me because I don’t know enough
about them, but I don’t want to run away from them. So I am willing to be pa-
tient and to learn. That is where the question of desire becomes very important.
What have you invested your desire in?
785
notes
1 As Veena Das herself descr ibes, ISERDD is “a small re-
search organization that some of my colleagues from the
University of Delhi founded to document and analyze the
transformations taking place in the lives of the urban
poor in that city.” (Das, 2015, p. 4). Das has been working
with ISERDD since 1999.
2 Two of the book launching webinars that we could attend
were the following: the one taking place on Januar y 22,
2021, hosted by the series “Thinking from Elsewhere,” edi-
ted by Clara Han and Bhrig upati Singh at Fordham Uni-
versity Press; and the one held on September 28, 2021,
hosted by Sapienza Università di Roma. The first launch
had Clara Han and Bhrigupati Singh as moderators and,
as debaters, Piergiorgio Donattelli (Sapienza Università
di Roma), Edward Guett (CUNY), Dev Pathak (South Asian
University), and Michael Puett (Harvard University), and
was held via the Zoom Platform. The second, also via
Zoom, featured a presentation by Pierg iorg io Donatelli
(Sapienza Università di Roma) and Sandra Laugier (Uni-
versité Paris 1 Pantheon Sorbonne) and participation by
Prathama Banerjee (Centre for the Study of Developing
Societies, Delhi), Roberto Brigati (Universitá di Bologna),
Fabio Dei (Universitá de Pisa), Anne M. Lovell (Centre de
recherche médecine, sciences, santé, santé mentale, so-
cieté, Par is), Lotte Segal (University of Edinburgh) and
Bhrigupati Singh (Ashoka University/Brown University).
3 The translation of the essay and the transcription of the
inter view was funded by FAPERJ (Program “Jovem Cien-
tista do Nosso Estado”; Letícia Ferreira’s research project
“Family dramas in bureaucratic counters: the institutional
management of missing children cases in Rio de Janeiro,”
process number E-26/203.244/2017).
4 Cf. Parreiras, Carolina. “Veena Das − apresentação biográ-
f ica e pr incipais conceitos”. Available at: https://w w w.
youtube.com/watch?v= 8-u3wz9xPXE&t=1128s. Accessed
on Oct. 30th 2021.
anthropology, desire and textures of life:
786
REFERENCES
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Adriana Vianna l
something lingers that continues to resonate, uneasy and restless. Scenes al-
ready described are rethought, known words appear lifeless, automatic, blood-
less. While the contact with her work offers us analytic paths, languages and
methodological alternatives, it also immerses us in a kind of permanent dis-
quiet over the precariousness of our words to cope with, in whatever way pos-
sible, that which is never completely expressed by them.
In a review of an article by Das written many years ago, Cavell offered
the author herself the possibility of seeing “the world and [her] place in it” in
another way (Das, 2020: 307). As she tells us, Cavell focuses in detail on a pas-
sage where she speaks about just how often the language of pain had eluded
her. The problem was not the enormity of pain but the absence of a language
that could enable the social sciences to “become textual bodies on which this
pain is written” (Das, 2020: 308). Cavell (quoted in Das, 2020: 308) suggests, then,
that to break this silence and render it intelligible to her peers, she needed to
“to beg, borrow, steal, and invent words”.
Tolerating obscurity openly, exposing something of this way of groping
one’s way around words or interrupting the narrative with the observation that,
disquiet: words, times and relations along an ethnographic trajectory
794
makes evident, of course, that our endeavour goes far beyond words. But for
those of us who rely on them to be able to tell something about the world – and
to make worlds in this process of telling – words are the terrain where we draw
support, venture out and, frequently, stumble in myriad ways.
To beg for words, then, to use Cavell’s formula, seems to highlight both
the insufficiency of the words that we have at hand to deal with pain and their
treacherous and deceptive potential. It is not a question of finding the precise
term for some situation but of clearing pathways to access that which gives
life to words (Das, 2007: 6, 2020: 4). If we beg for them, it is precisely because
they are not ours a priori: rather we appropriate them through and amid the
relations that we establish. It is in the sharing of histories, times, gestures,
shocks, deceptions and moments of exhaustion that we can purchase a loose
hold on the life that circulates in them.
In this sense, the precariousness that marks our relationship to what is
told, shown or subtly indicated to us by our interlocutors is not a failure to be
overcome. Our task is not one of scrutiny but of openness to a field of possible
article | adriana vianna
795
meanings. How do we become sensitive to the details that may matter (Das,
2020: 2)? In what way may an unexpected phrase capture our attention and
carry on disturbing us for years, as though any attempt to decodify it merely
produces ever more frozen narratives (Das, 2007, 2020)? How do we keep track
of language’s capacity to poison relations and forms of life? Or, inversely, how
do we experience the capacity possessed by relations to absorb this poison in
their concrete and everyday unfoldings (Das, 2021)?
These and other questions presented by Das’s work have the effect of
instilling certain distrust in relation to any overly totalizing assertiveness. Hes-
itancy may indeed be a valuable resource when dealing with contexts profound-
ly marked by situations experienced as involving considerable violence and
suffering. 1 To hesitate is, in a certain form, a tribute we pay to the inevitable
incomprehension both of the experiences shared with us and of the way in
which these become transformed, absorbed and expressed in lived life over time.
In the disquieting dialogue with her formulations, I constructed this text
in the form of a temporal slippage between a situation that occurred many
years ago and a current conversation, based on a relatively long relation of
interlocution. It explores the question of the forms of telling and retelling sto-
ries, along with some of the implications of what we think that we comprehend,
or not, in different moments of an ethnographic trajectory. The two situations
outlined in the following sections pertain to the same universe of research and
conviviality in which I have participated over the past decade, formed by the
activities of movements of relatives of the victims of police killings in Rio de
Janeiro. In each situation, I strive to remain attentive to the various temporal
dimensions intrinsic to ethnographic activity, but also to the role played by
fleeting moments and details that rerouted the directions taken by my atten-
tion (Das, 2018, 2020). In the final section of the article, I venture some further
connections between these two situations, albeit without the intention of en-
closing them within any single basic argument or within the same logical thread.
796
local group responsible for drug trafficking. Unlike the latter, Marcel did not
belong to the group and was not involved in trafficking, leading to his execution
with a rifle shot to the heart. After a period of deep depression, Claudia had
assumed the task of collecting every possible piece of evidence on the crime.
Her combative posture, vehemence and the poignancy of her speech and de-
termination over the years composed a perfect portrait of the guerreira, the
female warrior and woman-mother who fights tenaciously for justice. This por-
trait also possessed the singularity of culminating in an extremely rare victory,
namely the condemnation of the accused, attributed in an especially emphat-
ic way to Claudia and her determined compilation of the evidence needed for
the denunciation to be substantiated.
On hearing the long-awaited guilty verdict, we immediately gathered
around her to celebrate. Claudia, though, exploded with rage: “Eight years?
That’s what he gets for taking my son’s life? Eight years? I’m the one imprisoned,
I’m going to spend the rest of my life without my son, I’m the one imprisoned!”
This scene took place almost a decade ago. It was recorded in my field
notebook and formed part of a talk I gave at a seminar the following year. How-
ever, I did not actually include it in any published text or argument. I could say
that it remained dormant in its own maladjustment. Here, therefore, I wish to
set out from various different dimensions of this maladjustment in order to
reflect on it – and on my inability to accommodate it – in dialogue with some
of Veena Das’s propositions.
The first plane of discomfort that it elicits is related, of course, to our
expectations concerning such a rare legal victory in a trial of police officers for
murder. As a rule, these trials are marked by an immense asymmetry in the
truth value attributed to the evidence of police and non-police, especially res-
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 793 – 815 , sep. – dec., 2021
idents of favelas. This asymmetry has a legal weight since the testimony of
police officers enjoys the status of a ‘presumed truth.’ Additionally, juries tend
to agree with many, if not all, of the justifications given for the killings, sharing
the premise that envisages favela areas as territories of violence, lawlessness
and criminality. This view ends up providing a spectrum of possibilities for
justifying armed police actions and their often lethal outcomes.
At one end of the spectrum, the victim might be a member of an armed
group, having exchanged fire with the police, confirming the version that ap-
pears at the start of most of the trials with the record of an auto de resistência,
an ‘act of resisting arrest.’ 3 At a mid-point on the spectrum, the victim’s mem-
bership of ‘trafficking’ is not openly asserted but is nonetheless strategically
deployed as a cloud of suspicion, anchored in a racist vector on the similitude
of bodies and ways of life. Finally, when sustaining this zone of suspicion proves
impossible, explanation for the impossibility of distinguishing between guilty
and innocent falls on the favela territory itself. Mobilizing another racist vector,
here it is not the bodies and lives that present themselves as indistinct a pri-
article | adriana vianna
797
ori, but the territory that makes them so. As a consequence, the semantic field
of the confrontation acquires momentum, the war in adverse and – why not?
– lush and wild terrain (Leite, 2012; Fernandes, 2021).
In addition, the trials last many years, amid which dense rhythms and
forms of waiting develop. Here waiting takes the form either of the treacherous
manoeuvring of the more powerful, exposing the affinities between the judicial
and police machinery, or something akin to a test or ordeal, a challenge to te-
nacity and the physical and moral abrasions imposed by the struggle (Vianna,
2015). For all these reasons, reaching the end of a trial and, moreover, a trial
that concludes with a guilty verdict is something perceived as an exceptional
political and moral triumph. A triumph materialized in the mother, the figure
towards which we all converged at that emblematic moment.
Her reaction made us stop in our tracks. An ethical and aesthetic short
circuit had exploded: instead of the expected triumph over weariness and in-
justice, we witnessed the emergence of a kind of deep moral exhaustion. Anger,
such an important tone in diverse public discourses of mothers, did not operate
as fuel for an action of confrontation or as part of an aesthetic of denunciation
and accusation. Rage and exhaustion seemed to intersect precisely in the rev-
elation of this unexpected poison, the fact that she felt no release: “I’m the one
imprisoned!”
The density of this statement led me to approach it like shrapnel, an
artifact of interpellation that, rather than soliciting an argumentatively solid
or morally strengthening response, has the primordial quality of injuring those
participating in a scene and the etiquette of the scene itself. The inversion of
the condition of imprisonment, which switches from the condemned police
officer to the mother, is accompanied by the rupture of the script of celebration.
The shrapnel interrupts the collective movement, instils a degree of perplexity,
and temporarily suspends the rules of language. After a few minutes of gen-
eral bewilderment, this condition began to be reversed through comforting
remarks and the attempt to offer counter-arguments, emphasizing the victory
obtained and its importance as a ‘landmark’ in the painful confrontation of the
violence perpetrated by police officers. However, the discomfort induced by her
irruption of words continued to hover in the air in some form. This, at least, is
the memory that I retain many years later.
Slightly differently to the fragments that we resort to in our writings,
which relate to the incompleteness of what we see and what we can transmit,
these kinds of shrapnel primarily impel us to acknowledge our temporary inca-
pacity to respond or comprehend. What constitutes them – a phrase, a gesture
– is marked by the astonishment that, keenly felt at the moment of interaction,
is not entirely dissipated over time, like a splinter that demands attention.4 A
first way of understanding this shrapnel relates to the demands that open up in
a language game, in the Wittgensteinian terms so inspiringly reworked by Das.
disquiet: words, times and relations along an ethnographic trajectory
798
a generic public audience but as people who could received what was spoken
in a deeply personal way. As Das (2020: 136) writes:
The world counts – it has a say. However, how the world counts is somewhat
different when we think of the first person as taking a third-person stance and
a second-person stance. In the first case, the facts that are to be taken account
of are ‘impersonal’ facts: I am a person among other persons or I am dependent
on the public nature of the words that are the only ones I have at hand. In the
second case, I seek someone who can receive the words that give testimony to
myself.
799
800
bitterness carefully hidden under various layers of intimacy (Das, 2018, 2020:
138). It is worth recalling once more that this possibility could be exposed and
shared only because the words were circulating among people who shared a
deeper understanding of their poisonous potential and also the conditions for
absorbing the latter without “mutilat[ing] your words by treating them as if
they were just like other objects in the world.” 5 I now wish to turn to another
layer and experience of intimacy, confected in very different ethnographic con-
ditions, in order to return to some of the questions raised so far from another
perspective.
able protests together, I had accompanied two of the three trials involving the
killing of her son, André, and we had taken joint part in roundtables at aca-
demic congresses and other events. We had also shared meals, prayers, tense
moments within the movement, laughter. And there was the phrase… “I never
asked you about that.” When we arranged our talk, indeed, I explained that this
was my primary intention: to ask about things that, although always present
in some way, I felt that I had no clear idea of how they had happened. Above
all, I thought about her place as a grandmother, so heavily marked by the death
of her son, by now many years in the past. I reminded her that when I first met
Taís, her granddaughter, now a young woman about to apply for university, she
had been a child accompanying Luísa on the protests. Looking at an old photo
of one of these protests, I was struck by an obvious yet nonetheless intriguing
fact: the time of research is never only or precisely the time of research. It is
also the time of a child growing up, people aging, my own growing older.
If every ethnography is also an autobiography (Das, 2007: 17), then our
conversation recognized this entanglement through both the explicitation of
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801
my ‘desire to know’ and the constant presence of shared time that permeated
the accounts of what had not been shared. “You know what photo I’m talking
about, right?”; “I don’t think I ever showed you that letter… I’ll fetch it one day
to show you…” and similar phrases traced the sinuous connections between
what was lived together and what was not. Or between intimacy and not know-
ing, between the being-with and the indeterminacy that so profoundly shape
the experience of fieldwork (Das, 2015: 373).
The questions asked by me, or simply the way in which the accounts
were sequenced in her speech, mobilized distinct temporal layers. Some con-
cerned our conviviality but many others related to biographical threads that
she had woven together by making connections with things that had occurred
after the critical event of the killing of her son. Differently, then, to the structure
prevailing in public actions, in this conversation the epicentre of the narrative
was not the killing. This was prompted, of course, by the fact that in the mes-
sages sent prior to our conversation, I had mentioned wanting to know what
it had been like for her to be one of the people responsible for raising her
granddaughter. Focus, time and narrative marks altered, therefore, as an effect
of this basic displacement in personhood: the grandmother instead of the
mother; the granddaughter instead of the son. If reminiscing should be under-
stood as a moral practice (Antze & Lambek, 1996), then we must begin with the
observation that, in this case, the ‘elapsed time’ already contained a fairly clear
sign of transformation and vitality, provided by Luísa’s granddaughter, now a
young woman by her side.
The temporality offered two moral landscapes that I now wish to explore
in a bit more detail. The first is similar to a somewhat rugged topography, not
flat, riven by deep marks where doubts about what really matters had welled
up at some point (Kleinman, 2006). The second was shaped more by the discrete
and tenacious work of surmounting obstacles and sustaining an inhabitable
everyday life. In the first case, the challenges primarily took the form of a pro-
found physical, emotional and ethical collapse, the illnesses stemming from
the brutal loss of her son and their repercussions signalling the impossibility
of carrying on. In the narrative, the emergence from this state also occurred in
a somewhat exceptional form through spiritual mediations. It is perceptible,
however, that the line between these two moral landscapes is not a clearly
defined boundary. In assuredly less dramatic fashion, but no less important,
persisting with what was required everyday in order for life to be remade, as
well as the immense challenges that this presented, also performed a curing
role in these conditions of bodily and ethical crisis.
“You know that I became really sick, right?” she asked me. I said yes, I
knew that her health had become very poor after her son was killed, a story I
had already heard more than once in public accounts and in conversations
among the movement of family members. “No, afterwards. After the first trial.
disquiet: words, times and relations along an ethnographic trajectory
802
When they absolved him [the accused].” I say that I didn’t know. I was not fol-
lowing the movement yet at this time and, in contrast, in the later trials I had
attended, her firmness and calmness took me by surprise. This is the theme of
one of the histories with which I have had contact for a long time but about
which we never talked in detail: the story of the messages she received from
her son via a spiritist medium. She tells me that a lawyer who worked in the
favela came to her and said that the mother of a boy who had died during a
failed robbery, in a case with major repercussions, wanted to take her to a
spiritist centre. This mother, a middle-class woman, defined herself as a spirit-
ist, while Luísa says that she had always been a Catholic. At this centre, the
psychographed messages came from a very respected and well-known medium,
Chico Xavier, who had died a few years earlier. She decided to go. On the first
attempt, she did not receive any message. On the second, accompanied by
another three mothers and Taís, her granddaughter, she received a message and,
from memory, can recite some of the phrases, although she tells me that she
will track down the letter at some point because “you will have to see the
psychography to understand.”
The letter was a message to her, thanking her for her love and presence
there alongside Taís and emphasizing how important it was for her not be sad:
“my body was riddled with bullets, I’m before you without a single mark.” The
presence of slang expressions in the message, the advice to his father not to
“test his luck,” referring to his drinking habit, and the information that now,
“from the other side,” he understood what his father had been through in child-
hood, at the same time as they gave legitimacy to the psychographed message,
placed her son in the role of carer for all of them. Moreover, she tells me how
she felt his presence, something that she would also feel in the subsequent
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 793 – 815 , sep. – dec., 2021
trials, which allowed her to deal serenely with those excruciating situations.
As well as the messages received, Luísa recalls an especially striking dream in
which she saw someone from behind, dressed in a white coat. She knew it was
him and asks if he isn’t going to work. But he says no, he studied nursing and
now works with children.
I pause at this point to explore some potential intersections with what
I called the second moral landscape, deeply connected to the painstaking work
of remaking relations amid and through the everyday. The selections and align-
ments that I make here do not follow the sequence of topics as they appeared
in the conversation, which, for their part, did not follow one another in any
clearly delineated way either. Ordinary and extraordinary intertwined in the
stories, just as they fill the everyday (Das, 2007). The white coat that indicates
the childcare performed by her son in her dream is equally a sign of the profes-
sion, nursing, that, at the very beginning of our conversation, Luísa told me her
granddaughter was thinking about pursuing. Asking her about this, she tells
me that she too had been startled by the coincidence. The presence of the sig-
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803
804
to invite most of her family due to the meagre number of invitations. “I’m
sorry but I’m not going.”
Each birthday reveals how the endeavour of weaving kinship, confecting
relationality through Taís, is sinuous and never completely assured. Firstly, the
couple’s separation engendered two different parties. The crucial connection
of paternity, though, meant that the division of the two family nuclei did not
threaten the fundamental relationship with Taís, appearing more like a dupli-
cation of birthday parties, meaning that kinship could be experienced without
harm or shadows. It is especially poignant to think that the next festival would
already take place after André’s death, held at the site of a local community
organization to which neither of the families was connected. Likewise, the
photos from the previous year no longer formed part of family memory alone
but were among the artifacts of collective mobilization.
Kinship memories and the way in which they intermingle with other
policies of memory, such as those that involve diverse events and temporalities
(Carsten, 2007: 5), also tell us about the ways in which presences and absences
are managed. In this case, André’s absence demands the inscription of his death
in a biography that is simultaneously political and affective. While more atten-
tion has usually been given to how family tales and artefacts migrate to the
public sphere (Leite, 2004; Vianna & Farias, 2011), in this case I have sought to
pay more attention to the dense family life of the images involved. Similarly
to what Han (2015: 502) indicates in relation to her interlocutor, the work of
documenting the death of the son and inscribing it in the fight for justice is made
in close connection with an imagined future for the granddaughter. Not only
the circulation of the photos but also the endeavour to obtain the documents
that can, after many bureaucratic wanderings, guarantee the granddaughter’s
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 793 – 815 , sep. – dec., 2021
805
strated in the small number of invitations, which practically erases the entire
paternal family network. In counterpart, Luísa’s support once again is readily
verifiable in the endeavour made to give the two dresses that form an essential
part of the 15th birthday ritual.
Discussing this date, Luísa also told me that it was a moment when Taís
acutely felt the absence of her father, with whom she would traditionally dance
a waltz. She did not speak, though, of her own feeling of missing her son’s pres-
ence on this ritual occasion, but we can infer something of the depth of this
absence for her too in the way that she responded to the disregard shown in
relation to the invitations: eu sinto, mas eu não vou, “I’m sorry but I’m not going.”
The double sense of sinto, meaning both “I’m sorry” and “I feel,” indicating
both regret and feeling, encapsulates the play of presence and absence of Luísa
and André at the party. The waltz without the father poignantly marks how
much the killing stole from the daughter’s life, as well as the life of Luísa and
the rest of the family. The five invitations thus threaten Luísa’s continual daily
effort to maintain Taís’s paternal kinship and, for this reason, cast a shadow on
André’s memory. In withdrawing from the party, though, Luísa does not with-
draw from the work of kinship, a process embodied in the dresses themselves,
material proof and sign of her care for her granddaughter and her son.
The way in which this story was told to me was interspersed not only
with the other two birthdays cited but with many other narratives indicating
how during these years it was necessary to manage the unstable and weakened
kinship connecting the two families. Indeed, the form in which Luísa was able
to deny her physical presence while maintaining her support for the party
speaks, I think, of a confidence that the relations could now survive this tense
moment. The meticulous work of managing dangerous words is also maintained
by Luísa when she seeks to counterbalance the harmful potential of this situa-
tion with the idea that it was just a question of jealousy, on the part of Taís’s
mother and maternal grandmother, of their close relationship. Ordinary ethics
(Das, 2012, 2018) are revealed here in the skill involved in containing the situa-
tion’s poisonous potential, taking it as a demonstration even of the strength of
the relationship with the granddaughter so assiduously cultivated over the
years.
To conclude, I wish to mention another moment from the end of our
conversation. Speaking about imprisonments that had recently occurred in her
neighbourhood, a mosaic of violence and torture emerged in small fragments.
“They took away some boys as drug traffickers when they weren’t. They had
only used marijuana but the police wanted them to say where they had bought
it. They beat them and waited for the grandmother to leave – the grandmother
who raises them too – and placed the backpack filled with drugs in the house.”
“They entered my neighbour’s house and took her son. He was in prison for two
years.” “There is also the case of another neighbour who became blind because
disquiet: words, times and relations along an ethnographic trajectory
806
of his diabetes in prison. They refused to allow the medicine in.” These frag-
ments participate, in a particular way, in a type of conversation far from rare
among members of the social movement, who end up having to deal not only
with the killings but also with the practices of mass incarceration. The accounts
reveal something that, though inscribed in the everyday life of the favelas, none-
theless reverberates with an disquieting spectre of cruelty that cannot be en-
tirely absorbed (Das, 2020: 216).
What was surprising was how these scenes brought up others more
distant in time and space. Near to the city where Luísa was raised had been a
large mental asylum. She tells me, then, a story from her childhood.
One day the neighbour returned from there and spoke to nobody ever again. I
was ten years old and she came back and I’ll never forget. She spoke to nobody
from her family and hanged herself. She spoke about the things that happened
in that sanatorium. The tortures were horrible. People were sent there. From
where I lived, it was less than an hour to get there. My mother would go there to
buy fabrics. She spoke about terrible, terrible things. It was a long time ago now
and I’ve never forgotten.
life, perhaps due to the magic of transforming fabrics into clothes. The town is
far away in time but, even so, is always close since it is impossible to forget.
807
that they produce in their interlocutors, at the same time that these reactions
feed and shape them in turn. In different ways, I perceive both as an invitation
to become engaged in the position of an active audience, meaning that the
properties I recognize in each depend fundamentally on the work of producing
a place for myself in this relation.
What I have sought to identify or pursue, therefore, concerns the trace
of the relations in which, by listening and by my presence, I became integrated.
In the case of the shrapnel, as I indicated, the inversion of both the expectation
of a collective celebration and the attribution of the status of prisoner to the
mother instead of the convicted officer, offered the crucial dialogical component.
The suspension of the foreseen script convoked another engagement, seeming
to demand from her network of interlocution the capacity to react to the pro-
found bewilderment caused by her utterance. It was not the comforting re-
sponses emitted there that absorbed the harmful potential of those words but
the fact that we were in a position to receive them in trust. As Das (2007: 6)
points out, the issue is not knowing but acknowledging the other, something
that is never resolved once and for all. 6
In what I called conversation, the opening to acknowledgment resides in
the reiteration of the questions and commonplace remarks concerning what
had already been shared face-to-face or through accounts and photos. The
movement here involves less the brusqueness of what was not foreseen and
irrupts, as in the shrapnel, and more an alternating play of distance and proxim-
ity, knowing and not knowing. The questions thus had something of a mirror-
like quality: after all, I was also asked whether I already knew such-and-such
stories, scenes or objects. In its sinuous flow, the conversation conveyed topics
from one point to another, produced associations and allowed itself to be inter-
rupted, whether by ideas or by people and animals, or by the oscillating inter-
net connection. If the first register was produced through the concentrated
impact of a phrase and the specific mode of non-comprehension that it gener-
ated in me, this second register is distinguished by a time that wanders, con-
fecting a prose slips between past, present and future.
Both situations allow us to reflect on a theme that tends to be expressed
relatively consistently, albeit in different ways, by women who join these move-
ments following the killing of their sons. This involves the very possibility of
living and naming the form of life that unfolds after the death of their children.
The tales about the periods of deep depression after the killings, the chronic
worsening of certain illnesses or even the cases in which it proved impossible
to overcome the sadness and mortification, make themselves present in both
public and more intimate dialogues. When mobilized publicly, however, they
are generally connected to the period immediately following the deaths. Getting
out of bed, summoning one’s strength and engaging in the struggle form a spe-
cific narrative sequence that allows the events to be told in a particular manner
disquiet: words, times and relations along an ethnographic trajectory
808
in gestures and imaginary conversations that fill up the days (Han, 2015); in
acts of care with other children, granddaughters, neighbours. It is in this weav-
ing that banality and wonder mix; horror and the possibilities for cure through
the skill taken to avoid something of its poison being transferred to following
generations (Das, 2020: 202) and to ensure that words have a chance to find a
home.
Claudia’s phrase, which ruptures the contours of the warrior mother,
gradually became incorporated, in another way, into her public speeches, re-
combined with the narrative on the importance of the legal victory. The work
of kinship realized by Luísa extends to other children, half-siblings of Taís, who,
though not her biological grandchildren, treat her as a grandmother. “I don’t
stop acquiring grandchildren,” she tells me smiling. Groping for words, in the
way I have sought to do here, can perhaps be understood therefore as this
endeavour to seek out situations in which they momentarily appear to become
quiet. But it can also be guided precisely by the indices of its maladjustment,
the instants and scenes that reveal the limits of this quietening. At one point
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809
in our conversation, following the tales about the mental asylum near to home-
town, Luísa told me about another case that occurred in the neighbourhood:
The lad who lives nearby who became a bit crazy from drugs, his sister had him
hospitalized and he returned and doesn’t speak to his sister. He says he won’t
go back there. I make him coffee and bread. He tells me about the tortures he
suffered.
Madness, kinship and torture once again become interwoven in the ac-
count, as well as the decision to stop speaking to those who have betrayed the
trust that the person deposited in them. Recounting the tortures experienced
is only possible with someone who confects a space of trust, inseparable from
the coffee and bread offered. Quiet and disquiet run in parallel, indicating that
words only rest amid the encounter, listening and the gesture that re-estab-
lishes, even for a moment, the everyday as a territory of care.
If I conclude the text with this scene, it is because it seems to me an-
other way of speaking about the ‘being with’ that marks fieldwork. The shared
coffee, the chat, the memory that suddenly surfaces and the incommensurabil-
ity of horror become mixed in this scene and in so many others in which, one
way or another, we take part. It is not a question of giving them a meaning but
of understanding, as Das (2020: 319) emphasizes, that our concepts are not
produced in the “frictionless space of pure thought” and that it is this fact that
helps us “reinhabit a broken world”. Writing is not, then, an attempt to logi-
cally, politically or existentially transcend this broken world, but a way of situ-
ating oneself amid it, with all the fragility, insecurity and hope that pervade it.
810
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 793 – 815 , sep. – dec., 2021
811
NOTES
* I am extremely grateful to Letícia Ferreira for her partner-
ship work throughout the preparation of this special issue
and, particularly, this text. Working with Letícia, Camila
Pierobon, and Cynthia Sarti turned this whole process
into a unique mix of diligence and joy. I would also like
to thank Juliana Farias, Roberto Efrem Filho, and Angela
Facundo for their wise and kind reading feedback. Finally,
I would like to express my great appreciation and admira-
tion for the families of state violence victims and thank
warmly the interlocutor, here named Luísa, for her endless
generosity with me.
1 As Lotte Butte Segal (2015: 55) points out: “This compelling
juxtaposition of hesitancy and argument is one of Das’s
gifts to anthropology, particularly concerning ethnograph-
ic engagements with contexts suffused with violence in
its different forms”.
2 This and all other personal names in the text have been
changed.
3 See, among others, Misse et al., 2013; Vianna & Farias, 2011;
Farias, 2020.
4 Some initial elaborations of the relationship between frag-
ments and shrapnel were made in dialogue with the work
of Fabio Mallart, contained in the afterword to his book
(Vianna, 2021).
5 To provide a slightly longer citation: “I do not know and
cannot know how to go further, but I do know the differ-
ence in the aesthetics of kinship in this kind of world
between trusting your words to the care of the concrete
others with whom you have shared this kind of past, this
kind of laughter, these kinds of tears, and releasing it to
a public that might mutilate your words by treating them
as if they were just like other objects in the world” (Das,
2020: 138).
6 In Das’s words: “I read this as saying that the question is
not about knowing (at least in the picture of knowing that
much of modern philosophy has propagated with its un-
derlying assumption about being able to solve the problem
of what it is to know), but of acknowledgment. My acknowl-
edgment of the other is not something that I can do once
and then be done with it” (Das, 2007: 6).
disquiet: words, times and relations along an ethnographic trajectory
812
References
813
814
815
Cynthia Sarti I
In this text I describe my encounters with the ideas of Veena Das while con-
ducting research on suffering and violence. In the process, I revisit the trajec-
tory that led to my investigation of these themes through memories of Brazil’s
military dictatorship (1964-1985), highlighting the points where her work made
itself present. The catalyst for this reflection was the invitation to participate
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 817 – 842 , sep. – dec., 2021
in this dossier on the author who pioneered new ways for contemporary an-
thropology to think about violence, becoming an essential reference on the
theme, particularly when the focus is on pain.
Here my reflection on Veena Das’s work will not take the form of an
exegesis or an analysis of its fundamental aspects and lines of continuity. 1
Instead, I describe the points of encounter in order to show how reading her
work opens up possibilities for research on the Brazilian dictatorship, specifi-
cally in the terms in which I have formulated this on-going inquiry. To this end,
I revisit the questions that led me to investigate the suffering associated with
violence, such as I had in mind when I began the research, and describe how
the reflection on testimonies of these experiences developed over time, set in
words (books, testimonies, texts, reports, interviews), emphasizing the moments
when the reading of Veena Das (2007: 1, especially Life and words, was particu-
larly inspiring due to the singular way in which she proposes to think about
the kind of work that anthropology does “in shaping the object we have come
to call violence.” The impact of her work discussed here, therefore, concerns
figurations of pain: memory through life
818
819
The ethnography of this object we call violence moves among the instabilities,
uncertainties and unpredictabilites that surround the phenomenon and knowl-
edge of it, just as the words that express it, not only conserve but are also
“guided” by these forms. 6 I emphasize, in this sense, her relation to concepts
not as something that one pre-selects from a series of possibilities but as some-
thing that winds its way into the work of research by diverse routes, none of
which are necessarily foreseen. Here the “imponderables” are not limited to a
“real life” problem to be confronted in fieldwork, as Malinowski (1976) forewarned.
They are not an “empirical problem,” a nuisance that disrupts field research,
rather they constitute the epistemological problem par excellence that pervades
the entire process of knowledge – in the relations in which we become involved,
in the variety of interlocutions that make up fieldwork research, in our reflec-
tions, in writing. Veena Das opened up an epistemological field in which we
can move around in the meanders of the instability and indeterminacy making
up the object on which knowledge is being produced – an approach that proves
particularly fecund when violence is the topic under study. Hence the coordi-
nates are established in terms of localized fields of conversation (Das, 2015a).
Life and words can be read as a varied set of such fields within which the author
converses.
Literature as well comprises a mode of reflection in which the argument
is inseparable from the writing. In this case, in contrast to philosophy, which
was not part of her formal education, her training did include studies of Sanskrit,
a literature to which the author frequently refers. This helps us understand
how her way of doing anthropology is manifested in her writing, not only
through the words that distinguish her text, but through its form. Throughout
Life and words, the writing connects the various levels on which the author
mobilizes the distinct voices of the people with whom she converses, her “in-
terlocutors” as we conventionally call them in contemporary anthropology, and
through which she reflects and writes – whether the voice of Asha, Shanti,
Manjit, Cavell or Wittgenstein. Here, the anthropological text subtly morphs
into interlocution, involving all the voices as though they were conversing
among themselves.
In this way, without fuss, the problem of an “ethnographic authority” or
a “symmetrical anthropology” that so noisily tormented the anthropology of
Western scholars, especially at the end of the previous century, quietly dissi-
pates. The connections between the voices of her interlocutors gradually de-
velop and become perceptible to the reader over the course of the text, nurtured
by the author’s careful work of reflection, until the final explicit recognition of
what both Manjit and Cavell allowed her to understand. If she learned from
both, undoing conventional asymmetries of knowledge, this relates to the per-
spective she adopts in order to embody the other in her way of making anthro-
pology, defined by herself expressly as a form of “devotion to the world.” This
figurations of pain: memory through life
820
which a specialized service had been created for “cases of violence.” The project
sought to analyse, based on an ethnography undertaken along classical lines
including observation and interviews, how health professionals understood
the specificities of the care provided for a body injured by violence. 9
The violence that arrived at the emergency services, as a phenomenon
that affects the body, was translated and treated in the same terms as a disease.
As a health problem, violence was construed in a way that rendered it intelli-
gible within the logic of biomedicine and the care associated with the latter. As
far as the medics of the emergency unit were concerned, their responsibility
was to cure the injury and recuperate the person’s vital functions, their phys-
iological condition, irrespective of the reason for the patient arriving at the
hospital: a violent act, an accident or a disease. However, the explanation jus-
tifying a specific care response to violence, like the care provided at this hos-
pital, centred on their conception of the “victim,” defined by attributes associ-
ated with the person prior to the violent act. In this conception, violence was
delimited through the identification of a fragility in the victim, which made
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821
822
the hospital. In the practical implementation of her work, she had been con-
fronted with the ambiguities of a provision of care in response to violence that
was circumscribed by a predefined notion of the victim. While this care named
violence against women, it also made other forms of violence invisible due to
its essentialization. At the same time, I imagined the suffering of the assaulted
young man, with whom I had never had any contact save through the discourse
of the healthcare professionals, in the successive forms of humiliation to which
he had been subjected, in the assault, in the initial refusal of care, and in the
subsequent treatment that had caused such bewilderment among the hospital
staff. Beyond the treatment of his health, I thought about how the event must
have impacted his life, about the absence of a place of expression and recogni-
tion for what had happened to him. Lives and forms of language had been re-
vealed there as a problem. It was along this path, in face of the questions that
were opened by this research, in particular through the analysis of the produc-
tion of the victim, that the problem of the suffering associated with violence
crept into my work, becoming the central question that I have investigated, in
distinct forms, ever since. 12
Simultaneously, the analysis of this “case” allowed me to make explicit
the problematization of the place of the other when gender is thought of as an
identity issue (Sarti, 2009). In this sense, I recognize myself in the perspective
in which Das brings gender to her analysis. For her, gender is profoundly im-
plicated in the production of knowledge – all her work is evidence of this. How-
ever, it is not something one seeks out deliberately, rather it is found, because
it is there. 13 Focusing attention on the singularity of experiences thus precedes
any predefined approach to gender, which, however, always transects the anal-
ysis, “because it finds us,” not because we pursue it.14 In my view, it is a question
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 817 – 842 , sep. – dec., 2021
of being attentive to seeing and discerning gender in the forms in which life is
decisively traversed by one’s inscription in the social place of woman or man. 15
The deliberate search predisposes the gaze, while this subtle but significant
change in perspective enables the emergence, beyond the places of subordina-
tion socially attributed to women, of the possible modes of female agency un-
foreseen in our referential frameworks of meaning.
Although there was a line of continuity in my work, the inquiry into
violence from the viewpoint of suffering required other forms of ethnographic
exploration. Moreover, the locus of investigation shifted. My fieldwork sites
were no longer hospitals. By this time I had already joined the Department of
Social Sciences following the opening of UNIFESP to the human sciences in
2007, 16 an institutional affiliation that had an impact on the research, which
ceased to be linked to the health field alone. This was the moment when I turned
my attention to violence during Brazil’s military dictatorship in the quest to
analyse experiences of imprisonment, torture, disappearance and death of fam-
ily members, based on the testimony of those who lived through such events.
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823
Looking back, I believe that was the moment when my attention was
caught by Veena Das’s work. She had recently published Life and words. The book
Critical events, but above all the trilogy on the notion of social suffering and the
research agenda proposed there, a collective project in which the author was
involved (Kleinman et al., 1997; Das et al., 2000; Das et al., 2001), were already
key references for anyone studying suffering and violence, notably in the field
of the anthropology of health, as developed in Brazil (Víctora, 2011). Beyond the
social dimension of suffering, fundamental to an analysis of individual experi-
ence in light of what exceeds it but at the same time constitutes it, such as the
political, economic, cultural and environmental processes that directly affect
people’s lives, the work of Veena Das, in particular, revealed a new approach in
the field of the social sciences, made explicit in Life and words, through which
the author attempts, in her own words, “to remain attentive to the idea of suf-
fering as a concern with life and not with either the given and ready-made
ideas of culture or a matter of law or norms alone” (Das, 2007: 212).
Her commentators have highlighted the lines of continuity in the au-
thor’s work, in particular those running between Critical events and Life and
words (Vianna, 2020; Singh, 2015). The perspective marking her studies on vio-
lence, which consists of analysing the phenomenon in the forms in which the
event, by establishing some kind of cut, affects life and language, was already
outline, I believe, in the very definition of a “critical event.” It was not the ex-
traordinary character of the event which stood out; rather, what defined it as
“critical” was the establishment of new modalities of action not previously in-
scribed in the cultural and social repertoire. Referring to the Partition of India
in 1947, the thematic event of the book, Das (1995: 6) argued that, through it,
“new modes of action came into being that redefined traditional categories.”
Already present was the analysis of the disruptive event from a perspective in
which the death of the world as it had been inhabited before corresponds to
the creation of new forms of life – an idea so clearly consolidated in Life and
words. Associated with the event, the happening or the violent situation is, then,
not just destruction but the possibility of reconstruction, which, for the author,
operates in ordinary life, raising the question of how this happens. 17
This perspective contributed to shaping questions that became central
in my research trajectory on suffering and the memory of the violence of the
dictatorship, as I hope to show below.
824
According to Wieviorka (2005), the figure of the victim was for a long
time absent from the discourse on violence. It appeared in the humanitarian
discourse as a “victim of circumstances,” such as poverty or sickness, which
referred to naturalized social conditions rather than the political sphere. In the
discourse on violence, it emerges when this focused on the subject who suf-
fered the aggression, based on an affirmative notion of this subject as a subject
of rights, who, as such, demands reparation. Circumscribed in the figure of the
victim, the suffering associated with violence becomes socially intelligible, mak-
ing the construction of the subject as a victim, whether individually or as a
group, a mode of legitimizing demands and social actions for justice, reparation
and care (Sarti, 2011). Hence, the construction of the figure of the victim and
his or her social recognition in terms of rights gave form to the notion of vio-
lence itself, while the victim was transfigured into the contemporary mode par
excellence of situating oneself subjectively in response to violence (Koltai, 2002;
Fassin, 2004; Sarti, 2011; Gatti, 2017). 18
If the construction of the victim as a subject of rights is connected to
what became instituted as the modern rights of citizenship, the focus on the
subject who suffers violence interpellates the State in terms of its function of
ensuring the basic existential conditions of the citizen. 19 In the paradigm of
international human rights law, instituted through war crime trials in the twen-
tieth century, the State responsible for violent crimes is equally held respon-
sible for policies of memory and reparation. This character of being a victim of
a State policy is what is in play in the construction of the category of “victim
of the dictatorship” claimed in relation to the Latin American dictatorships of
the twentieth century.
Either in the fight or the reflection on the crimes of the Brazilian dicta-
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 817 – 842 , sep. – dec., 2021
825
that fed the struggles against dictatorships in the second half of the twentieth
century. The memory of these events referred, therefore, not necessarily to the
utopia that inspired the struggle against the dictatorship but to the questions
that made these struggles contemporary, enabling them to be continued in
another time and another register.
In this way, the field of human rights gave the militants, protagonists in
the fight against the dictatorship, the framework they needed to reconcile the
figure of the victim with their self-image as combatants and resisters, who chose
the armed struggle, conscious of their choice. In the face of the refusal to see
oneself as a victim, a figure that exempts the subject of responsibility, State
violence confers moral legitimacy to this place, as a victim of the dictatorship, in
the political struggle for the right to memory, truth and justice. 20
826
was not the evidence of violence per se, as expressed in the political and norma-
tive discourse in defence of recognition of the crimes of the dictatorship. Rath-
er the question was how this evidence, informed by the precepts of transi-
tional justice, is constructed and performed in the work of memory. I sought
to study the impact of these processes, and continue to do so, on the forms in
which the experience of pain became inscribed in the lives of those who suf-
fered the crimes of the dictatorship through the analysis of their testimonies.
How to speak about the pain of the experiences of torture, exile, disap-
pearance and death of family members, as a subjective experience of the oth-
er, beyond the social framings that make it socially intelligible, by giving it a
place, but without exhausting the meaning of the lived? How to apprehend
what was presented as inapprehensible?
From this perspective, literature constituted a fundamental source ma-
terial for the reflection since in this register we can perceive the “individual’s
hesitations” spoken of by Simmel (2006), which allow us to glimpse the singu-
larities irreducible to the social and political frameworks. It opens the possibil-
ity of putting what has no place into words insofar as it operates outside the
socially agreed limits for the subjective expression of pain.
Along these uncertain paths, reading Veena Das (2007) cleared the way
ahead by enabling me to realize that it was a field of uncertainties that I had
to traverse in order to study the suffering associated with violence from the
proposed perspective, allowing myself to be guided precisely by this instability.
But how? Reflecting on the pain of violence entailed turning my attention to
the singularity of lived experiences, in the interstitial spaces and gaps opened
by the testimonies, seeking to locate not only what was lost, but also the in-
scription of these experiences in life. It is not the event itself that is at stake,
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 817 – 842 , sep. – dec., 2021
but the experience of the event as lived by the person who suffered from vio-
lence, transfigured into memory. Not the facts themselves, but what can be
accessed of them from the testimony, apprehensible, as Das (2007: 216) suggests,
“in terms of the conditions under which it becomes possible to speak of experi-
ence.” By definition, therefore, experience is articulated with language and
language with the world.
Forms of saying
Amid all the uncertainties, some points seem consolidated in the studies on
violence, specifically in relation to the possibilities of speaking about violence.
In response to the global impact of the Nazi genocide, a twentieth-century
emblem of violence – not just because of the scandal of its scale and charac-
teristics, but also because of the social and symbolic resources of its victims
who successfully made themselves globally recognized as such – propositions
emerged in the West that affirmed the unthinkable, unsayable and unrepresent-
able character of the extermination, intensified in the 1980s, according to Cren-
article | cynthia sarti
827
zel (2010), in the postmodern context with its crisis of representation and of
the grand narratives. However, the author continues, these propositions have
been heavily contested. 25 If it is possible to think, say and represent violence,
whose implications, global in dimension, extend beyond national and local
borders, then how to do so? The processes of memory instituted by interna-
tional law after the Second World War would not only give legal form but also
morally legitimize the reckoning with the past of violence, transforming it
into a “duty to remember.”
We have reached here another point, not so uncontested among those
who situate themselves in the field of human rights, which relates to the limits
of the legal processes in terms of enunciating violence, although its fundamen-
tal political relevance for the restoration of the democratic order is recognized.
Agamben (2008) referred to the issue when discussing the distinction between
ethical and juridical categories. Citing the 1945-1946 Nuremberg Trials and the
trial of Eichmann in Jerusalem in 1961, the author argues that, however neces-
sary these processes may have been, they did not exhaust the question, contrib-
uting to the idea that the problem had been resolved, given the recognized
proofs of guilt. According to the author, the problem of the grey zones alluded
to by Primo Levi (2004) remains, blurring the neat separation between the per-
petrators of violence and the victims under which legal processes operate.
Das (2007), equally critical of the reading of violence through models
based on clear binary oppositions, poses the question in other terms, speaking
of these limits in relation to the practices that institute forms of saying the
“truth,” such as the Truth Commissions (TCs), which became globally established
as the public spaces par excellence for expressing the truth. Although the pol-
icies of memory establish places for listening, making possible the expression
and recognition of the discourse of those who have suffered State violence, they
also institute the forms through which violence should be said and heard. A
predefined script exists, varying in flexibility, established by legal forms or a
specific political agenda, on the basis of which victims should speak, although
the latter may not necessarily recognize themselves in this framework pre-
sented for them to speak within (Sarti, 2014, 2015). 26
An “exemplary Enlightenment project,” which resumes an absolute no-
tion of truth, as Das (2007: 220) defines it, the truth commissions model, in its
illusion of establishing clear boundaries between victims and aggressors, ig-
nores at a practical level those forms of testimony and memory that emerge
from very diverse situations and contexts as an outcome of equally diverse and
localized meanings. Hence, it is a question of seeking, in the interstices of these
practices, singular and personal forms of speaking and making visible, through
words, silences or mutings, what they say about violence or its concealment.
We are talking precisely about “one way to understand the relation between
violence and subjectivity,” as Das (2007: 78) defines the act of witnessing.
figurations of pain: memory through life
828
needs to be pieced together, reassembling the shards and carrying on, because
it has to be done to continue living.
829
affected by the violence of the dictatorship, the framing of militant action did
not exhaust the forms of saying and making life carry on. 28
To think about this singularity of experience both inside and outside
narratives framed in collective references that were, in some form, instituted
as counterdiscourses, my reflection became anchored in the notion of the work
of time, operating in the process of reconstructing life, as formulated by Das
(2007: 87): “Time is not purely something represented but is an agent that ‘works’
on relationships – allowing them to be reinterpreted, rewritten, sometimes
overwritten – as different social actors struggle to author stories in which col-
lectivities are created or re-created.”
The notion of time as an agent that works in the reconstruction of life,
inhabited by memories and where forgetting and concealments are produced,
proved inspirational in terms of comprehending not only the singularity of
experiences, but memory as a form of labour that accompanies existence ac-
tively, unblocking the past, through the unexpected questions of the present,
on an open horizon, a becoming. From this perspective, reparation is not focused
solely on an ideal of justice but becomes woven into the concrete fabric of life,
in the possible forms of inhabiting the world, amid relations that, through their
action, give new meaning to lived experience. The work of time has no certain
direction, nor predefined obstacles. It thus becomes a guide to the terrain to
be explored in thinking about the indeterminacy of the memory of violence,
focusing attention on the uncertain paths of memories and the indeterminate
movements of forgetting.
Consequently, this perspective is constructed in the opposite direction
to the direct and necessary association between violence and trauma, recurrent
in studies of violence, through, as Das emphasizes, 29 an imprecise and over-
hasty appropriation of the psychoanalytic concept.
The relation between violence and trauma entails mediations that in-
tervene decisively for the lack of language in the face of violence. These concern
the relations that make saying and listening possible or impossible, which must
be dealt with carefully, rather than presupposing the blockage of language. Once
again, the problem is where one looks. Taking the opposite tack to the focus on
trauma, the perspective of Das (2007) leads her to ask, particularly in the final
chapter to Life and words, whether it is possible to think about a group of victims
and survivors of violence in which time is not frozen but is permitted to “per-
form its work.” For the author, it is not that the ghosts have been expelled from
the scenes of violence that she describes, “but rather that everyday life is not
expelled” (Das, 2007: 215). An everyday life that, for her, is the place of recon-
struction, as already emphasized. In this chapter the author re-examines the
work of time in order to question the idea that thinking through suffering results
in the creation of a “community of resentment.” In this sense, it seems to me
that looking at the reconstruction of life, in those places where it can happen
figurations of pain: memory through life
830
through the work of time, 30 and not just at the destruction of violence that
freezes the gaze, is what enables a reflection through suffering, but outside the
register of resentment.
It is not a question of reducing those who lived through the violence to
a community of victims/survivors but of perceiving them as subjects. On this
point, Das’s ideas coincide, in a profound sense, with the critique of the victim
as a contemporary figure mentioned earlier. For her, running counter to the
discourse on identity, there is no collective unitary subject (the African, the
Indian) but forms of inhabiting the world in which people try to find their own
place and their own voice. 31 The recuperation of the memory of violence thus
involves the construction of the self as a subject, not a victim. What the wom-
en with whom she worked “were able to ‘show’ was not a standardized narra-
tive of loss and suffering but a project that can be understood only in the
singular through the image of reinhabiting the space of devastation again” (Das,
2007: 217). It is a question of seeing how life can be redeemed in the face of the
violence that attacks life itself, not a particular type of identity.
For the author, the difficulties implicit in naming violence are not related,
therefore, solely to the lack of language in response to violence, as a certain
theory of trauma might suppose, invoked “too soon” in these cases: “Naming the
violence does not reflect semantic struggles alone – it reflects the point at which
the body of language becomes indistinguishable from that of the world; the act
of naming constitutes a performative utterance” (Das, 2007: 206).
not dispense with pain and fear as signals warning of the fatality of its own
decay and dissolution; the second comes from the outside world, which assails
us with powerful, inexorable and destructive forces beyond our control; and
finally the third, which derives from our relations with other humans: “The
suffering that arises from this last source perhaps causes us more pain than
any other” (Freud, 2010: 31). If, today, the boundaries between “body”, “external
world” and “humans” are blurred, blended with the relations that constitute
human sociality, Freud’s formulation shows the inescapable presence of the
other in the suffering that constitutes us. Suffering is social by definition. But
what is the place of the other in the language of pain?
“Narrating and making oneself heard leads us to the importance of the
other in the reconstruction of memory – a fundamental operation for overcom-
ing trauma.” With these words, Janaína Teles (2009: 159) – historian, the daugh-
ter of parents imprisoned and tortured during the dictatorship, also imprisoned
while a child along with her brother – refers to the struggle of the relatives of
those political activists killed and disappeared by the military dictatorship. For
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831
832
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Notes
1 On her work, see the book organised by Chatterji (2015)
and the text by Vianna (2020 ), which comments on its
repercussion in Brazilian anthropology.
2 Interview in this dossier.
3 An allusion to Das’s remarks (2015b: 246) on the fascina-
tion that Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Philosophical investigations
exerted on her: “the tonality of the writing in it had as
much to say to me as its form of argumentation.”
4 As Vianna (2020: 10) stresses: “Countering the anxiety to
def ine what violence is, Das arg ues that we should be
guided by our engagement in the very instability of what
is named as violence.”
5 This seems to be the sense explored in the use of the word
“textures” in her most recent book, as the author remarks
in the interview to this dossier. It seems to me that the
sensoriality in the use of words already pervaded Life and
words, which I highlight here for its importance for an
approach to pain.
6 Vianna (2020: 5) calls attention to the significance of the
notion of “limit” in Das’s work. I refer to her commentary
on the notions of experience and limit as indissociable
from the very conception of the subject.
7 Interview in this dossier.
8 At the time, I was a professor at UNIFESP’s Department
of Preventive Medicine (DMP).
9 This research was developed in collaboration with Rosa-
na Machin Barbosa, also a professor at the DMP of UNI-
FESP, along with undergraduate medical and nursing stu-
dents under our supervision.
10 We descr ibe and analyse this episode in a co-authored
article (Sarti, Barbosa & Suarez 2006).
11 I consider pain and suffering to be equivalent notions in
the moral sense in which I approach the question, irres-
pective of the presence or absence of physical pain. As Le
Breton (2013) arg ues, pain implies suffer ing since it al-
ways involves a “moral blow,” a questioning of the
individual’s relation to the world.
figurations of pain: memory through life
834
835
836
837
References
838
Das, Veena. (2007). Life and words: violence and the descent
into the ordinary. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University
of California Press. Brazilian translation: Vida e palavras:
a violência e sua descida ao ordinário. Trad. Bruno Gamba-
rotto. Rev. técn. Adriana Vianna. São Paulo: Editora Uni-
fesp, 2020.
Das, Veena. (1995). Critical events: an anthropological pers-
pective on contemporary India. Delhi: Oxford University
Press.
Das, Veena et al. (eds.). (2001). Remaking a world: violence,
social suffering and recovery. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London:
University of California Press.
Das, Veena et al. (eds.). (2000 ). Violence and subjectivity.
Berkeley/Los Angeles /London: University of California
Press.
Didi-Huberman, Georges. (2012). Imagens apesar de tudo.
Trad. Vanessa Brito e João Pedro Cachopo. Lisboa: KKYM.
(Coleção Imago).
Fassin, Didier. (2004). La cause des victimes. Les temps
modernes, 59 /627, p. 73-91.
Freud, Sigmund. (2010) [1930]. O mal-estar na civilização.
In: Sigmund Freud. Obras completas. V. 18. Trad. Paulo César
de Souza. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, p. 13-122.
Gatti, Gabriel (ed.). (2017). Un mundo de víctimas. Barcelo-
na: Anthropos Editorial.
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839
840
841
842
844
“Almost nothing has changed,” “very little has changed,” “…the only thing I
stopped doing is travelling, the rest carries on as normal.” These were some of
the responses, somewhat surprising perhaps, given by many of the people in-
terviewed in our anthropological research, undertaken since July 2020, concern-
ing the impacts of the covid-19 pandemic on those legally classified as senior
citizens – that is, people over the age of 60. 1 The research focuses on relational
bonds and care infrastructures, seeking to increase the visibility of their expe-
riences, exploring an understanding of the pandemic that prioritizes the small,
everyday practices and actions that the health emergency elicits (Biehl & Pet-
ryna, 2013; Das, 2020a; Fleischer & Lima, 2020).
The interviewees’ idea that “almost nothing has changed” was initially
puzzling: after all, the pandemic seemed to interrupt and reorganise lives in
dramatic form. How should we understand their insistence on the persistence
of ways of life amid so many transformations? Analysing other parts of the
narratives of the people in the study, we saw that these initial phrases con-
trasted sharply with other narrative moments in which the subjects reported
the countless situations in which their everyday lives had been affected. Con-
versations included mention of the restrictions on mobility and strategic social
distancing, the introduction of new modes of personal protection, and diverse
emotional responses that ranged from indignation to resignation in reaction
to the coercive measures imposed to regulate behaviour. These measures were
targeted at the elderly in particular, given that this population was classified
as a preferential ‘risk group’ during the pandemic. 2
Rather than exploring the potential contradictions in the discourse of
the people collaborating in our research, or any supposedly distorted perception
or denial of immediate reality, we argue that the responses only appear to
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845
the covid-19 pandemic. The idea is to explore this ethnographic narrative not
because it represents processes generalizable to other research subjects but
because it is capable of evoking, through the singularity of the narratives in
question, a descent to the ordinary in which the infrastructures of domestic
care – practices sensitive to the details of everyday life – come to the surface,
revealing the emergence of an ordinary ethics (Das, 2015b). For this author, ordi-
nary ethics is not based on universal principles or moral values, but emerges
from the everyday experiences and real problems encountered by people in
their daily life, which is the space in which they engage with the life of others.
In this sense, ordinary ethics, rather than focusing on transcendental acts of
heroism or resistance, begins with the mundane and the everyday, making them
not just a source of ethics but also a space in which life can be reinhabited.
Taking this lead, we describe not just the efforts made to constitute an
everyday life in pandemic times but also three generations living in the same
home – one of the momentary strategies employed by the family during the
health emergency – gave visibility to broader aspects surrounding differences
in gender, age, race and class that permeate the everyday situated dynamics
of care in this family. 3 Accompanying the unfolding of the practical solutions
found by the people involved to respond to the dilemmas and challenges of
sharing lives in the context of a health emergency, we saw that these dynamics
developed in the domestic environment can be considered active infrastructures
in which forms of life are performed.
The concept of forms of life that we make use of here, accompanying Das
in her reading of Ludwig Wittgenstein and Stanley Cavell, is founded on the
idea that language and the world are internal to one another. Thus, one cannot
think of a form of life separate from language, more specifically from a language
game that emerges in practical situations of the everyday. Without venturing
more deeply into the theory of language in which the concepts of forms of life
and language games were coined and developed, we believe it is important to
reflect on how the language of the pandemic produces and signifies determined
forms of life, especially by delineating important contours for those configured
as ‘elderly,’ preferentially allocated as ‘risk groups.’ In the Wittgensteinian tra-
dition, learning a language – for example, the language of the pandemic – entails
far more than possessing knowledge of the names and sounds that designate
objects and situations. It also involves learning how to relate with these forms
of life. The following passage from Cavell (1999: 177-178) expounds on this point:
In ‘learning language’ you learn not merely what the names of things are, but
what a name is; not merely what the form of expression is for expressing a wish,
but what expressing a wish is; not merely what the word for ‘father’ is, but what
a father is; not merely what the word for ‘love’ is, but what love is. In learning
language, you do not merely learn the pronunciation of sounds, and their gram-
matical orders, but the ‘forms of life’ which make those sounds the words they
are, do what they do – e.g., name, call, point, express a wish or affection, indi-
cate a choice or an aversion, etc…
“almost nothing has changed”: ordinary ethics and forms of life in pandemic times
846
investigated during this period, but also in the pandemic itself, in terms of
forms of public communication, scientific evidence and the targeting of public
policies, transforming them into specific themes of inquiry in the semi-struc-
tured scripts produced to foment the research dialogues.
The same dynamic of methodological limitations, which are also op-
portunities for study, applies when we consider the fact that, due to the poten-
tial risk of viral transmission through co-presence in the same physical space,
the contacts between researchers and collaborators have been exclusively made
through video and/or audio on WhatsApp. Unable to accompany the everyday
practices of the houses and families in the way we would in classic ethno-
graphic research, we paid special attention during the interviews to the subjects’
particular forms of narrating the modes of perception, dilemmas and meanings
relating to the prescriptive moral discourses on health and prevention behav-
iours targeted at them, as well as the public controversies surrounding the
issue. In this case, these prescriptive moral discourses and the wider set of
public controversies are elements that provoked the interviewed people to
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rich in details on everyday family life, she told us about the new dynamics of
her work as a teacher of children aged from 8 to 9, which switched to remote
form. She also described the new routines for cleaning domestic space, as well
as the inclusion of her elderly mother and her son in the domestic unit. The
changes in the home routine due to their son’s return, which became apparent
in the interviews with Pedro and Marilene, introduced other elements to the
debate. This was why we decided it would be important to conduct an interview
with Daniel too.
Daniel told us about the return to his parents’ home at the end of his
doctorate, which coincided with the start of the pandemic, and the interruption
of his postdoctoral plan – and the scholarship he had won. As his grandmother
was also now living in his parents’ home, a move intended to provide her with
better protection against coronavirus and was staying in his own room, Daniel
occupied the guest room: “I didn’t want to return to my original bedroom and
disrupt grandma,” he told us in the interview. He said that he would have pre-
ferred not to live with his parents again, retaining his independence, especially
after the experience of living in another city and time spent in another country.
Nevertheless, Daniel believes that living with his parents in the same house has
been good and explains how the new routine unfolded and his decision that he
would consider it a “sabbatical year,” given that he would have to stay at home.
The references to his “grandma” (vó) and the conversations with her
surface at various moments of the interviews with the couple and their son.
Consequently, we thought it important for her to be heard too. We believed she
would have a lot to tell us and could contribute significantly to the research,
considering how she is a source of concern for the family, referred to sometimes
as a “stubborn” person who “doesn’t understand” and “sometimes plays up.”
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 843 – 867 , sep. – dec., 2021
However, our repeated requests to be presented to her were in vain. The fam-
ily said that she would be unable to reply to the questions due to what they
perceived to be her limited capacity for comprehension, given her “senility.”
Another person whose presence also appeared in the interviews was the
domestic worker, referred to as the empregada (housemaid), cuidadora (carer)
and secretária (secretary) of the grandmother, which is why we made various
attempts to talk to her. As well as being an important person in the family’s
relationship with the pandemic, she was the only member of this group of
conviviality – along with all the members of her own family – who became sick
with coronavirus. We thus asked Marilene to place us in contact with the do-
mestic worker but she refused the request. The restrictions imposed on direct
contact with the domestic worker and the grandmother tell us something about
the organisation of the family’s day-to-day relationships in this setting, as well
as the constitution of forms of life amid the pandemic’s language games. In the
arguments developed in this article, therefore, we focus on the narratives of
Pedro, Marilene and Daniel, produced at different moments, maintaining a de-
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849
gree of tension between narrative fragments taken from each of them but, si-
multaneously, highlighting the important role played by the domestic space in
interweaving their narratives.
…So I brought my mother here, on the 16th, 17th, mother came here, because she’s
83 years old and lives alone, a widow. Mother came here. She stayed until August
the 3rd, she practically stayed four and a half months with us, but afterwards
she couldn’t stand it anymore, because she came with the expectation of staying
for 15 days, a month at most. [But] the situation dragged on and she began to fall
into a depression and I saw that the situation was bad, she ended up moving
back to her own home.
This is how Marilene referred to one of the first – and most important
– changes to occur in her everyday life at the start of the pandemic. A few days
after the arrival of her mother, her son Daniel left the apartment he had been
renting in the state capital 5 and also moved back to his parents’ home. With a
few days, the house was sheltering four adults from three different generations.
The domestic space – the house – thus became a basic care infrastructure, un-
derstood as a practice “that includes everything that we do to maintain, con-
tinue and repair our world so that we can live in it in the best possible way”
(Tronto, 2015: 3).
In the case in question, it was concern over her mother’s “advanced age”
that persuaded Marilene to bring her to live in her own house, since “she’s
already at a senile age, she forgets many things…” Daniel also says that he
worries about “grandma” and believes that the “warning” he gave his parents
about the greater susceptibility of elderly people in the pandemic contributed
to the family’s decision to remove his grandmother from her apartment:
‘The risk group is elderly people’… I was immediately alarmed, ‘if they catch it,
they die.’ I said about grandma: ‘look, what’s grandma like there alone, someti-
mes she goes out, she goes to the supermarket alone, do you think she’ll take
precautions? Sometimes she can’t even see things properly, she forgets she has
to clean.’
850
However, the return to her apartment was not a simple process. From
the interviews it became clear that her move was the motive for a series of
family discussions and decisions that included others beyond the immediate
family, including Marilene’s sister, maids/carers, and even the neighbours of
the idosa (elderly woman). Soon after her return, the latter sent a “document”
to Marilene’s family, reporting a burning smell from the apartment. In the doc-
ument, they claimed that the idosa could not live alone and that the condo-
minium could issue a fine were this recommendation to be ignored.
The entrance of the neighbours into the family drama points to a fun-
damental dimension of care, namely the interpenetration of the public and
private spheres and their intrinsically political dimension. What appeared to
be the solution to a private, family problem, which responded to the express
wish of a person to return to her “home,” her “space,” is deconstituted as such
on being confronted by other social agents and a new context of power relations.
The neighbours’ interference precipitated the hiring of a domestic worker, but
the first woman hired stayed only for a short time in the job, having been sacked
by the idosa. The second person hired for the work remained for longer but, as
mentioned earlier, became sick with coronavirus.
According to Marilene, around two months after starting work in her
mother’s home, the domestic worker arrived one day wearing a mask because
she was coughing a lot. She recounted that her father and mother, with whom
she lived, both had a fever and she was worried that she had caught the virus
and might “transmit something to grandma.” Fortunately, “grandma” had not
been infected but the episode showed the complexity of the new condition in
which Marilene’s mother found herself. Her long-desired return to the apart-
ment and stay there was only possible with the hiring of a maid, an activity
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851
gender, race, age and class relations all operated in this ordinary domestic space
of Pedro and Marilene’s house and the home of Marilene’s mother, engendering
a series of new practices that produce houses as care infrastructures.
On the other hand, the dynamics between the ordinary and the extraor-
dinary also become evident. In the extraordinary time of the pandemic, the or-
dinary care relations continued to occur within the fabric of the already natural-
ized asymmetries of class, race and gender. Saying that care relations continued
to unfold in the extraordinary time does not mean, though, that there were no
modifications in the type or intensity of the tasks of maintaining life and well-
being. Marilene, for example, who describes herself as a highly organised person
with a “mania for cleaning,” refers to the intensified precautions taken with
everything entering from outside: the cleaning with water, soap, alcohol and in
some cases Qboa (bleach) of everything coming into the home, including the
soles of people’s footwear and the tyres of the car parked in a garage partially
integrated into the house, became a rule applied from the outset of the pan-
demic. Marilene emphasizes that everything put in the refrigerator – from the
plastic bread wrapper to each of the eggs removed from their packaging – is
carefully hygienized. She also tells us in detail about cleaning the house, done
by herself and Pedro, who she considers her partner in these activities.
The care taken with the production of the house is just one aspect of
the infrastructure of domestic care made evident by the pandemic. While her
mother was staying in their home, Marilene says that “the precautions were
redoubled.” This meant reducing the mobility of Daniel who could not go to the
gym to exercise, an activity that, he declared, was essential to his mental health.
Moving back to his parents’ house, the son brought, along with “a fully-equipped
apartment,” a number of pets: four rats and four tarantulas. Thus, Marilene’s
precautions in relation to her son and the pet animals also transformed the
culinary routine of the house. Marilene has to “make different meals” for Dan-
iel who does not eat red meat. As she herself describes: “I put a chicken [in the
oven];” “I make him… meat balls, or a stew, or gnocchi [using soy protein];” “I
go to the supermarket and make sure to buy a chicken sausage.” As can be per-
ceived through the verbs used, highlighted by us in italics, this care added a
series of activities to her already busy life. As well as preparing meals for her
son, Marilene also prepares the food for the rats, which she leaves in separate
pots for her son or husband to feed them.
The house itself also needed to pass through a series of dis-organisations
and re-organisations of its domestic spaces and times, as can be noted in the
following account:
So, I had to organise the guest bedroom for him and more of his stuff arrived. It
caused quite a stir, then, because I had to put things that had been carefully sto-
red there, I had to put them in my suitcase (…). So, it messed things up a bit, you
know? From time to time I become lost, as Pedro says: ‘how can you not know the
whereabouts of stuff in your own house?’ but no, with the move, these two people
arriving in the house, things changed a bit, you know?
“almost nothing has changed”: ordinary ethics and forms of life in pandemic times
852
structures, which come into existence via the different modes through which
we relate to them. The author undertook research in contexts very different
from the domestic. Nevertheless, anthropological studies, including the work
of Danholt & Langstrup (2012), Langstrup (2013) and Fietz (2020), have sug-
gested the pertinence of the referential framework of infrastructure for the
study of care. Danholt and Langstrup (2012) conceive care infrastructures as:
“the more or less embedded ‘tracks’ on which care may ‘run,’ shaping and being
shaped by actors and settings along the way” (Danholt & Langstrup, 2012: 515).
This definition accentuates both the relationality of infrastructures and their
processual character, which, as highlighted by Gupta’s examples (2018) too,
manifest the extent to which infrastructures are not static objects but pro-
cesses that require constant work, as in making and remaking the homes of
Marilene and Pedro, Daniel and Marilene’s mother.
Among the properties of the infrastructures identifiable in the domestic
context is their embeddedness: in other words, the infrastructure is interpen-
etrated by other structures, social arrangements and technologies, such that
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853
its coordinated parts are not perceptible separately. In the case of this family,
for example, the care that Marilene dispenses to her mother and to preparing
the feed for her son’s rats are not perceived as coordinated components of the
domestic infrastructure. They exist immersed in the social assemblage in which
she performs the specific gender role of mother.
Another property of infrastructures, according to Star (1999), is their
transparency: in other words, their presence is invisible in the support pro-
vided to specific tasks. In our study, this becomes clearly evident in the way in
which Marilene’s mother and son were accommodated in the household. It was
unnecessary to reinvent or assemble the house and the relations sustaining it
due to the particularity of the event since the couple and their home comprised
an invisible infrastructure that also integrated the extraordinary event into the
ordinariness of the quotidian tasks and dynamics. Furthermore, infrastructures
are naturalized by those participating in them; they are spatially and tempo-
rally encompassing; they are linked to conventions; they are constructed on an
already installed base, thereby inheriting both its strong points and its limita-
tions; and they only become visible when they fail.
It is the fact that infrastructures bear these properties – of being embed-
ded, transparent, naturalized, encompassing, reproducing conventional rela-
tions, and only becoming visible when they fail – that the task of analysing
them poses a major challenge. It is an essential task, though, the only one
compatible with Das’s proposal, taken up by us here, of revealing the detailed
work involved in making the everyday. It is through analysis of the latter that
we can understand the perception of the collaborators in this research that
“almost nothing changed.” The “extraordinariness” of the pandemic is a time/
space that co-exists in the ordinariness of the infrastructure, the interrelations
that sustain it, and the forms of life that populate it. These are interrelations
that, as we discuss below, are not grounded in an ethics contained in manuals
or in abstract moral principles, in part because, as Sandra Laugier (2016: 222)
suggests, “These contexts of extraordinary and ordinary life are governed by
relations that cannot be made even perceptible or visible through the orthodox
concepts of ethics (justice, impartiality, catalogue of duties, rational choice
etc.).” They are everyday care experiences guides by an ordinary ethics in the
space where lives become mutually entangled.
Life lived with other people: care relations and ordinary ethics
Through the narratives of Marilene, Pedro and Daniel, we were able to visualise
and comprehend a series of relations that have sustained the care infrastructure
during this “extraordinary” time. In this section, we wish to focus on two spe-
cific relations: Marilene’s relation with the school where she works, including
the students and their families, where the connection between ordinary ethics
and care becomes evident; and the relation between Daniel and his grand-
mother, where the tension between care and control comes to the fore.
“almost nothing has changed”: ordinary ethics and forms of life in pandemic times
854
Marilene, the school and children: teaching at a distance, affect and voice
Marilene has been a primary school teacher for 37 years. She explained to us
that she is retired but continues to work 20 hours a week because the school-
work brings her such satisfaction. She likes how children run to hug her when
they catch sight of her on the other side of the street. She describes the school
environment as pleasant and fun, emphasizing the day-to-day interactions
with work colleagues, the birthday celebrations and the various festivities held
throughout the year. These are the activities that she has most missed, she
says, since classes began to be taught remotely due to the pandemic. We turn
to her own narrative about how the work has unfolded since then:
Before I worked 20 [hours a week[. But with the pandemic, I’m working 40, be-
cause the work has doubled, you know?! So, assisting the children all happens
online, it’s very, like… you have to be there the whole time helping them, although
we send activities. Usually, I send an activity for them in the morning, because
some parents work in the afternoon, so, I like to do activities with the children,
help them in the morning. Others prefer the afternoon. So around eight, eight-
-thirty, I’m already sending an activity, I’m already on the computer. Then some
already reply to me around nine, nine and a bit, while others leave it until the
afternoon. So, I mean, I’m busy all day, you know!? Because I used to work in the
afternoon only, from one to five. Now, though, I work in the morning from eight
– not counting the numerous live streams, lots of conferences, which we have to
watch, which is demanded of us, right?! Partly because we too have to learn, you
have to keep uptodate. So that’s how it is, I spend all my time on the computer
and later, there’s no set time, right, because, given they are small children, they
frequently call you or want to contact you, more to hear your voice. It’s clear that
they are very needy of attention. Also, there are parents who work too and sin-
ce we want, you know, we don’t want to lose students, we sometimes reply to
parents at ten o’clock at night. You’re answering a parent, who has some doubt,
they’ve arrived from work, they had been unable to check the activity with the
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 843 – 867 , sep. – dec., 2021
child during the day, whether the child had some doubts, they didn’t want to
ask, nor the parent. So sometimes it’s ten o’clock at night and I’m still on the
computer, answer ing and marking work, it’s hard work, the situation is hard
work. But okay… and the children, me too, weekly I hold a virtual meeting with
them, you know?! Some of them have parents who work… sometimes, they only
have one mobile phone and the parents need to take the mobile with them, so
the child has no [internet] access, you feel sorr y for them… So, what do I do?
Sometimes, I hold a virtual meeting with two children and I hold one with a
g roup in the after noon and somet imes I hold [a meet ing] w ith t wo children
around eight in the evening, to work on what I’d been teaching earlier, you know,
because I’m not going to leave them out. So, when the parent arrives with the
mobile, allowing them to enter into contact. So, then, the situation is hard work,
but it’s okay, it’s fine.
855
by the school. She is also concerned with accommodating the different dynam-
ics, conditions and needs of her students and their families. Our attention is
drawn to the passages where she talks about the students wanting to “contact”
her. The narrative reveals an ethics that is not limited to an evaluation of the
good separate from ordinary practices but rather an ordinary ethics impossible
to be captured in a manual since it is more like a “spirit that infuses everyday
life” (Das, 2020b: 98).
The expressions of Marilene highlighted above are especially revealing
of an ethics that runs hand-in-hand with the work of care. As Laugier (2015)
suggests, this requires a reorientation towards vulnerability, a change from the
“just” to the “important.” Vulnerability here is conceived as a common feature
of the human form of life, which needs to be involved in care relations to survive.
Thus, there is nothing more ordinary than vulnerability – or as Laugier suggests,
it is vulnerability that defines the ordinary. In this sense, care can be conceived
as the protection of a form of life, especially in contexts where the everyday is
being destroyed.
Children, a form of life performed as “vulnerable” and “dependent,” are a
valorised life that “should not be left out,” being actively preserved through and
in relations of care. In actions guided by an ordinary ethics, the teacher Marilene
feels “sorry” for them and makes every effort to “not leave anyone out.” We
found particularly significant the passage in which she remarks that her stu-
dents frequently phone her to “hear the voice” of their teacher. It also seems
plausible that it may be precisely the opposite too: namely, the children call to
have their own voices heard.
Daniel and his grandmother: the tension between voice and silencing
From the beginning of the pandemic, Daniel displayed a great concern for his
grandmother. He was the one who warned his parents about the precautions
that needed to be taken and believes that this is what prompted his grand-
mother’s transfer to his parents’ house. At different moments of the interview,
he demonstrated his annoyance over his grandmother’s perceived “stubborn-
ness,” reflected not only in her behaviour prior to the pandemic but also in the
resistance that she displays to medications and to “caring for herself.” Marilene,
at a certain point in her interview, repeated Daniel’s interpretation of the rea-
son for his “grandma’s” resistance:
856
and she said ‘no, but for me bla-bla-bla’ and mother said ‘it’s no use discussing
it.’ You know when you want the best for someone but they have their own set
ideas? But there was no real conf lict, becoming annoyed, in the end we even see
the funny side…
uses emotional strategies to get what she wants. It is impossible to tell wheth-
er this negative perception of her already existed previously, but it can be de-
duced that the pandemic context impacted the perception of old age in gen-
eral, casting a specific kind of light on older people. As we discuss in the next
section, the public language games constituted during the pandemic have shaped
“the elderly person” as a form of life with childish characteristics and a reduced
intellectual capacity, someone who needs to be guided along the right path
and/or controlled (Schuch, Víctora & Siqueira, 2021).
Given this fact, one line of interpretation would be to compare the forms
of life of the “child” and the “elderly person,” which – despite being attributed
with similar traits, such as a limited capacity for comprehension, “neediness”
and “stubbornness” – are treated differently. The children in Marilene’s story
suffer from being “very needy,” worthy of “pity,” which authorizes them to call
her at any hour to hear their teacher’s voice or for their voice to be heard by
her. The “elderly woman,” in Daniel’s case, is depicted as someone who en-
gages in a “psychological game” and, despite having her voice reproduced in
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857
A life with the other, as Michael Jackson (1998 ) notes, consists of a myriad of
minor moments of shared happiness and sympathetic sorrow, of affection and
disaffection, of coming together and moving apart, so that what emerges is far
from a synthesis to which one can assign a name or pin down as something one
can know (Das, 2018: 541).
What we wish to convey through this idea is that Daniel’s small acts of
warning his parents about the risks “for the elderly” who “if they catch it, die,”
as well as staying in the guest bedroom so as not to dislodge his grandmother
and avoiding trips to the gym while living in the same house as her, while si-
multaneously trying numerous times to explain the situation to his grand-
mother, who “seems like she doesn’t understand,” is less a deliberate attempt
to disqualify the “elderly” and more a simple expression of “living life with the
other” – as “a myriad of minor moments” to which one cannot assign a name
or define something one can know.
Trying to comprehend these dynamics of “living life with the other” is
also to pay attention to an unstabilized history, a history of transformations
not susceptible to major totalizations or polarizations (Biehl & Locke, 2017) –
such as, for instance, the contrast between care and control – maintaining our
“almost nothing has changed”: ordinary ethics and forms of life in pandemic times
858
focus on the tensions inevitably involved in the small ordinary ethical decisions
that become juxtaposed in the open temporalities of situated cartographies,
inhabited by people in their relations of interdependence lived in equally trans-
formable worlds.
others that draw a parallel with the carrocinhas de cachorro, dog impounder trucks,
to be used to abduct idosos who might wander into the street – work to construct
a dependent form of life (the veio, “old codger”) that requires the same type of
control as animals or children, supposedly without consciousness or control
of their actions. This lack of control is seen to justify the violence expressed by
the image of the containment pens and the slipper used to punish supposed
disobediences. These humorous memes, jokes and videos are not, as some might
suggest, ways of coping with the difficulties imposed by the pandemic through
humour – “laughing so as not to cry.” On the contrary, they compose a politics
of moral constraint that works in conjunction with policies regulating and re-
stricting behaviour aimed specifically at the elderly population (Schuch, Víctora
& Siqueira, 2021).
We should stress that we are not claiming that a widespread consensus
exists surrounding this concept, or object, of the idoso in the performance of the
veio. Our purpose here is to show how the very disputes and tensions that emerge
around the term contribute to shaping a form of life entangled in what we could
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859
call pandemic language games. Here is seems appropriate to recover two aspects
of Cavell’s thought highlighted by Das (2020b), which we shall discuss briefly
given their relevance to the ethnographic case explored in this article. The first
is that there are two dimensions to forms of life, one horizontal (or ethnological)
and the other vertical (or biological). The second is that forms of life contain
within themselves forms of death.
Referring to these two dimensions, Cavell suggests that in the horizontal
direction – with an emphasis on form – one can grasp the notion of human di-
versity, in other words, the ways in which forms of life vary among different so-
cieties (as an example, he refers to institutions like marriage and inheritance as
socially variable forms of life). In the vertical direction – with an emphasis on life
– we encounter linguistic distinctions between “superior” and “inferior” forms of
life (his examples are picking at food with a fork or grabbing and pecking it with
claws or beaks). In other words, it is in the vertical dimension of forms of life
that “marks the limit of what is considered human in a society and provides the
conditions of the use of criteria as applied to others” (Das, 2020b: 41).
Albeit while running the risk of eroding the meaning attributed to the
two dimensions by Cavell, it seemed to us productive to reflect on the construc-
tion of idosos (the elderly) as a form of life in the context of the pandemic in these
two senses. In the horizontal dimension, with its emphasis on form, its meaning
and importance have proven variable and disputed in different times and spac-
es. Among other forms, idosos may be respected as wise elders or as guardians
of a people’s memory, or they may be incorporated as essentially vulnerable and
fragile, deserving of care. In the vertical dimension, which hierarchizes the lives
of forms of life, we can perceive two languages disputing with one another: one
relating to the autonomy and independence constructed, for instance, in the
policy of active aging in which “superior” lives are situated. 6 This language pro-
vides the criteria that will be applied to other “inferior” forms of life, such as, for
example, the form to which the veios (oldies) pertain in the pandemic language
games. The veios are dependent forms of life, with childish and “stubborn” char-
acteristics, devoid of rationally and, therefore, similar to animals to be kept in
“cages” or taken away by the “dog truck.”
Given this, the second aspect raised by Cavell and Das (2020b) is extreme-
ly pertinent, namely that forms of life contain within themselves forms of death
that are produced in everyday life itself. More precisely, because forms of life and
forms of death are engulfed in one another, we need to pay attention to the dis-
putes and tensions between the consensuses on forms of life, which are much
more unstable and complicated than they may first appear.
Final Considerations
In this article we argue that the pandemic caused by the new coronavirus is
constituted as an extraordinary time in which ordinary life is nourished through
“almost nothing has changed”: ordinary ethics and forms of life in pandemic times
860
work and relations shaped as care practices that sustain life. These care prac-
tices, as part of the ordinariness of the domestic, are, like the latter, invisible
and most of the time pass unnoticed. As Laugier (2016: 208) emphasizes, to
comprehend the importance of care, it is essential, above all, to recognise the
vulnerability of forms of life. It is through their analysis that we can understand
the perception of the collaborators of this research that “almost nothing
changed.” Here the “extraordinary” of the pandemic emerges as a time/space
that coexists in the ordinariness of the infrastructure and interrelations that
sustain it and the forms of life that populate it.
This in mind, we can probe our research question in more depth and ask
not only about the alterations provoked by the pandemic but also how much
and in what ways the pandemic and – as Das (2015b: 114) puts it – “living with
the fragility, vulnerability, joys, and sorrows that everyday life entails might
reveal the contours of our ethical lives”.
Through the analysis of the narratives of a white middle-class family
living in southern Brazil, based around the everyday life of their family relations
during the covid-19 pandemic, we have seen how the pandemic allowed three
different generations to live together, producing the reorganisation of a quotid-
ian based on a “life lived with others” between Marilene, Pedro, Daniel, his
grandmother and the domestic workers, also involving neighbourhood relations,
as well as temporary and contingent arrangements and rearrangements of the
homes as care infrastructures. In the overlapping of such relations, we can
perceive processes of family interdependences and neighbourhood relations
that are forms of support in which the subjects develop and negotiate their
capacities to continue, repair and live the world in the best form possible.
Marilene’s perception that “the situation is hard work, but it’s okay, it’s
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 843 – 867 , sep. – dec., 2021
fine” reveals the house as a care infrastructure and shows how these care rela-
tions are gendered, while simultaneously revealing the entanglement between
the extraordinary of the pandemic and the ordinary of everyday life, which
remakes itself continuously, incorporating the event into the reproduction of
the quotidian. As Marilene said: “The situation is hard work” in terms of the
care needed with the production of the house, since the latter was made and
remade following the arrival of her elderly mother, the son with his “fully-
equipped apartment” – including rats and tarantulas – as well as the increase
in her work as a teacher of primary school children, conducted online via com-
puter and mobile phone. To the extent that these care infrastructures are trans-
parent, naturalized and encompassing, they reproduce conventional relations
such as the gendering of care work – constant work that is perceived as “okay,”
“fine,” naturalizing a perception that, despite being “hard work” during the pan-
demic, this new context “changed almost nothing” in terms of day-to-day life.
Approaching care as a practical activity sensitive to the details of eve-
ryday life, we underline the pertinence of the notion of an ordinary ethics devel-
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861
oped by Veena Das, based not on universal principles or moral values but setting
out from the real experiences and problems of people in their everyday life. By
including these dimensions in our comprehension of the dynamics present in
the family narratives, we can perceive the invisible and invisibilized work of
maintaining ordinary life and how the focus on three generations living to-
gether in the same home, one of the temporary strategies used by the family
in the setting of the health emergency provoked by the pandemic, was able to
reveal the entanglements between the ordinary and the extraordinary. At the
same time, these relations made visible broader aspects surrounding differen-
tiations of gender, age, race and class that traversed care relations, while also
allowing us to comprehend how such relations developed in the domestic en-
vironment are active devices in which forms of life are constituted. Inspired by
Veena Das’s ideas, we argue for the connection between ordinary ethics and forms
of life, emphasizing how domestic space is not just a fundamental care structure
in the Brazilian scenario of social and political vulnerability, but also an active
element in which forms of life acquire form and life.
862
863
notes
1 This work results from the project “Covid-19 in Brazil:
analysis and response to the social impacts of the pan-
demic among health professionals and the isolated popu-
lation” (Ag reement Ref.: 0464 /20 Finep /UFRGS). The re-
search is developed by the Covid-19 MCTI Humanities
Network and forms part of the set of actions of the MCTI
Virus Network financed by the Ministry of Science, Tech-
nology and Innovations (MCTI) to confront the pandemic.
The research with senior citizens is being conducted by
a broader team of researchers who we thank for their col-
laboration: Caroline Sarmento, Cauê Machado, Fernanda
Rifiotis, Lauren Rodrigues, Mariana Picolotto, Pamela Ri-
beiro, Roberta Ballejo and Taciane Jeske.
2 On this topic, see Beltrão (2020), Dourado (2020), Debert
& Félix (2020) and Schuch, Víctora & Siqueira (2021).
3 As the literature on care highlights and our article helps
elucidate, care relations are politically situated and, in
this sense, marked by class, gender, race and ableism. In
Brazil, the importance of the house as a care infrastruc-
ture and its class, gender and race/colour differentiations
have been foregrounded by a recent anthropological lite-
rature, with which we dialog ue here, emphasizing the
situationality of the forms in which care appears here in
the context of this white middle-class family from sou-
thern Brazil. In terms of the dynamics of care among po-
pular (low-income) groups, the field of studies on disabi-
lities has been proven a fertile source of insights. See,
among other examples, the work of the researchers Aydos
& Fietz, 2017; Fietz, 2017, 2020; Fonseca & Fietz, 2018; and
Engel, 2013, 2017.
4 Another methodological reference here is the research of
Fleischer, Lima and collaborators, who accompanied fa-
milies with children with microcephaly caused by the
Zika virus through half-yearly contacts over a four-year
period (Fleischer & Lima, 2020).
5 Porto Aleg re, the capital of Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil’s
southernmost state.
6 “Active aging” argues for the responsibility of older peo-
ple to remain active and healthy for as long as possible,
“almost nothing has changed”: ordinary ethics and forms of life in pandemic times
864
References
865
866
867
Camila Pierobon I
The hospitalization
Relationships require a repeated attention to
the most ordinary of objects and events (Das, 2007: 6-7)
2012) she had gone through: dona Carmen, her mother, had been admitted two
days previously into the emergency ward of a public hospital in Rio de Janeiro
city. The diagnosis was pneumonia. At the moment when we talked, she had
spent more than 30 hours standing next to her mother, alternating with a few
hours sat in the hospital’s visitor hall. Aged 84, blind, with no teeth, partially
deaf, with advanced Alzheimer’s, a tumour in the kidneys and difficulties mov-
ing about, dona Carmen required constant daily care and her daughter pro-
vided it with maximum dedication (Pierobon, forthcoming). In 2017 it had been
four years since Leonor brought her mother to live with her in the popular
housing occupation where she lived, making herself the sole provider of the
“caring acts” (Kleinman, 2015) that assured dona Carmen’s life. In her view, her
brothers had abandoned their mother and found it convenient that she performed
this function alone. When dona Carmen developed coughing and a fever, Leonor
sent messages her brothers on her mobile phone, advising them about the state
of their mother’s health. Leonor complained to me that none of them had re-
plied. The lack of any reply from her brothers and dona Carmen’s worsening
family betrayals: the textures of kinship
870
health led Leonor to decide to take her mother to the hospital without telling
them about the admission.
The decision not to inform her brothers had consequences for Leonor.
With one nurse for every 30 patients, it was obvious to the daughter that dona
Carmen would not receive the care necessary for her recovery and that she
would need a full-time companion. But the emergency ward had no space for
companions. This explained why there were no chairs, beds or any other fa-
cilities that could provide some comfort. Sixty years old and suffering various
health problems herself, Leonor was exhausted and told me that she felt she
would never recover from the nights she spent on her feet in the chilly hospi-
tal. Faced with this situation, Leonor lived a moral dilemma that was embedded
in her “ethics of care” (Laugier, 2015). She wanted the presence of her younger
brother, Cleber, to share the care of their mother and to be able to rest; and she
rejected his presence because in everyday life the spectre of the brother left
her feeling uneasy. Cleber, though, was told about the admission and went to
the hospital. Silvio, Leonor’s son and neighbour, had called his uncle and passed
on the information. The reader may ask where Silvio was when his mother and
grandmother needed help. But Leonor and Silvio had fought and not spoken
for days. Leonor threatened to report her son to the police since he had pun-
ished his small daughter, Leonor’s granddaughter, leaving bruises on her leg.
Silvio did not offer to help his mother and she was determined not to ask her
son for help.
But Leonor could not bear any more. When she met up with Cleber, she
convinced him to take her place that night, staying at hospital and caring for
dona Carmen. Leonor left the hospital close to ten o’clock at night. There was
torrential rain. The streetlights had blacked out and no buses were running.
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 869 – 890 , sep. – dec., 2021
Without money for a taxi, Leonor walked for 20 minutes to the building where
she lived and walked up the three flights of stairs that led to her home. She
began to feel sharp pains in her bowel. She moved from the toilet to the show-
er and let the hot water fall over her body. Leonor had another two brothers
living in distant cities. While she tried to take a hot shower, they called her
nonstop for news of their mother. In the interval between one phone call and
the next, Leonor received messages on her mobile accusing her of deliberately
not wanting to answer. Leonor narrated to me that when answering the call
from her older brother, she said the following to him:
Have you no humanity? I spent the whole night on my feet and I’m 60 years old.
I spent day and night with back pain and breaking my neck. Do you know what
it is like to sleep breaking your neck? I just want to have a shower in peace, can’t
I even do that? I deserve to stand under a shower.
After venting her frustration, Leonor and her brother talked and she
went to lie down, but the cramp in her legs kept her awake. Just as she was
falling asleep finally, her youngest son, Vitor, arrived from work selling drugs,
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871
switched on the light of the one-room home and made something to eat. An-
noyed with the ‘big light’ blinding her, Leonor asked her son if he felt no pity for his
mother, given she had spent two days on her feet in hospital. But he remained
silent, finished making his meal and then switched off the light. To conclude
her story of what had happened, Leonor told me she knew her son did not pity
her, he had no humanity either. She added that this lack of humanity was like a
bomb placed inside her body that would detonate and explode inside her. Leonor
concluded by saying that it was impossible for her siblings and child to have
humanity because her genealogical tree was terrible and horrible. Although she
strove to change this family lineage, she could not keep harbouring the illusion that
apples can grow from banana trees.
Introduction 2
At an initial level, the critical moment (Han, 2012) lived by Leonor appears to
encompass the caring relations that the daughter dedicates to her old and sick
mother (Woodward, 2012); the rendering invisible and silencing of the endeav-
ours made by women to ensure life continues (Blanc, Laugier & Molinier, 2020,
Laugier, 2015); the accusations of abandonment by other family members (Fer-
nandes, 2017, Biehl, 2005); or the difficulties of providing care amid precarious
living conditions (Fonseca & Fietz, 2018, Han, 2015a, 2015b). Exploring these
questions entails confronting the social, economic and political problems re-
peatedly found in the everyday lives of thousands of women in Brazil and else-
where. The fact is that the words enunciated by Leonor meant her “life [was]
taken as a whole” (Das, 2018). Although these words are elusive in nature, we
shall see how her life history is embedded in this moment. I am aware that the
issue of care is present in the situation being described. However, I shall bypass
this question to concentrate on the “kinship genealogies” elaborated by Leonor
and on the “betrayals” that meant “inhumanity” was inscribed in members of
her family.
In her book Life and words: violence and the descent into the ordinary, Veena
Das (2007: 10) writes that the “relationships betrayed made up the aesthetic of
kinship.” I set out from this observation to examine the histories of family
betrayals entangled in Leonor’s daily life and that form the textures of her
relationship to the world. Put otherwise, I describe how the pain of a son’s death,
sibling conflicts and forms of remaking the self so as to reinhabit and renarrate
events are embedded in existing relationships and go beyond family relations. 3
Following the path trailed by Das, I propose to think about family betrayals,
sibling conflicts and the death of a son not as spectacular events but as threads
in the weave of life. These betrayals enter the everyday as never-forgotten ex-
periences and become expressed in the most ordinary situations. I argue that
the death of Leonor’s son inhabits the family relationships and is infused in
her everyday ethical choices (Das, 2007, 2012, 2018, 2020).
family betrayals: the textures of kinship
872
873
tures of daily life and the trust that small events can transform into great
horrors (Das & Pathak, 2018).
In this text I establish a dialogue with the thought of Veena Das, espe-
cially with her discussions of betrayals, sibling conflict and family deaths. I
have also chosen to invoke authors with whom Das dialogues or the reverse,
authors who dialogue with her on the themes proposed here. In the process of
reading Veena Das’s work to write this article, I gradually incorporated her way
of seeing the world, such that Das’s vocabulary became constitutive of my own
thoughts and writing. This does not signify a passive appropriation of Das’s
concepts. As she herself teaches us, anthropology is not a community for shar-
ing concepts that, very often, may blind us to what is before our eyes. Rather,
anthropology is a profound engagement in everyday life, in forms of being to-
gether with others and in the work of making the ordinary appear (Das, 2020).
During fieldwork, my day-to-day life slowly became infused by Leonor’s
life and by Das’s words. Before proceeding further, I shall let the reader savour
the beauty of the words chosen by Mariana Ferreira (2015: 163) to present her
understanding of the word embed (or embeber in free translation into Portu-
guese) in Veena Das’s work.
Genealogy of distrust
It was in 2013 when Leonor and I took our first steps towards the friendship
that we still maintain today. The path passed through terrains that I had never
imagined walking. We had already exchanged some words in previous years.
But Leonor saw me as someone to distrust and I had no idea of the potency of
this gesture.
I began to frequent the popular housing occupation where Leonor lives
in 2010. At the time, I worked as Patrícia Birman’s research assistant and was
following the paths trailed by Adriana Fernandes. Recently arrived in the city
of Rio de Janeiro, I learnt from them how to walk through the streets of Central
do Brasil and take in the wealth of life that exists in the historically working-
family betrayals: the textures of kinship
874
class district. Through them, I met some of the people who lived in the region’s
housing occupations and little-by-little I entered the network of relations as a
supporter of the popular housing movements. It took me some time to realize
that my connection to people classified as “activists” generated distrust and
delimited my position. My middle-class university background amplified the
suspicions that the residents of the occupation felt in relation to me, stemming
from previous experiences with other “activists” like “me” (see Fernandes, 2020).
But a local critical event (Das, 1995) changed the courses of this history.
In 2013, the occupation where Leonor lived had just recently obtained
official regularization of the property after nine years of hard campaigning. But
in May of the same year, the building was invaded by members of the drug
faction dominant in the region. The possibility of reliving experiences of sub-
missions and humiliations, and the anticipation of living under the daily threat
of death, brought together those whose relations had been eroded by the tough
battle involved in maintaining everyday life in a popular occupation (see Bir-
man & Pierobon, 2021; Pierobon, 2021, 2018; Fernandes, 2020; Birman, Fernandes
& Pierobon, 2014).
Leonor’s home was one of the places where residents and activists would
meet to devise strategies to remove the drug traffickers from the locality. As
she narrated to me, it was the first time that she had opened her home to so
many unknown people. After the first meeting was over, I accepted her invita-
tion for a coffee and remained there. In a far from warm conversation, Leonor
told me the following:
I don’t trust anyone; I was born suspicious. But also shit happened in my home.
My father went after my older sister and said that I would be the next. At that
time, I slept with a knife under my pillow. Later, my older sister had an affair
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 869 – 890 , sep. – dec., 2021
with my husband while I was pregnant with my first child. I didn’t like him but
doing that to me was nasty. I was 17 years old and still had girlish dreams. My
brother beat my mother. He also ordered my oldest son to be killed after he re-
ceived notice of the police report I had filed against him. My son was 24 years
old when he fell from the rocks at Arpoador [on the Rio coastline]. He left behind
two children. I found his body twenty days later there in Niterói, his head was
full of shrimps. I learnt to distrust inside my home, which is why I don’t trust
anyone. The place that was supposed to protect me was where I was most harmed.
You can try, Camila, but I’ll always expect you to deceive me.
Leonor’s words froze me and left me unable to respond. If her own fam-
ily was the place where she had been most harmed, how could I, a young woman
of 30 at the time, be able to assure her a relation based on trust? How could
someone from a family that protected its children from conflicts between kin
absorb those words? At that moment, I turned to the teachings of Veena Das
(2007: 39) when she says: “I cannot claim to know the pain of the other.” Even
though Leonor had shown me why she harboured such distrust, this does not
mean that I could comprehend her. Sat in a chair in Leonor’s home, I experi-
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875
enced the feeling of being lost in the anthropological experience (Das, 2020: 30).
I fell silent and thought about how to leave her home. And that is what I did.
But Leonor’s words bothered me and something drove me to confront this uni-
verse. Indeed, I did not know what awaited me. “If I come to doubt such things
as my relations to my parents, the fidelity of our love, or the loyalty of my
children, these are doubts that put my world in jeopardy” (Das, 2007: 4).
A world in jeopardy! Leonor’s remarks bind kinship to the series of fam-
ily betrayals that occurred at different moments of her life. As Veena Das teach-
es us, certain experiences of pain are never over and can suddenly invade the
present. We are not dealing here with a specific event, but with the accumula-
tion, repetition and overlapping of events that occurred in different phases of
her life. Childhood, adolescence and adult life, the multiple durations of the
past are entangled with the present situation. Her father’s threats, her sister’s
disloyalty, her brother’s violence and her mother’s complicity do not convey
the feeling of being past – on the contrary, they form the very textures of her
relation to the world. Hurt, pain and disappointment accumulated, overlapped
and remained in everyday life bound to her sense of kinship. But Leonor’s words
do not refer to the past only; they also project the future of a friendship that
was beginning. The family betrayals functioned as an armour for her to relate
to the unknown in which she expects deception and disappointment.
As the years passed, I understood that Leonor’s words were the public
face of the fractures in her family relations, something that she enunciated,
even to someone she distrusted. A “grief was objectified in the form of a portrait”
(Das, 2007: 49), a wound exposed to show too her strength. Words that, even
when frozen, still retain the poison of the relations betrayed and the potency
of the painful reconstruction of the self. The logic of family betrayals penetrates
Leonor’s thought and forges her ethical relation to the world. Leonor’s kinship
genealogy is in the textures of the forms with which she presents herself to
others and weaves herself among the possibilities of inhabiting life. As Veena
Das demonstrates, families are not merely an institution of surveillance and
regulation, nor do they operate only in the key of ambivalence. Family is the
place where the world can be corroded (Das, 2018).
In the same year, 2013, another important change occurred in Leonor’s
life: she fetched her mother to live with her. I had been frequenting Leonor’s
house for six months and I accompanied this process first-hand. Dona Carmen
arrived anaemic with nits and lice and a lot of back pain. Leonor accused her
brother of mistreating her mother, including physical assaults. With dona Car-
men’s arrival in her home, Leonor began to dedicate her own life to prolonging
her mother’s, but this is another conversation (see Pierobon, forthcoming). At
that moment, the first steps to inhabiting life with Leonor had been taken and
I began to enter the painful terrain of family betrayals and the multiple emo-
tions implicated in these events. With Leonor and Das I comprehended that
family betrayals: the textures of kinship
876
devastation is not something that comes from outside but occurs with the
people close to us with whom we inhabit the world. We can note that these
betrayals did not lead to a rupture with the family members concerned. There
is a continuity and sustaining of relations, even with those who hurt Leonor.
Thus, the memories of family betrayals can be read as a testimony to the in-
stability of kinship (Das & Leonard, 2007) and also its assiduity.
What is the relation between the elaborate managing and staging of narratives
that speak of violence, betrayal, and distrust within the networks of kinship and
the thick curtain of silence pointing to an absconding presence? (Das, 2007: 80)
With Veena Das’s question, I turn to one of the most difficult experi-
ences lived through by Leonor, the premature death of her oldest son, but show-
ing how different narratives of this death were transmitted with the gradual
development of intimacy. I learnt from Veena Das (2012: 134, original italics)
that anthropology is a form of “cultivation of sensibilities within the everyday.”
With each story that I heard, the frozen narrative dissipated and I was able to
perceive how family betrayals form the textures of Leonor’s everyday life. Little-
by-little, I understood that creating relations of trust in a life marked by distrust
and deception made it impossible for me to leave. For Veena Das, the ethical
commitment to the people with who we inhabit life is indispensable, not only
for us to be able to descend to the ordinary but, especially, for us to offer a
home for the other’s pain.
mourning rituals, Leonor travelled from São Paulo to Rio de Janeiro. At the wake,
she had to deal with a difficult situation: the sight of her sister Laura crying
next to the coffin alongside dona Moema, the woman with whom Leonor’s
father had made a second family. Leonor told me she did not understand how
these three women could cry together over a man who had done them so much
harm. At the wake, she marked her position by refusing to greet her father’s
second wife and the children of the couple whom she classified as theirs. When
the wake was over, dona Carmen and her children went to the family’s home.
The ‘home’ was formed by a central house and two smaller houses at the back.
Leonor decided not to return to São Paulo and stayed in one of these small
houses. After the first few months, Leonor’s children came to live with her.
Cleber, though, had other plans for the houses at the rear of the plot. As
far as he was concerned, they belonged to him! Cleber began to charge Leonor
rent but she refused to accept her brother’s demand. In Leonor’s view, the
houses were the inheritance left by their father. Since he had four children with
dona Carmen, the houses obviously belonged to all the couple’s children. Thus,
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if Cleber lived in one of the houses, she reasoned that she too could live there.
If Cleber’s children lived there without paying rent, Leonor’s children could
also live there without paying rent. During this conflict over the house, Glau-
ber, Leonor’s oldest son, began to confront the orders and threats issued by his
uncle, defending his mother and challenging the family hierarchy. To these
confrontations were added the gossip that spread through the neighbourhood,
the insults, the slapping and shoving, and the threats between siblings, cousins
and uncles that, as time passed, acquired more violent dimensions. Cleber knew
some dangerous people in the district and the neighbours warned Leonor to
watch out for her sons. After being threatened by a police officer known to like
killing minors, Vitor, Leonor’s youngest son, thought it wiser to return to live
with his father in São Paulo. But there was one last fight. In it, Cleber beat Leonor
until she was almost dead. Leonor reported her brother to the police and left the
house. She and her children received help from a female friend from the Baptist
Church and began to live as a favour in this friend’s home.
There was another complication. When Leonor first went to Rio de Ja-
neiro with the children, they had needed to earn some money. With no knowl-
edge of the city, Glauber followed in his uncle’s footsteps and began to sell food
on Ipanema beach, savoury snacks and sandwiches that Leonor made in her
home in the West Zone. As time passed, the dispute over the sales patch deep-
ened the family conflicts. One day, Glauber left early for work but the person
who arrived at night in Leonor’s home was her sister-in-law Rosana. As soon
as she saw her, Leonor felt that something bad had happened to her son. Leonor
told me that she immediately began crying and shouting at Rosana, saying:
what have you done to my son? Leonor’s bad feeling attributed responsibility to
her sister-in-law and brother for Glauber’s fall from the rocks of Arpoador into
the sea. When narrating her son’s death to me, just when we were beginning
to develop a relation of trust, Leonor used the word “fall”, but she always left
in the air the possibility that her sister-in-law or brother had pushed him.
Glauber disappeared into the sea. His decomposing body was found on a
beach of the neighbouring city, Niterói, 20 days later and was identified by his
mother. How could Leonor live in the same place after Glauber’s death? How
could Leonor live with relatives who she suspected of killing her oldest son?
Here we are faced with a conflictual relationship between siblings recognized
as co-heirs (Das, 2007: 67). 4 As Lambek (2011) remarks, the relation between
siblings is central to our understanding of kinship. Here, the conflicts between
siblings become inscribed in the shadow of two deaths and the inheritance of a
house. The fights over the inheritance of the house were embedded in the con-
tinuum of family betrayals and led Leonor to suspect that her brother and sister-
in-law killed her son. As we know, the “house” is a central element in social life
and in the configurations of kinship (Carsten, 2018; Motta, 2020).5 The battle for
the house and the sibling rivalry instigated a deadly tension between those who
considered themselves the legitimate heirs of the dead father.
family betrayals: the textures of kinship
878
Day after day, I made myself present in the small routines and rhythms of
Leonor’s daily life. For years I visited her home regularly and spoke to her almost
daily by telephone. I was with her on birthdays, at restaurants, and during
visits to the homes of her friends, children and “the house” where Cleber and
his family lived. I accompanied Leonor on the occasions when she or her moth-
er were admitted to hospital or went to consult health professionals. I attend-
ed assemblies in the occupation where she lived and took part with her in
meetings at different public bodies to press for solutions to housing problems.
Open to the exercise of critical patience proposed by Veena Das (2015a),
I turned my attention to the moments when the death of her oldest son surfaced
in daily life. Waiting for and listening to the fragments of this experience in
the moments when Leonor evoked it and the form in which she chose to nar-
rate it to me – rather than me asking the direct question “what happened” and
being content with a single reply – meant that this death inhabited our rela-
tionship, weaving bonds of trust. Slowly over time, I ceased being the activist,
university-trained, middle-class and indeed secular outsider and became Le-
onor’s friend and confidant. As a friend, various religious and spiritual experi-
ences emerged and her son’s death acquired other dimensions. In this move-
ment, I argue that histories of resentment, pain and suffering have their own
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 869 – 890 , sep. – dec., 2021
singular aesthetic when shared. Following the decision to stay, the option to
not leave Leonor’s life, I took in her histories and absorbed the depth of her
pain. She narrated her son’s death to me various times. On one of my visits to
her home, about two years after the previous narrative, Leonor narrated the
death of Glauber to me in a way quite different from the accounts I presented
above. It is this renarration of her son’s death that I present now.
After ensuring that Glauber was buried, Leonor told me that she entered
a state of deep depression, I spent a year depressed, I could not act or do anything.
When she eventually managed to get out of bed, the first thing Leonor did was
to move from the neighbourhood where she lived to the popular occupation
where I met her. “When a child dies, life’s projects had to be reformulated” (Das,
2007: 73). Although the death of the child breaks apart the present, death could
not collapse the future. It was necessary to “absorb the residues, the poisons
of untimely deaths, in a way that they might protect future generations” (Das,
2007: 235). The hope of a possible future is central to making life habitable.
Weaving a habitable everyday life for oneself and others forged an ethics, not
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someone who should have been helping take care of his mother but vanished
whenever the situation became difficult. In one of the conversations, I asked
Leonor whether she had asked her brother about the spiritual works that had
taken Glauber. Her answer was no! She had never spoken to Cleber or any oth-
er relative about the matter. For Leonor, this conversation was unnecessary, not
just because the santos (religious entities) were not tricking her, but because
such betrayals were a hallmark of her family and were within the realms of the
possible. Her father had maintained sexual relations with her older sister, which
produced a child; this same sister had relations with Leonor’s husband pre-
cisely when she was pregnant with Glauber; Cleber used to beat dona Carmen
and the son had pointed a gun at his mother. It is within this continuum of
betrayals by family members and so many others that the death of her son is
embedded. We are presented here by a context that absorbs and exceeds the
conflicts over inheritance of the house and leads Leonor to accuse her brother
of having ordered the killing of her son. Although the accusation of her son’s
killing cannot be enunciated and shared directly with the family, it inhabits
Leonor’s relationships to her mother, siblings, nephews, nieces and children,
as well as the friendship that she established with me.
But I do know the difference in the aesthetics of kinship in this kind of world
between trusting your words to the care of the concrete others with whom you
have shared this kind of past, this kind of laughter, these kinds of tears, and re-
leasing it to a public that might mutilate your words by treating them as if they
were just like other objects in the world (Das, 2018: 544, original italics).
In evoking this passage from Veena Das, I wish to reflect on the impor-
tance of comprehending Leonor’s aesthetic choices when narrating her son’s
death to me during different moments of our friendship. After reading the
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Glauber “fell” into the sea, she showed me this death as a “good death”: public,
shouted, lamented, wept over and shared, even with those who she silently
accuses of being responsible for it. At the same time, she lives this death as a
‘bad death,’ embedded in the certainty of family betrayal, deeply infused in her
own subjectivity, not publicly shared but present in the silences and intimacy
of relations. Here it is the ritual and public dimension that distinguishes the
good death from the bad death. And what maintains death as bad is the absence
of support from kin (Das, 2007: 51). Public and private deaths are distinct forms
of acting out the same event. But Leonor’s condition is even more sensitive; she
inhabits the zone that exists between these two deaths and the transition
between them does not occur in simple form.
When death is seen as caused by the wilful actions of others, then a great tension
prevails as to what definition of the situation will come to prevail through the
control of mourning laments (Das, 2007: 51-52).
ber is not over and continues to act in the present. Thus, inhabiting the zone
between two deaths assured the reconstruction of life, ensured the passage of
her son from this life to another plane, and maintained the event alive in the
day-to-day. Living in the incessant slippage between a good and bad death made
it possible for Leonor to reinhabit the world, even if the weaving is made from
corroded threads.
The death of her firstborn shattered Leonor’s life as she had conceived
it until that moment, making the present unbearable and impossible to carry
on living within. Leonor was unable to go back to inhabiting the same space.
She left her home, the neighbourhood where she lived, for the occupation where
I first met here. She was also unable to go back to inhabiting herself. A process
of religious conversion was needed that reconstructed the relations between
the living and the dead. More than the mother-son dyad, the death of Leonor’s
son has implications that refer to past and present generations of her family,
but also to spirits and religious entities. The others who constitute this experi-
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ence are multiple. And these many others inhabit Leonor’s present. A fragile
and tricky movement of self-recreation is involved, attaining a fine balance
between agency and patience in the work of reconstruction. The death of Le-
onor’s son defines the affective quality of the present tense. It is the incessant
work of domestication, silencing and renarration which entails that death in-
habits Leonor’s day-to-day life. I understand the narration and renarration not
as the repetition of the same (hi)story but as a form of recounting her life to
be able to reconstruct it again. Leonor’s experience shows us how the death of
the other can be absolutely our own (Das, 2015b).
884
very often solitary form. There is an ethics in the choice of words, gestures and
what remains silent that shows us the force of the remaking of Leonor’s life,
but also the harshness of the place that women occupy in family relations.
What volatilities, doubts and uncertainties are located just below the
surface of habit? “If everyday life cannot show itself directly, how do we come
to grips with it?” (Das, 2018: 538). Throughout her work, Veena Das has re-
flected on what the everyday is and what it means to capture it. In Das’s view,
the quotidian is not a mere repetition of automatized habits. Everyday life is
elusive, vague, imprecise and difficult to conceptualize. Ethnography, then, con-
sists of capturing the moments that allow us to see the force that daily life
carries. Not in abstract terms! As Veena Das (2020) tells us, the notion of the
ordinary is difficult because many narratives focus on what disturbs life and
on the major conflicts that revolve around it. The question here is that these
big events are present in the most ordinary objects and events. Looking at the
apparently simple moments of daily life, but which just under the surface con-
vey devastating events, shows us the force of small happenings and how tiny
gestures can contain life as a whole.
But if everyday life has the texture of this uncertainty, that inf lects not only our
relation to the world but to self-knowledge, how does anthropolog y create its
concepts and how do our modes of living with others affect the way we render
our experiences in our fieldwork knowable? (Das, 2018: 547)
I invoke this question posed by Veena Das not so that I can solve it, since
that is beyond me, but instead for us to reflect on the ethical and aesthetic
choices people make to render their lives known. And also, for the ethics and
aesthetics that we choose by presenting such pain to a broader public. I have
sought to choose words that make it impossible for this public, which means
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 869 – 890 , sep. – dec., 2021
you, the reader of this text, to mutilate Leonor’s words and treat them as any
other object in the world. What I have attempted to do is establish a commu-
nication between Leonor and Veena Das, between me and you, the reader, in
order to share experiences that I heard and read – not just to relate and describe
them, but so that we can effectively apprehend and feel with people and with
their pain. What I have wanted to do in this text is locate the meanings of an
event in terms of its inscription in the everyday world and the conditions of
friendship through which it was possible to speak and listen.
I conclude my reflections with a conversation I had by telephone with
Leonor while I was completing this text in April 2021. Leonor was moving to a
new apartment and unable to get rid of some sacks full of cloth offcuts. In the
conversation, I suggested she take advantage of the move to throw away any-
thing she had not used for more than a year. Leonor replied that she was un-
able to do so. She told me that after Glauber died, she turned into a hoarder, not
of objects like fridges or pans, but of sacks and sacks of scraps that would
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never have any use. She also narrated to me that she tries but is unable to let
go of the thousands of bits of cloth cuttings and that these insignificant scraps
connect her to her son Glauber. It was the first time that I heard this narrative
in the almost ten years of our relationship.
I hope, with the words chosen for this text, to have arrived at a certain
picture of “what it is to think of textures of life and the disorders of kinship
and intimacy” (Das, 2018: 547). What makes life difficult to bear is not the event
lived exactly in the moment in which it occurs, but the past relations that the
event evokes. The present becomes much more complicated when we compre-
hend how past forces are at work within it. I conclude the text with Veena Das
(2018: 548, original italics) when she says “finding a cure for being on earth is
not the issue, perhaps enduring this condition is”.
886
NOTES
1 Inspired by Veena Das’s discussion of the ever yday and
by apparently small moments that nonetheless disrupt
the life of families, in her book Clara Han (2012) develops
diverse critical moments that her interlocutors need to
confront in day-to-day life. Dialog uing with the idea of
critical events developed by Das (1995), Han analyses dif-
ficult situations involving family members, neighbours
and friends, altering the scale of the events important to
study. Her choice of ‘critical moments’ shows us the for-
ce of the miniscule, of what is almost imperceptible, but
which may be devastating. For the present text, I have
chosen some critical moments lived by Leonor and show
how they can contain “life taken as a whole” (Das, 2018).
2 I have no words to thank the invitation made by Adriana
Vianna and Letícia Ferreira to contribute to this dossier.
The joy of being able to celebrate the work of Veena Das,
today my main theoretical-methodolog ical reference
point, added to the possibility of living through the pan-
demic in direct dialogue with them and also with Cynthia
Sarti. The conversations on Das’s work, the readings and
criticisms that they made of the text helped me to make
these pandemic years less difficult. I thank the careful
reading and precise comments of Paula Lacerda and Mar-
cella Araujo, fundamental to concluding the work. Finally,
I thank FAPESP for the award offered, without which this
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rEFERENCES
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modelos conceituais e uma v isão global mediante os quais possamos tor nar
compreensível, no pensamento, aquilo que vivenciamos diariamente na realida-
de, mediante os quais possamos compreender de que modo um grande número
de indivíduos compõe entre si algo maior e diferente de uma coleção de indivíduos
isolados: como é que eles formam uma ‘sociedade’ e como sucede a essa socie-
dade poder modificar-se de maneiras específicas, ter uma história que segue um
curso não pretendido ou planejado por qualquer dos indivíduos que a compõem.
assim como o faz com Luís IV, o Rei-Sol, Elias vê o gênio em suas figurações.
Trazemos Mozart, portanto, como um estudo de caso, situação empírica que nos
permite estabelecer o rigor e o alcance da proposta teórica eliasiana. Por fim,
em um terceiro momento, enfrentamos o desafio de pensar o individualismo,
conceito que atribui centralidade ao indivíduo, ao florescimento da individua-
lidade, e também à autorrepresentação do eu desprovido de um nós. Em outras
palavras, situação em que a balança nós-eu pende firmemente para o lado do
eu. Pensando com e a partir de Elias, entendemos o individualismo como habi-
tus individual e social. Essa formulação, do individualismo como habitus, indi-
ca, por sua vez, a radicalidade do conceito de figuração, afirmando a sociedade
como formação de indivíduos interdependentes a despeito da percepção indi-
vidual ou social de uma possível autonomia. Ao fim e ao cabo, a interdepen-
dência em Elias está para além do entender-se autônomo, único e livre, para
além da identidade-eu dos indivíduos. É ao mesmo tempo uma questão empí-
rica e ontológica. E a não percepção – ou mesmo as tentativas de negação da
interdependência – constitui, portanto, um habitus situado historicamente.
artigo | tatiana savoia landini e andréa borges leão
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894
teoria central que envolve a busca por conexões entre o habitus social, o desen-
volvimento de padrões sociais e as cadeias de interdependência, nível de for-
mação do Estado, democratização funcional e níveis de pacificação (Dunning
& Mennell, 2003: xxix). Nas palavras do próprio autor, em entrevista concedida
em 1969 a Johan Goudsblom (2013: 170),
delas. Figurações não são sistemas autorreferidos. São três momentos que se
sucedem não como quebras ou rupturas, mas como continuidades. Três redes
de interdependência que funcionam a partir de dinâmicas internas significa-
tivamente diferentes e que, ao mesmo tempo, possibilitam compreender a
transmutação de uma em outra, por meio de mudanças paulatinas e contínuas.
O olhar de Elias não focaliza exclusivamente as figurações, cada uma delas
separadamente, mas se desloca para processos que levam de uma à outra, iden-
tificando também permanências. 3
Até a época em que Elias escreve seu texto, a corte aristocrática era um
campo pouco estudado pela sociologia, voltada para outros recortes empíricos,
tais como a cidade, a fábrica, o monastério, o Estado, organizações burocráticas
e patrimoniais, estruturas econômicas feudais ou capitalistas, família, protes-
tantismo, burguesia, a classe trabalhadora etc. Nesse livro, Elias apresenta com
muita clareza um “duplo foco” que caracteriza sua sociologia: ao mesmo tem-
po em que estuda o processo de desenvolvimento social (a corte como estágio
que antecede a sociedade burguesa-industrial) também mergulha em momen-
artigo | tatiana savoia landini e andréa borges leão
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Esse privilégio seguia uma hierarquia muito precisa. Havia seis grupos diferen-
tes de pessoas com permissão para entrar, um após outro. Falava-se então das
diversas “entrées”. (...)
Como vemos, tudo seguia regras bem precisas. Os dois primeiros grupos eram
admitidos quando o rei ainda estava na cama. Ele usava então uma pequena
peruca; nunca aparecia sem peruca, mesmo deitado em sua cama. Quando esta-
va de pé e o grand chambellan com o pr imeiro cr iado de quar to acabavam de
vestir o seu robe, chamavam o grupo seguinte, a première entrée (Elias, 2001: 101).
indivíduo e individualismo em norbert elias
896
A precisão das regras, como chama a atenção o autor, não tinha o sen-
tido de uma organização racional moderna, mas explicitava a importância sim-
bólica da etiqueta na estrutura social e de governo da corte. A necessária ati-
vidade de vestir-se adquiriu, na corte de Luís XIV, o sentido de atribuição de
privilégio e distinção.
Mas não podemos concluir daí que o ritual prescindia de seus persona-
gens. Luís XIV “foi um rei forte o suficiente para intervir quando necessário”,
preservando as funções primárias do ritual. Com o passar do tempo, a hierarquia
dos privilégios passou a ser mantida pela simples competição dos indivíduos
envolvidos na dinâmica, cada qual preocupado com seus pequenos privilégios
e poderes conferidos, perdendo a dinâmica sua função primária, autonomizan-
do-se. Chegada a época de Luís XVI e Maria Antonieta, a descrição do lever da
rainha revela um ritual vazio, no qual a rainha aguarda, nua, que sua blusa
passe de mão em mão, numa disputa de privilégios e honras.
A diferença do significado do ritual encontra-se na estrutura tanto psi-
cológica quanto social, o que significa dizer que é devedora dos indivíduos que
compõem a figuração, em específico da personalidade do rei, bem como da
estrutura social – e, portanto, das redes de interdependência – em que está
inserido: Luís XIV certamente não teria tolerado que a etiqueta sobrepujasse
assim o objetivo principal do ato de se vestir, afirma Elias (2001: 104), ainda que
a estrutura psicológica e social que acabou produzindo esse mecanismo vazio
já estivesse visível em sua época. As filhas de Luís XV participavam do coucher
do rei muito a contragosto, mas participavam. E o faziam porque não podiam
romper com a etiqueta, sua existência social estava ligada à participação obri-
gatória nesses rituais. A recusa em participar significaria uma humilhação e
uma abdicação de privilégio.
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 891 – 911 , set. – dez., 2021
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eles formavam uma teia de relações na vida de Mozart. Foi nessa teia que o
músico respondeu ao conflito com as normas sociais, a expressá-lo por meio
de uma dupla revolta, social e familiar, contra o pai-empresário e contra o
príncipe-patrão. Tanto seu comportamento quanto sua música foram influen-
ciados pelas pressões organizadas no interior da figuração (Leão, 2007).
O jovem Wolfgang jamais assimilou as regras da etiqueta, tampouco
apreciava as bajulações e muito menos as artes da representação. O compor-
tamento era meio bufão e sua aparência deselegante, por vezes, tornava-o um
pouco infantil. A rudeza do estilo pessoal contrastava com a sofisticação de
suas composições, com o grande domínio que tinha sobre as formas musicais.
A propósito da modificação da posição social do artista-artesão, em A sociedade
dos indivíduos (Elias, 1987: 60), Norbert Elias nos lembra o quanto “as diferentes
estruturas das sociedades ocidentais produzem necessariamente outra estru-
tura de controle dos instintos e outra estrutura da consciência”, por conseguin-
te, outras formas de individualidade e, em particular, de formação da persona-
lidade humana, diversas daquelas dos séculos XX, XVIII ou XII. Essa é a razão
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900
Interdependência e poder
No texto A sociedade dos indivíduos, Elias (1994: 16) afirma a necessidade de
modelos conceituais que tornassem compreensível, no pensamento, o que é
vivenciado na sociedade. A necessidade de que, de certa forma, a pesquisa
sociológica “traduza” a realidade, de que o conhecimento seja congruente e
orientado para a realidade tornando-a compreensível, permeia toda sua obra.
Em palestra intitulada “The formation of states and changes in restraint” (“A
formação dos Estados e mudanças nas coações”), proferida em 1984, premido
pelo que temia ser a real possibilidade de uma terceira guerra mundial, Elias
(2021b) afirmava:
Nenhum dos dois [indiv íduo e sociedade] existe sem o outro. Antes de mais
nada, na verdade, eles simplesmente existem – o indivíduo na companhia de
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 891 – 911 , set. – dez., 2021
901
902
903
904
905
906
vimento social e psíquico. A maior parte dos sociólogos (e de outros) pode sim-
plesmente não possuir a força psíquica mais ampla e o distanciamento, reforça-
do por redes de pesquisadores com ideias semelhantes, necessários para lidar
com a imagem realista de uma sociedade humana interdependente e de si mesmos
que Elias insiste que devemos enfrentar. Elias aponta (...) que a capacidade das
pessoas de ‘enfrentarem a si mesmas’, de se verem como são, ‘sem a armadura
brilhante das fantasias que as protegem do sofrimento, passado, presente e fu-
turo’, depende do grau de segurança de que gozam na sociedade. Ele acrescenta
significativamente: ‘Mas isso provavelmente tem seus limites’ (...) (Kilminster,
2007: 155).
907
908
NOTAS
1 A sociedade de corte, publicada tardiamente, com adições, em
1969, constituiu a tese pós-doutoral de Elias. O título origi-
nal do trabalho, entregue para avaliação em 1933, era Der
höfische Mensch ou The courtly human, em inglês. Uma leitura
mais aprofundada a respeito do histórico dessa obra, bem
como das condições e circunstâncias de sua escrita, pode
ser encontrada no sétimo capítulo de Korte (2017).
2 A respeito, consultar: Elias (2021a). Conforme esclarecem
Mennell, Bourguignon e Deluermoz (2010: 211-212), esse
livro sobre a Idade Média contém as 122 páginas suprimi-
das do que foi publicado na França e em outros países
com o segundo volume de O processo civilizador.
3 Em certo momento de sua vida, Elias voltou-se contra o
rótulo de sociologia figuracional, justamente por entender
que seu conceito estava sendo confundido com o de sis-
tema, sendo ignorada a importante definição de que as
figurações estão sempre em processo (Engler, 2013).
4 Idea and individual: a critical investigation of the concept of
history (Elias, 2006).
Referências
909
910
911
Minha jangada
Eu batizei Regalia
E por gozar ventania
O pano é bem amarrado.
No mar salgado
Range, embica, pende e salta
Toda vez que a maré alta
Namora o vento exaltado
(Siba, “Brisa”)
914
915
916
917
918
919
40). Não se tinha uma tradição, nem domínio técnico e tecnológico para se al-
cançar o mar alto, as águas profundas, como foi também o caso dos caetés, que
dominaram todo litoral de Pernambuco (Silva, 1998). A grande biodiversidade
permitiu aos caetés pescar nos rios, estuários e na beira-mar, já que os pesca-
dos (peixes, moluscos e crustáceos) habitavam ou chegavam em fartura até ali
e, portanto, não havia necessidade de deslocamento mar adentro (Monteiro,
1992). Por isso, “foi exatamente na pesca fluvial e lacustre que as influências
indígenas chegaram a exercer-se e a perdurar entre nós, quase sem temer com-
petição” (Holanda, 2011: 330), deixando-nos como herança técnicas e tecnologias
de capturas, a exemplo dos anzóis de espinhos, jereré, puçás 7 e, fundamental-
mente, a jangada (ver figura 1).
1
Frans Post, jangada à beira-mar
cabo de Santo Agostinho, Pernambuco
pintura, 1645
330 x 510mm
(Maior, Silva, 1993)
cultura de ofício marítima pesqueira
920
921
2
Frans Post, pescador negro em jangada de rolo,
sem vela, de estilo indígena, com fateixa
ao fundo, Recife,
pintura, 1640
Fonte: Maior, Silva, 1993
922
923
missão de sua mulher porque, mesmo ele continuando cativo, desejava que os
futuros filhos nascessem libertos, e se mantinha no propósito de adquirir pos-
teriormente sua liberdade e a dos outros filhinhos”.
Em 1844 um viajante norte-americano embarcou em uma jangada con-
duzida por negros alforriados, descrevendo a perícia deles: “Os nossos negros
jangadeiros mostravam-se muito polidos e quietos durante a viagem. Eram
ambos negros forros e moradores de Itamaracá. Mostravam-se conhecedores
de seus misteres e diligentes em executá-los (Kidder, 1943: 113).
A situação desses escravos de aluguel ensejava “um emaranhado de pos-
sibilidades de ascensão social negadas ao assenzalado” (Barbosa, 2008: 73). De
fato, “a subgrupos de mecânicos vindos do Reino ou da Europa foram-se jun-
tando muitos mestiços, hábeis em ofícios, peritos em caligrafia e em outras
artes burocráticas aprendidas com os brancos e que, desde os primeiros dias
de colonização, começaram a surgir na sombra das casas-grandes e dos sobra-
dos patriarcais e, principalmente – naqueles primeiros dias – dos colégios de
padres” (Freyre, 2003: 493). 9
Dependentes do mundo pesqueiro, profissões e atividades econômicas
floresceram numa espécie de “microeconomia dos pobres” (Castellucci Júnior,
2009: 134). Quanto mais a pesca artesanal ocupava espaço e tempo na vida das
pessoas, apareceram sujeitos sociais especializados e dedicados, exclusivamen-
te, ao fabrico e à confecção de embarcações e armadilhas para pescar, tornan-
do-se artesãos respeitados pela qualidade dos seus trabalhos.
E isso também ocorreu com o comércio dos pescados em cidades como
Recife, Olinda e Salvador, que era fartamente ocupado pelas mulheres negras
(libertas ou escravas de ganho) chamadas de ganhadeiras no século XIX. Cas-
tellucci Junior (2009: 139, grifo do autor) mencionou que “pelo respeito desfru-
tado no seio da gente miúda, e pelas repercussões de suas ações nas vilas e
cidades do Brasil, as ganhadeiras foram eternizadas pelo olhar sensível de cro-
nistas e viajantes de época, os quais viram, em suas atividades, um tipo de
comércio, no mínimo, inusitado [...] elas cumpriam um importante papel na
distribuição de subsistência, sobretudo, o pescado”.
Percebe-se que o pescador artesanal emerge em sociedades cuja produ-
ção, além de ser um valor de uso, torna-se cada vez mais uma mercadoria (e até
renda para alguns senhores), não se destinando somente à subsistência. Assim,
sua faina voltava-se “para dois horizontes. De um lado, para o consumo domés-
tico e, de outro, para a comercialização. Esse horizonte tende a se alargar à
medida que se criam e/ou se ampliam os mercados já existentes para o produto
da pesca” (Furtado, 1993: 335), devido ao fato de muitos residirem “na própria
cidade ou em suas proximidades” (Diegues, 1983: 221) ou em face das mudanças
vividas pelas áreas rurais. No geral, o que se apresentou ao horizonte desses
jangadeiros e que conferiu sentido ao seu trabalho foi alcançar a alforria (sua,
da esposa e filhos), anunciando que essa cultura marítima “não é somente uma
herança; é também um projeto” (Houtondji apud Sahlins, 1997: 131).
cultura de ofício marítima pesqueira
924
A sociedade flutuante
O que representou o aparecimento dos jangadeiros em termos socioculturais
e econômicos? Sobre isso é importante voltarmos ao século XVII, pois foi nes-
se período que a jangada se sofisticou, especialmente devido ao fato de o pes-
cado ter ampliado sua participação na dieta alimentar de um crescente mer-
cado consumidor urbano (Olinda e Recife), bem como das áreas rurais (habi-
tantes dos engenhos de açúcar). Uma das provas disso foi a criação, em 1648,
de um mercado público exclusivo para a venda de pescados no Recife na fase
de ocupação holandesa (1630-1654). 10
O aumento populacional e a urbanização produziram a necessidade de
navegar mais distante e passar mais tempo no mar, o que se deu entre o final
do século XVII e o início do XIX (Cascudo, 2002; Ramalho, 2017a). No tempo da
“exclusividade” do modelo da pescaria e da jangada indígena, a organização do
trabalho não sofreu grandes alterações, visto que o menor porte do equipamen-
to de navegação, que poderia ser conduzido por, no máximo, dois homens ex-
plicitava as demandas concentradas na alimentação das populações nativas;
nesse caso, a venda ocupava valor secundário.
O crescimento da demanda alimentar e comercial levou pescadores a
inserir nas jangadas elementos da pesca lusitana, quando introduziram a vela
latina, o banco do mestre, o leme, a fateixa, 11 o anzol de ferro, para substituir
o de espinha, ocorrendo, ademais, um aumento no tamanho da embarcação
(capacidade maior para levar pessoas, de captura e armazenamento), fazendo
nascer a jangada de alto com sua vida social flutuante.
Concomitantemente, para que tais componentes pudessem ser utilizados,
ocorreu a difusão da arte de pescaria graças ao aparecimento dos misteres
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 913 – 943 , set. – dez., 2021
925
tal instrumento produtivo, pelo uso do leme (ou remo de governo) situado na
popa. Isso simbolizou a instauração de uma hierarquia social firmada no saber-
fazer, um domínio mais rigoroso e um exercício sofisticado constitutivo e cons-
tituído de uma cultura de ofício pesqueira marítima, cuja tradução manifestou
suas marcas, ora na presença, a partir daí em diante, do jangadeiro mestre no
comando do barco, ora na cultura material que renovou essa embarcação de
vida secular com a chegada do banco do mestre, da vela triangular, do leme,
dos papéis sociais no barco, de um saber-fazer peculiar etc., estabelecendo uma
simbiose entre jangadeiros e jangada de alto (figura 3).
3
Jangada de alto com vela latina, banco de mestre,
leme e âncora, sendo navegada por negros
(proeiro e mestre)
início do século XIX, Pernambuco
Fonte: Koster, 2002
cultura de ofício marítima pesqueira
926
927
1943; Tollenare, 1978), estudos acadêmicos sobre essa aludida época (Araújo,
2007; Cascudo, 1957; Silva, 2001) e imagens históricas (figuras 3, 4 e 5).
Além do mestre, os proeiros 12 (o da ponta e o do centro) e, em alguns
casos, o aprendiz (jovem que começa sua lide) surgiram em finais do século XVII,
como já foi apontado. Essa equipe de pescaria e sua organização passaram a ser
definidas como companha ou parceria pelas comunidades locais; e na divisão
das suas atribuições, o jangadeiro que ocupava a função de proeiro da ponta
caracterizava-se pela sofisticada capacidade de externar seu saber e fazer em
nível mais qualificado que o do centro. Por isso, localizava-se na ponta do barco,
lançando e retirando as redes e as pegando com o bicheiro (uma vara de mais
de dois metros com um gancho na ponta) e demais armadilhas na hora em que
a jangada – muitas vezes – estava em pleno movimento, sendo auxiliado pelo
proeiro do centro (ambos responsáveis pelos cuidados com a vela durante a
navegação: molhá-la, por exemplo). Já o aprendiz efetivava ações mais simples
de apoio ao trabalho dos demais, recebendo suas orientações e a do mestre. Tais
aspectos sobreviveram na pesca, de acordo com que observamos e também
colhemos nas entrevistas em São José da Coroa Grande (figuras 4, 5 e 6).
4
Pescadores em jangada, 1905, Recife, Pernambuco
estrutura igual à da que apareceu no século XVII
Arquivo Josebias Bandeira
Fonte: Acervo Fundação Joaquim Nabuco
cultura de ofício marítima pesqueira
928
5
Chegada de jangada do mar,
Pernambuco, 1940
Arquivo Josebias Bandeira
Fonte: Acervo Fundação
Joaquim Nabuco
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 913 – 943 , set. – dez., 2021
6
Jangadeiros de alto-mar (mestre no governo,
provável jovem aprendiz e proeiro de ponta),
Olinda, Pernambuco, 1955
Foto colorizada: Volkmar K. Wentzel
Acervo National Geographic
artigo | cristiano wellington noberto ramalho
929
930
família”.
Isso fez com que o ato de pescar – além de ser transmitido no ouvir, ver,
sentir, saber, fazer e refazer geracionalmente – passasse a ser definitivamente
um modo de vida e trabalho peculiar, em que o jangadeiro é a base da cultura
de ofício marítima, do século XVII até o tempo presente.
O surgimento da profissão de pescador, com seu cabedal de conheci-
mento singular, ressoou na partilha dos frutos do trabalho por meio do quinhão,
que é algo característico do regime de companha existente na pesca artesanal
secularmente. O quinhão caracteriza-se por ser uma forma de organização e
divisão do resultado do trabalho com base na cooperação simples, mesclando
trabalho familiar e elos de compadrio e vizinhança, entre os tripulantes de uma
mesma embarcação. Foi trazido da pesca artesanal portuguesa e se difundiu
no Brasil (Diegues, 1983). É ainda muito presente na pesca portuguesa (Amorim,
2003), sendo, em Pernambuco, o modelo hegemônico até hoje.
Duas entrevistas feitas com jangadeiros 15 são emblemáticas por recupe-
rar componentes históricos sobre o quinhão. Por meio de histórias contadas a
artigo | cristiano wellington noberto ramalho
931
eles, quando crianças, por seus ancestrais (um avô e outro tio-avô) e pescado-
res mais velhos da região, relataram acontecimentos sobre a pesca durante e
pós-escravatura, focalizando o quinhão: (a) “os cativos”, como chamavam os
escravos, separavam o que seria pago aos seus senhores, e o restante era divi-
dido igualmente entre os tripulantes (podiam ser negros do mesmo proprietá-
rio ou não), incluindo a parte do barco, isto é, se pescassem na jangada um
mestre e dois proeiros e se fossem capturados 250 quilos de peixes, “dividia-se
em cinco partes o vendido, do pagamento do senhor, da manutenção da em-
barcação e das armadilhas e o restante era divido pelos três que pescaram”; (b)
por existir jangadeiros com senhores diferentes, não deixava de haver uma
solidariedade entre os homens de uma mesma jangada, para efetivar o paga-
mento coletivamente por meio do quinhão, o que fazia com que a parte desses
senhores de escravo fosse garantida coletivamente; e (c) quando não se era
escravo, o pescado era dividido de maneira igualitária, contando com a parte
destinada ao instrumento de trabalho. Este último sistema, “é adotado até ho-
je por todos nós jangadeiros”, “tudo veio dos jangadeiros”, o que é facilitado,
segundo eles, pela condição “familiar que existia na equipe de pescaria e que
continua existindo hoje também nos de bote” (figuras 7 e 8).
7
Botes de pesca na praia de São José da
Coroa Grande, Pernambuco, jan. 2018
Fonte: Acervo do autor
cultura de ofício marítima pesqueira
932
8
Jangada indo para o mar,
São José da Coroa Grande, Pernambuco, nov. 2008
Fonte: acervo do autor
933
934
Conclusão
As transformações vividas pela jangada, de mar de dentro para mar de fora, e
sua permanência como principal embarcação pesqueira artesanal marítima
durante séculos representou a formação, expansão e continuidade de um mo-
do de vida e de um tipo de trabalho que incorporam tradições (culturas marí-
tima e de ofício) para construir dinâmicas societárias próprias, únicas.
Da cultura marítima, o jangadeiro herdou e (re)elaborou uma centralida-
de existencial apoiada no mar, cujo fundamento foi a sociedade flutuante da
jangada. Assim, formas de ser e determinações de existência, o afastamento da
terra durante dias e as representações sociais compuseram cotidianos singula-
res, uma cultura do trabalho pesqueira de alto-mar. Já da cultura de ofício, a
presença dos mestres, a influência do sentimento de corporação, o trabalho
baseado num profundo conhecimento e conexão entre saber e fazer também se
apresentaram no mundo dos jangadeiros, marcado por maritimidade específica.
Tudo isso se assentou e floresceu por meio de conexões entre tradições
étnicas e culturais diferentes. Se os elementos indígenas caetés foram a sua
base, os portugueses e, fundamentalmente, os africanos representaram o re-
pertório de consolidação e desenvolvimento da cultura de ofício marítima pes-
queira do jangadeiro, que foi e é tão singular em relação a outras pescarias
artesanais que proliferaram em nosso país.
Essa cultura de ofício marítima pesqueira ganha sentido nas histórias
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 913 – 943 , set. – dez., 2021
935
936
NOTAS
* Agradecemos as valiosas sugestões feitas pelos(as) pare-
ceristas deste artigo e o apoio do Conselho Nacional de
Desenvolvimento Científ ico e Tecnológ ico (CNPq), por
meio da Bolsa de Produtividade, e da Fundação de Ampa-
ro à Ciência e Tecnolog ia do Estado de Pernambuco (Fa-
cepe) para a realização de pesquisas que deram origem a
este escrito.
1 Sergipe, embora esteja entre Alagoas e a Bahia, não tem
jangadeiros.
2 Para os jangadeiros, pescar em alto-mar tem o mesmo
signif icado que pescar no mar de fora, mar adentro ou
mar alto, o que representa pescar após os arrecifes. Dis-
tingue-se da pesca do mar de dentro, que é realizada em
rios, estuários, mangues e na beira-mar.
3 O Centro de Pesquisa e Gestão de Recursos Pesqueiros do
Litoral Nordeste (Cepene) era ligado ao Instituto Brasilei-
ro do Meio Ambiente e dos Recursos Naturais Renováveis
(Ibama) até a criação do Instituto Chico Mendes de Con-
servação da Biodiversidade (ICMBio) em 2007.
4 Não utilizamos fotografias históricas dos jangadeiros de
alto-mar de São José da Coroa Grande por dois motivos:
dif iculdades de conseg uir acesso a elas em acer vos pú-
blicos; e falta de autorização para torná-las públicas por
parte das famílias de dois fotógrafos amadores. Para com-
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 913 – 943 , set. – dez., 2021
937
Referências
938
939
940
941
942
943
Francisco Miguel I
946
pensamento que não está dada na natureza e, portanto, não é nem universal,
nem estática, tampouco atemporal (Foucault, 1988; Bleys, 1995; Rubin, 2018). Em
outras palavras, uma subjetivação homossexual − ou seja, como contraposta à
heterossexual; alguém que costumeiramente narre seu desejo ou identidade
como inato e imutável; que frequentemente conduza suas práticas homoeróti-
cas ao longo da vida; que direcione seu afeto primordial ou exclusivamente a
pessoas de seu próprio sexo; e/ou que carregue consigo a tendência de aderir,
mais ou menos, em sua corporeidade aos signos do gênero oposto − não é uni-
versal, ainda que as práticas sexuais e afetivas entre pessoas do mesmo sexo
possam virtualmente ser (Padgug, 1990; Murray & Roscoe, 1998; Neill, 2009).
Assim, para que a homossexualidade ou o sujeito homossexual (moder-
no) ganhe existência social é preciso um esforço político-epistemológico ou um
processo de institucionalização (Douglas, 2007) − fenômeno que historicamente
ocorreu em determinados momentos e locais da experiência humana, sem que
necessariamente coincidissem em seus significados.1 Por instituição, Mary Dou-
glas (2007: 61) refere-se às convenções sociais fortes; que partem da analogia
com o corpo e com a divisão (sexual) do trabalho; que se baseiam na natureza e
na razão; que são os resultados contínuos de uma disputa de classificações
desenvolvidas por grupos sociais; que precisam “se esquecer” do que não lhe
convém; e que, para ser estáveis, precisam camuflar seu caráter socialmente
construído. Em minha tese de doutorado (Miguel, 2019), demonstro não apenas
vários processos de institucionalização da homossexualidade na história de
Moçambique desde o século XX até o presente (no governo, na mídia, no movi-
mento LGBT, na religião, nas famílias), como investigo de que modo tal institu-
cionalização se dava via o senso comum de meus interlocutores em campo.
Assim, a pesquisa etnográfica consistiu em um período de seis meses
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 945 – 969 , set. – dez., 2021
947
Então foi ali quando eu aprendi – estou a falar de mais ou menos há 12 ou 13 anos
– que aprendi sobre orientação sexual. Foi a primeira vez que comecei a ouvir.
Bom, somente era um tópico novo, não tinha muito conhecimento na altura. E
aí nós fomos para ser treinados como formadores. Então a responsabilidade era
voltar ao país e começar, e treinar o primeiro g rupo de formadores. Teriam a
missão de ao nível das províncias fazer a formação na área do HIV, mas fazendo
esta ligação com assuntos ligados ao gênero. [...] E quando eu voltei de Arusha,
voltei uma pessoa completamente diferente [de] como fui (entrevista com Luiz,
Maputo, 27 jun. 2018).
948
Primeiro porque eu era uma pessoa, por exemplo, muito contra o aborto. E eu
até me lembro que antes da formação, tinha feito alguns comentários – acho que
foi num post do Facebook, realmente não me lembro quem era – a julgar! Por[que]
alguém estava a defender o aborto. Aborto seguro. E eu, na altura, fiz comentá-
r ios [de] que hoje eu me ar rependo profundamente. Porque eu praticamente
atropelei os direitos que aquela pessoa tinha de decidir se mantinha a gravidez
ou não... Mas não tinha, não tinha o conhecimento que adquiri depois daquela
formação (entrevista com Luiz, Maputo, 27 jun. 2018).
E uma coisa que me marcou – acho que foi em 2009, [...] nós fomos a um distrito
no interior de Nampula falar sobre orientação sexual, falar sobre homossexua-
lidade e apareceu uma velha. [...] E quando eu falei do tópico ela disse “Epa, meu
filho, agora estou a entender. Eu tive um irmão que nunca se casou. Nós tentamos
forçar, forçamos, mas ele nunca aceitou. Disse que quando ficava próximo das
mulheres se sentia mal, havia um espírito que vinha, lhe tomava, e fazia-lhe
mal. Mas eu sempre vi ele com homens, até a morte dele. Nunca se juntou com
mulheres, nunca teve este afeto. Mas eu não sabia. Só agora que meu filho tá a
falar isso, começo a entender.” Por que me marcou? Me marcou porque nós não
estávamos numa grande cidade. Estávamos lá no interior. E a pessoa que estava
a falar era uma idosa, creio que não sabia ler nem escrever, mas ela lembrou-se
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 945 – 969 , set. – dez., 2021
desse episódio, quer dizer [...] Depois eu acabei usando esse depoimento em
outras formações, inclusive em grandes cidades, porque havia uma corrente que
dizia assim “Ah, é assunto das cidades. Isso é com os brancos, cá entre nós não
existe” (entrevista com Luiz, Maputo, 27 jun. 2018).
949
950
951
Na sequência, Paulino ainda me contou como foi que seu “amigo” por-
tuguês, antes, foi pedir a autorização da família dele para que eles morassem
juntos na casa do português, e para mim essa é a chave para compreender a
história de institucionalização da homossexualidade não só em Lourenço Mar-
ques, como na atual Maputo.
O português era diretor na mesma fábrica de cigarros em que alguns tios
do jovem Paulino trabalhavam como operários. Ao abordar um desses tios de
Paulino, perguntando se o conhecia, o português teria assustado o tio com a
possibilidade de o sobrinho ter feito algo de errado. O português então escla-
receu o motivo de procurá-lo, dizendo ao tio: “Estou a pedir esse rapaz para me
fazer companhia, porque eu não tenho ninguém lá em casa. A minha família
já se foi para Portugal”. O tio prometeu falar com o pai de Paulino, seu primo,
que, por sua vez, disse nada poder decidir, visto que esse filho estava sob a
responsabilidade dos avós maternos. 14 O português então foi falar com a mãe
de Paulino, que encaminhou a questão para sua própria mãe, ou seja, a avó de
Paulino. 15 A avó materna de Paulino ficou preocupada, pois já tinha passado
por um episódio de prisão de um filho, pelo fato de ele ter “estragado coisas
dos brancos”. A mãe de Paulino então explicou a avó do rapaz que esse branco
trabalhava com o irmão dela, era alguém conhecido e confiável. A avó custou
a aceitar, mas acabou concedendo. Segundo Paulino, sua avó confiava no neto,
porque ele sempre havia sido um “miúdo muito sério”.
A família então aceitou, mas, segundo Paulino, sem saber de que exata-
mente se tratava tal pedido. Eu imediatamente insisti sobre esta questão: se de
fato a família não entendia esse pedido como um pedido de “casamento”. E
Paulino me garantiu que não entenderam como tal e que ele tinha certeza disso.
Em nossa conversa foi possível ter acesso a uma vida conjugal homoa-
fetiva que transcorreu, aparentemente, sem grandes transtornos, nas barbas
dos regimes pré e pós-independente, em plena zonal central da capital do pa-
ís e com a “aceitação” da família. Em princípio, eu tentava interpretar esse e
outros casos sempre a partir da chave de uma maior tolerância em relação à
homossexualidade em Moçambique, tese defendida em vários cantos, por dis-
tintas pessoas, o que incluiria até atuais militantes dos direitos LGBT no país.
Sem descartar que, de fato, existe algo de não tão persecutório sobre o assun-
to na sociedade ou no Estado moçambicanos – especialmente se comparado
com o que o ocorreu em países vizinhos (Miguel, 2019) – outra chave de inter-
pretação possível, parece-me, é aquela que aponta para um silêncio estratégi-
co produzido por aqueles que sabiam do que aquilo se tratava, mas que não
queriam correr o risco de um eventual estigma, quando não um desconheci-
mento geral das classes populares de origem banto em relação a esse tipo de
possibilidade erótica e conjugal.
Outras duas pessoas mais velhas, aqui já mencionadas, me alertaram
sobre isso: uma professora da Universidade Eduardo Mondlane e um famoso
“por que homossexuais só existem na cidade?”
952
Contei da história do Paulino para eles e demonstrei meu espanto sobre ninguém
dos vizinhos, da família etc. terem se manifestado em relação aos dois morarem
juntos na cidade. [...] Chegamos à conclusão de que essas relações de apadrinha-
mento [...] não eram entendidas quase nunca como uma relação homoafetiva (não
usou esse termo), mas que isso era normal: alguém com posses apadrinhar um
jovem para trabalhar como garoto de recados, pequenos trabalhos domésticos,
etc. (independentemente de essa relação ser inter ou intrarracial.). E que as pes-
soas liam isso como “ah, está a dar uma ajuda”. Com esse exemplo e com outros,
chegamos à conclusão de que os moçambicanos, especialmente os negros, não
estavam/estão treinados para ver a dimensão (homo)sexual de algumas relações,
que elas são lidas em outras chaves. Foi interessantíssimo perceber como a pro-
fessora Maria interrompeu na hora para dizer: “Agora eu estou a lembrar vários
casos na infância e estou pensando se não era isso mesmo. Por exemplo, tinha
duas senhoras que moravam juntas... (E ficou em silêncio, com o olhar distante,
como quem está impressionada de só agora se dar conta de que aquela poderia
ser uma relação homoafetiva). Nunca passou pela minha cabeça que fosse isso”.
[...] Um outro dado que ilustra essa questão de um “olhar não treinado” para ver
isso foi quando contei do Paulino que uma vez foi advertido pela polícia por estar
com um branco em um local sabidamente de encontros homoeróticos na praia.
Provoquei que enquanto em Portugal já havia nessa altura até um aparato policial
para investigar atos homossexuais em banheiros públicos, nas colônias – e aqui
não parece ter sido diferente – a homossexualidade era menos vigiada. Foi nesse
momento que Chico disse que eu precisava entender que ninguém aqui estava
treinado para ver isso, no sentido de que não havia um vocabulário, uma semân-
tica (termos meus) ou experiência pra enquadrar encontros entre homens na
chave da sexualidade (diário de campo, Maputo, 16 ago. 2018).
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 945 – 969 , set. – dez., 2021
953
o entrevistava, seu primeiro contato com esse mundo se dera diretamente por
intermédio de um “iniciador”, sem outros tipos de intermediação entre o discur-
so e a própria prática sexual. Nossa conversa se deu mais ou menos assim:
− Quando também tinha essas idades, eu tinha uns primos que gostavam muito
de mim. Epa, eu às vezes, sem perceber, porque eles eram mais velhos... Mas
como a minha tendência sempre foi essa, cedia...
[...]
− Mas desde novo então você sabia o que que era assim... Você sabia que que era
homossexualidade.
− Mas como vou saber? Eu só sentia... Muitas das vezes, há aquela coisa de apren-
der. Aquela coisa de natureza (entrevista com Paulino, Maputo, 3 jul. 2018).
Você pode crescer e atingir mesmo até idade de 15, 16, 17, 20, mas se não houver
o iniciador ali... Mas você sempre tem aquela... Você vê uma pessoa e começa a,
epa, imag inar... “Epa, [se] aquela pessoa se aproximasse...” [...] Sentir o calor
desde aquela pessoa[...] Aí, o que que falta? Falta o iniciador. Vais aparecer o
iniciador. Pronto, você já... Ele te abriu teus caminhos (entrevista com Paulino,
Maputo, 3 jul. 2018).
− Eu vou responder... Porque antes, no meu caso, antes d’eu ter com alguém, eu
já tinha visto na televisão, eu já tinha visto em revista...
− Você ainda tem sorte porque foi na altura de televisão... Nós nem tínhamos
televisão. [...] No final da década de 60, já estavam a aparecer revistas... [...]Eu
tinha muitas revistas. Destruí há pouco tempo...
− Mas não tinha esse assunto na revista? Não fala disso nas revistas?
− Então, estou dizendo isso porque eu, quando fui ter minha primeira vez, eu já
sabia mais ou menos o que que ia acontecer, o que que tinha que fazer...
− Sim. Sorte de ver uma coisa. Mas quando assim mesmo, sem ter visto, quando
a pessoa já te pega, eita, você já vai ver, afinal, é isto... Você até percebe com
facilidade, porque você já tem no sang ue. Muitas das vezes, ao dor mir, pode
aventurar com alg uém, assim, pensar que a outra pessoa pode me fazer isto,
fazer isto... Agora... Há aquelas pessoas que dizem “Ah, eu fui o...” Eu muitas das
vezes digo “Não, não diz é o fulano te ensinou. O fulano te iniciou...” (entrevista
com Paulino, Maputo, 3 jul. 2018).
“por que homossexuais só existem na cidade?”
954
O jovem Caetano
Engana-se, porém, o leitor ou a leitora que pensar que o desconhecimento
sobre a ideia de homossexualidade é um dado óbvio, fruto apenas da diferença
geracional entre Paulino e este antropólogo, e daquele mundo da década de
1960 em que mais ou menos em todo lugar a homossexualidade cultural come-
çava a emergir e se globalizar. 19 Entrevistei outros moçambicanos de origem
banto, alguns da minha idade ou até mais jovens do que eu, que relataram o
mesmo vazio simbólico no momento dos primeiros sinais de um desejo erótico
que, pela falta de um léxico, não significaram imediatamente como “homoeró-
tico” ou “homossexual”. E não se trata de um vazio simbólico em razão da
pouca idade que tinham e do desenvolvimento individual da linguagem, como
na primeira infância, mas um vazio simbólico já na vida adulta, quando se
pressupõe que o sujeito já domina os códigos e a língua de seu grupo. Esse é o
caso de Caetano, um agente comunitário da Lambda nascido no mesmo ano
que eu (1988), em um contexto rural da província de Inhambane, ainda na região
sul de Moçambique. Caetano, que além do português fala outras “línguas na-
artigo | francisco miguel
955
− Não ! Se eu v i, mas não sabia que ele era homossexual. Cresci sabendo que
existe “maria-rapaz”. Geralmente lá na província chama assim: “maria-rapaz”.
É tipo assim um homem que tem, assim, compor tamentos meio afeminados.
“Maria-rapaz” não que aquela pessoa tenha relações com pessoas do mesmo sexo.
Então, por isso que eu digo nunca tinha visto um gay. [...]. O nome “maria-rapaz”
eu já ouvia. Então quando tomei esse susto, fiquei assim com medo. “Será que
eu estou... Será que eu sou aquilo que ele disse? ” (entrevista com Caetano, Ma-
puto, 21 jun. 2018).
− no fim de 2009, quando saí de lá [de Inhambane], minha irmã morava cá [em
Maputo], disse que eu tinha que vir para aqui, porque ela tinha arranjado um
emprego pra mim. Então vim. Então quando cheguei aqui, na altura tinha um...
não sei como se chama tal televisão agora, na altura chamava-se “KTV”. Então
tinha muito chat, assim por baixo a projetar filmes, né? Mas por baixo saía um
leque de mensagens: “Ah, eu sou gay, gostaria de conhecer não sei quem...” [...]
Então, peguei o número. Tive medo de ligar, eu decidi mandar mensagem. Então
foi dali que um senhor ligou para mim. “Oi, [Caetano], tudo bem? ” “Estou bem.”
“Podemos nos encontrar?” “Ah, sim, podemos.” [...] fui conhecer. Mesmo ele disse
“Ah, vamos para minha casa.” Sei lá o quê... “Ah, tá bem, não tem problema ne-
nhum.” Fui, troquei de roupa, tomei um banho e fui. Quando chegamos lá, tive
o meu primeiro beijo com ele. Ele queria ter relações sexuais mesmo, mas eu... Na
altura, eu não sabia o que era. Não sabia. E ele queria, porque queria. “Ou porque tu
“por que homossexuais só existem na cidade?”
956
me penetras, ou porque eu te penetro, escolha uma das duas, a gente vai fazer”.
Então eu disse “Epa, eu não estou preparado”. Mas também era já um senhor de
idade. Em relação a mim, era um pouco mais velho, então... [...]Então, eu não me
senti à vontade, não quis, não aceitei. E ele respeitou isso. Não me fez mal nenhum
(entrevista com Caetano, Maputo, 21 jun. 2018, grifos meus).
Demoraria ainda algum tempo até Caetano ter sua primeira relação se-
xual com outro homem. Todavia, desses longos trechos da entrevista de Cae-
tano, destaco dois pontos. O primeiro e mais importante é que aquele jovem
provinciano, que em casa ajudava o pai na carpintaria e a madrasta na macham-
ba, 21 aos 22 anos, afirma não ter tido qualquer informação sobre a possibilida-
de de existência de relações sexuais entre pessoas do mesmo sexo. O ano era
2008, e ele nunca tinha sequer ouvido falar sobre isso e tampouco já tinha
visto um gay. Em decorrência disso, ele disse, como Paulino, que, na época, não
fazia ideia do tipo de ato sexual que poderia acontecer entre dois homens. Isso
demonstra de maneira cabal que o vazio simbólico-homossexual descrito pelo
sexagenário Paulino não era apenas um dado da década de 1960, possivelmen-
te verdadeiro em vários contextos sociais na mesma época, incluindo ocidentais.
Trata-se também de um contexto cultural e histórico específico, haja vista que
já em 2008, com o avanço de várias tecnologias de transporte e comunicação,
ainda que elas pouco consigam se capilarizar pelo interior moçambicano, é
possível encontrar sujeitos moçambicanos que, já adultos, jamais tiveram qual-
quer contato com um campo semântico de relações sexuais entre pessoas do
mesmo sexo.
O segundo ponto que Caetano revela é que o termo “maria-rapaz” não
significava para ele o que hoje ele entende (e se entende) como “homossexual”22.
“Maria-rapaz”, em seu léxico e na sua experiência de sujeito nascido na provín-
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 945 – 969 , set. – dez., 2021
cia, nomeava qualquer homem que tivesse trejeitos femininos ou que fosse
dado às tarefas domésticas, femininas por excelência no sul de Moçambique,
sem que isso indicasse a possibilidade de esse mesmo homem também ter
relações sexuais com outros homens. 23 Assim, o thauma de Caetano primeiro
chega com a revelação do primo de que tal tipo de sexualidade era possível,
mas é apenas pela televisão – em um programa que no GC 24 apareciam mensa-
gens enviadas via SMS por telespectadores querendo comentar qualquer coisa
ou querendo, como no caso do “iniciador” de Caetano, conhecer outras pessoas
– que ele finalmente terá uma primeira experiência homossexual, ainda que
não tenha havido penetração.
Em uma segunda entrevista, realizada dez dias depois da primeira, Ca-
etano me conta sobre o breve episódio de sua passagem pelo seminário de
padres, que ocorrera há aproximadamente dez anos, no mesmo período em que
ele começava a “descobrir” seus desejos homoeróticos. Ao lhe perguntar se
havia algum tipo de contato sexual entre os internos, especialmente à noite
nos albergues, onde muitos rapazes dormiam na mesma cama que outros, Ca-
artigo | francisco miguel
957
− Eu estou aqui na cidade, se eu for pro Exército, eu terei que sair da cidade para
o campo. Então vou levar essa prática. Normalmente, porque os homossexuais
são pessoas que vivem mais nas cidades. É onde se sentem mais à vontade. Então,
eu acredito que eu vou sair daqui e vou levar [o conhecimento sobre a prática]
pro sítio onde eu vou. Pro Exército, por exemplo, pode ser [...] um sítio muito bem
isolado. Porque eu sei mais... E acredito que não vi lá porque as pessoas eram
todas do campo.[...] E eu também era do campo. Mas eu já sabia, mas não sabia
o que era. O que que fazia. O que fazer. Então, [...] eu acredito que eles também
não sabiam muito disso. Porque algumas vezes que eu acabei comentando que
eu ouvi em Maputo que homens namoravam entre eles, fui... todos ficaram ad-
mirados. “Não é possível!” “Como é que um homem pode namorar com um outro
homem? ” “Não é possível!” “Mas eu ouvi no Maputo, quando eu fui no Maputo,
eu estava a ouvir que é possível dois homens namorarem, duas mulheres namo-
rarem.” Eles não sabiam também (entrevista Caetano, Maputo, 21 jun. 2018).
− Não é exatamente virar homossexuais. (risos) Não estou a dizer virar homos-
sexuais. Mas estou a dizer que, na cidade, as pessoas que são homossexuais, elas
têm mais oportunidades de saber sobre a sua orientação sexual em relação ao campo. [...].
Na cidade, os homens e as mulheres são ensinados a viver conforme têm que
viver...
− No campo...
− Apesar de que também na cidade isso acontece. Mas é muito mais no campo, que
tem os pais, os tios, os avós como espelhos. Dificilmente ele vê outra pessoa como
espelho. Se eu sair daqui da cidade, vai pro campo, chega lá começa a fazer tuas
coisas, vão te olhar! [...] vão respeitar, mas não, não vão seguir a ti como exemplo.
Pra eu estar lá, meu pai, meu avô e meu tio são meus modelos. Eles nasceram,
cresceram, que tem que casar com mulher; é mulher, tem que fazer isto, tem que
fazer isso e aquilo. E são assim. Mas na cidade há mais oportunidade de saber
mais sobre as coisas (entrevista com Caetano, Maputo, 21 jun. 2018, grifos meus).
958
− Quando nós vemos na novela, “Epa, essas são manias de quê? Ah, são coisas de
brancos, esses brancos que fazem. Não é coisa de negro”. Porque... Ouve-se mui-
to mesmo que a homossexualidade foi uma coisa importada, uma coisa que vem
dos brancos pros neg ros. Os neg ros vão fazendo por necessidade, por querer
dinheiro, sei lá o quê. É exatamente isto que estou a tentar te dizer. Não que as
pessoas na cidade se tornam homossexuais. Porque eu acredito que homosse-
xualidade não é uma coisa que se adquira. Em termos de [por exemplo] eu nasci
hétero, vou adquirir a homossexualidade, não faz sentido... (entrevista com Cae-
tano, Maputo, 21 jun. 2018).
959
Considerações finais
A pergunta do telespectador que dá título a este artigo coloca uma questão: por
que a homossexualidade seria mais visível nas cidades do que no campo em
Moçambique? Diversos autores ensaiaram respostas sociológicas para demons-
trar, em outras sociedades, ou até mesmo em Moçambique (Simões de Araújo,
2021), como as cidades, diferente dos contextos rurais, propiciam ambientes
de menor controle social sobre os indivíduos, o que acabaria por propiciar me-
lhores condições de vivência de uma identidade homossexual, assim como de
suas práticas eróticas (Fortier, 2001; Green, Trindade, 2005; Rubin, 2018). Este
artigo, no entanto, demonstra que, desde a década de 1960, no sul de Moçam-
bique, a cidade (e os brancos que a habitavam), mais do que oferecer um am-
biente mais propício a práticas sexuais e identidades não hegemônicas, é o
lócus original de uma nova subjetivação que não estava dada, nos mesmos
termos, em alguns contextos rurais tradicionais em África (Bleys, 1995).
Isso tem efeitos teóricos importantes em face de outros cenários et-
nográficos. Ao contrário do que viveu Eribon (2008) na França e do que consta-
ta Fortier (2001) alhures, os percursos rural-urbanos de meus interlocutores
moçambicanos não produziram narrativas de uma “migração como emancipa-
ção” (Fortier, 2001: 408), tampouco construíram a imagem de suas famílias he-
terossexuais como “lócus original de trauma” (Fortier, 2001:409). Diferente do
que Weston (1991) percebeu nos Estados Unidos, os sujeitos moçambicanos com
quem conversei não foram rejeitados por suas famílias consanguíneas e, por
conseguinte, buscaram migrar para a cidade para viver de forma mais livre
suas experiências homossexuais e homoafetivas. Mas foi na cidade que muitos
deles descobriram que a homossexualidade era, antes de mais nada, uma sub-
jetividade possível.
A partir do que meus interlocutores moçambicanos das classes popula-
res e de origem banto me informam, concluo que mais do que viver um desejo
erótico inato, as cidades propiciaram um novo léxico e uma nova semântica,
nos quais foi possível significar seus desejos, corporificá-los e vivê-los. Assim,
torna-se compreensível a observação do telespectador de que não haveria ho-
mossexuais nos distritos, porque talvez de fato, em muitos deles, os homosse-
xuais ainda não existam – como demonstrado nos vários casos etnográficos
abordados. Portanto, ainda que o desejo erótico preceda e até mesmo prescin-
da da linguagem, ele, mesmo inato, só se poderá constituir como identidade e
criar sujeitos políticos quando uma certa episteme estiver disposta em deter-
minado momento e local da experiência humana.
960
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 945 – 969 , set. – dez., 2021
961
NOTAS
* Agradeço ao Conselho Nacional de Desenvolvimento Cien-
tíf ico e Tecnológ ico (CNPq) por ter apoiado f inanceira-
mente essa pesquisa.
1 Boellstorff (2005: 173) afirma que “o ponto crucial é que
a homossexualidade (como qualquer outra lógica cultural)
se globaliza (ou se move) não como um discurso monolí-
tico mas como uma multiplicidade de crenças e práticas,
elementos que podem se mover independentemente entre
si ou não se mover de forma nenhuma”. Por exemplo, na
Indonésia, toda a ideia confessional embutida na “episte-
mologia do armário” (Sedgwick, 1990) não teria tido res-
sonância entre os nativos “gays” e “lesbi”.
2 Basicamente trata-se de perspectivas afro-centradas e
cristãs-conservadoras, que, em oposição aos regimes oci-
dentais, afirmam a inexistência autóctone da homosse-
xualidade no continente africano. A questão importa aqui
porque foi no campo que diversas lideranças afr icanas
investiram suas esperanças de reencontro com a “tradi-
ção” para fins de descolonização política e epistêmica. Os
discursos sobre a exogenia da homossexualidade em Áfri-
ca e os debates teóricos que eles têm suscitado podem ser
acessados em Mott, (2005) e Kaoma (2009). Para uma sín-
tese exaustiva da questão, ver Miguel (2019).
3 Em outro trabalho (Miguel, no prelo) analiso historicamen-
te os léxicos changana e português moçambicano que fa-
zem parte do campo semântico da homossexualidade. Mi-
nhas conclusões apontam que no acervo lexical changana,
o neologismo maríyarapáxji é apropriado como forma de
acusar afeminação quando dirigida a um homem, mas que
nas últimas décadas passou a significar também homosse-
xual. Além disso, demonstro como o acervo lexical em lín-
gua portuguesa parece atualmente preferível não apenas
no processo de institucionalização da homossexualidade
promovido pela Lambda, mas como meus próprios interlo-
cutores machangana preferem acionar as categorias es-
trangeiras para se referir à sua sexualidade e à dos outros.
Por último, demonstro como os falantes de changana, no
discurso cotidiano, tendem a usar termos mais descritivos,
associando os agentes não a termos identitários-sexuais,
mas ao gênero que pertencem ou deveriam pertencer.
“por que homossexuais só existem na cidade?”
962
963
964
965
Referências
Annes, Alexis & Redlin, Meredith. (2012). The Careful Ba-
lance of Gender and Sexuality: Rural Gay Men, the Hetero-
sexual Matrix, and “Effeminophobia”. Journal of Homosexua-
lity, 59/2, p. 256-288, DOI: 10.1080/00918369.2012 .648881
A Verdade. (2012). O Estado discrimina. Disponível em:
http://www.verdade.co.mz/destaques/democracia/30981-
o-estado-discrimina. Acesso em 21 mar. 2018.
Aboim, Sof ia. (2008 ). Masculinidades na encruzilhada:
hegemonia, dominação e hibridismo em Maputo. Análise
Social, 43/187, p. 273-295.
Bleys, Rudi C. (1995). The geography of perversion: male-to-
male sexual behavior outside the West and ethnographic ima-
gination, 1750-1918. New York: New York University Press.
Boellstorff, Tom. (2005). The gay archipelago: sexuality and
nation in Indonesia. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Braga, Paulo Drumond. (2006). Mulheres criminosas, mu-
lheres perdoadas (Cabo Verde e São Tomé. Século XVI).
Islenha, 38.
“por que homossexuais só existem na cidade?”
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claiming the gay and lesbian past. New York: Penguin Books,
p. 129-140.
Webster, David J. (2009). A Sociedade Chope: indivíduo e
aliança no sul de Moçambique (1969-1976). Lisboa: Imprensa
de Ciências Sociais.
Weston, Kath. (1991). Families we choose. New York: Colum-
bia University Press.
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artigo | francisco miguel
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“Arabia Saudí del Litio” (Postero, 2017: 105). En el segundo apartado, y teniendo
en consideración esos “recursos privilegiados”, me he centrado en la topografía
andina (Mendoza, 2016; Stefanoni, 2010) y el mercado global del automotor
(Attias & Mira-Bonnardel, 2017; Donada & Attias, 2015). Analizo cómo los dis-
cursos, un tanto apocados, de las condiciones orográficas bolivianas se insertan
en y se articulan con las nuevas formas globales de organización empresarial
de este sector. El tercer apartado lo he destinado a la aparición de una retórica
institucional de corte nacionalista que, con base en la tecnología de la electro-
movilidad, alienta y legitima un tipo de desarrollo económico. Para ello tomo
prestada la noción de “nacionalismo tecnológico” (Amir, 2007; Kennedy, 2013).
Y, por último, en el cuarto apartado examino la apelación a una “moral verde”
(Currie & Choma, 2018; Feimberg & Willer, 2012) por parte de un sector de la
sociedad centrado en la demanda de políticas de electromovilidad, pero al mis-
mo tiempo el empleo de esa moral como un recurso narrativo dentro de las
pugnas políticas acaecidas en Bolivia en los últimos años.
En cuanto a lo metodológico, he de señalar que llevé a cabo un trabajo
de campo un tanto atípico en territorio boliviano desde enero hasta marzo del
2020 y desde finales de ese mes a junio del mismo año de modo virtual. Duran-
te esos meses entrevisté a dos miembros de una misma organización interna-
cional en el ámbito del transporte y que opera en Bolivia, a un técnico de la
Secretaría de Movilidad de la Alcaldía de La Paz, a dos gerentes y a varios
vendedores de Quantum Motors y a un propietario de vehículo eléctrico. Tam-
bién mantuve múltiples entrevistas, conversaciones informales e intercambios
de WhatsApp con transportistas de las organizaciones del transporte urbano
de La Paz acerca del reemplazo de sus vehículos por otros más sostenibles.
Junto con ello, realicé varias visitas al concesionario de Quantum Motors en la
capital paceña, buceé en sus redes sociales (Facebook y web) y asistí a la Feria
Internacional del Automóvil celebrada en el mes de marzo en la ciudad de La
Paz. Por último, consulté dos periódicos bolivianos de tirada nacional.
974
ción de dicho mineral a escala industrial. Sin embargo, ese contrato quedó en
suspenso como consecuencia de las protestas y huelgas organizadas por el
Comité Cívico de Potosí, encabezado por el líder Marco Pumari, quien a la pos-
tre, y tras la caída del gobierno del MAS en noviembre de 2019, presentaría su
candidatura a vicepresidente por la alianza Creemos. El Comité Cívico de Po-
tosí no solo solicitaba más del 3% de regalía por la explotación de los yacimien-
tos de litio en Uyuni. Lo que perseguía desde hacía tiempo, como sugiere Strö-
bele-Gregor (2013: 80), era una participación en la política de la gestión del litio,
ya que ese porcentaje del 3% estaba fijado en la Ley Nacional sobre Minería y
Metalurgía. La polémica surgió cuando desde la empresa pública Yacimientos
de Litio Bolivianos (YLB) se afirmó que la producción de hidróxido de litio es-
taba exenta de pagar las regalías por cuanto ese proceso estaría a cargo de una
empresa mixta compuesta por una de carácter estatal y otra extranjera. Por
tanto, solo se pagarían regalías por la venta de la salmuera.
Frente a esto, en una entrevista publicada en Página Siete el cuatro de
noviembre de 2019, y en un momento de fuerte deslegitimación del gobierno
masista, un experto economista criticaba el precio de venta de esa salmuera
residual, por cuanto era un material muy valioso y no debería ser considerado
“basura”. También alertaba de los pocos conocimientos técnicos existentes en
Bolivia para la extracción e industrialización del litio e, incluso, cuestionaba
las reservas de este mineral que habían sido anunciadas por el gobierno. Un
llamado de atención que se formulaba frente a las altas expectativas de de-
mandas globales de litio que anunciaba la empresa experta en energías Bloom-
berg New Energy Finance (2018). Según su estudio, en 2025 la demanda se du-
plicaría a unas 800 mil toneladas como consecuencia, entre otros factores, del
aumento de las baterías de los autos eléctricos.
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 971 – 993 , sep. – dic., 2021
975
976
gión. Es por ello que desde el 2011 Argentina comenzó a llevar a cabo una po-
lítica nacional para el fomento de la extracción y aplicación del litio en las
distintas fases de la acumulación electroquímica. Para eso se fundó la compa-
ñía YPF-Conicet, con capital estatal, cuyo objetivo era la financiación de pro-
yectos de investigación y la creación de un centro científico y tecnológico. Mien-
tras tanto en Chile, en 2015, se creó la Comisión Técnica y se aprobó un informe
que ratificaba “el carácter estratégico y no concesible de las reservas nacionales”
(Nacif, 2018: 61). Gracias a estas medidas se estaba consolidado una red nacio-
nal de expertos en litio (Nacif, 2018: 61). Con ello, además, se pretendía rebajar
la fortaleza oligopólica extranjera que se había fraguado desde la mitad del
siglo XX en torno a la extracción, procesamiento y comercialización de este
mineral.
En efecto, este interés por controlar las reservas de litio, con su conse-
cuente amenaza oligopólica, de injerencia internacional y efectos sócio-políti-
cos, no era solo fruto de un recelo excesivo sino que pudo corroborarse en la
respuesta del magnate Elon Musk, fundador de Tesla (uno de los principales
fabricantes mundiales de coches eléctricos), a un twitter que insinuaba su apo-
yo al golpe de Estado de noviembre de 2019 contra el gobierno del MAS. A esto
el magnate sudafricano respondió: “¡Derrocaremos a quien queramos! ¡Aguán-
tense!” (La Razón, 2020). Este mensaje fue retuiteado poco después por Evo Mo-
rales, dando lugar a una agria discusión en las redes sociales acerca de la per-
vivencia del fenómeno neocolonial en Bolivia.
977
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979
este primer caso iba a servir de precedente a nivel nacional. Tanto es así que
un día más tarde el RUAT, DIPROVE y las alcaldías se comprometieron a solu-
cionar el problema entregando un Formulario de Registro Vehicular. Con este
documento los propietarios de los vehículos eléctricos de fabricación nacional
podrían solicitar la matrícula y el SOAT sin necesidad de mostrar el documen-
to de importación. Asimismo, y con el ánimo de resolver esta paradoja buro-
crática, el Ministerio de Gobierno, todavía bajo la presidencia de Evo Morales,
se comprometió a visitar inmediatamente las instalaciones de Quantum Motors,
mientras que el Ministerio de Desarrollo Productivo manifestó su entera dis-
posición a colaborar para enmendar el problema. A su vez, la Alcaldía de Co-
chabamba anunciaba que se iba a promulgar una norma edil para reglamentar
los impuestos de matriculación de los coches eléctricos nacionales, aseguran-
do que los trámites serían más económicos que los de los importados (entre-
vista, gerente y fundador de Quantum Motors, 17 abr. 2020).
Parecía que las diferentes administraciones estaban trabajando conjun-
tamente en aras de solucionar el problema. De este modo, los engranajes de
esa maquinaria estatal descentralizada comenzaron a activarse. Una arquitec-
tura administrativa que se inició con la aprobación en 1992 del proyecto de ley
de descentralización de los gobiernos municipales, con la implementación de
la Ley de Participación Popular de 1994, con la Ley de Descentralización Admi-
nistrativa de 1995 (Blanes, 2003, 177-178) y con la concesión de mayor autono-
mía a las regiones tras la aprobación de la nueva constitución en 2009 (Tockman
et al., 2015). Por medio de este proceso de descentralización se habían transfe-
rido infraestructuras, recursos y competencias tanto a los gobiernos locales
como a los departamentales. 5
En efecto, la descentralización administrativa y las cuotas de poder dis-
tribuidas − y en disputas − ocasionó que durante esos días fuera el propio pre-
sidente de Bolivia, Evo Morales, quien visitara la fábrica de Quantum Motors
para acelerar la solución. Tras probar in situ uno de los modelos y manifestar que
estaba muy sorprendido por la tecnología y los equipos de los vehículos, anun-
ció su total apoyo para la fabricación nacional de los coches eléctricos, ya que
ésta era una muestra de “orgullo cochabambino y boliviano, que inaugura con
creatividad y esfuerzo el nuevo ciclo de industrialización de autos eléctricos en
nuestra querida Bolivia” (Página Siete, 2019a). También realizó unas declaracio-
nes en torno a ese problema burocrático: “Después de informarme con el her-
mano vicepresidente (de la empresa), ya tiene tarea el equipo jurídico de la
Casa Grande del Pueblo para acelerar y pedir que incorpore su asesor jurídico
para cumplir las normas y que el carro eléctrico circule en Bolivia y Cochabam-
ba” (La Razón, 2019a). Es más, Evo Morales se refirió a esa normativa que no
contemplaba la posibilidad de fabricación nacional de automóviles como pro-
ducto de la “mentalidad colonial” (La Razón, 2019a) la cual, como en este caso,
impedía la generación de una industria nacional y sus operaciones productivas.
electromovilidad y retórica política
980
timo funcionamiento del nuevo mercado. Con esto se daba la impresión de que
a veces las pugnas políticas podían orillarse y lo hacían bajo la idea de proteger
y potenciar lo “hecho en Bolivia”. Este giro nacionalista de la producción era
compartido tanto por los gobiernos de Evo Morales, por el gabinete de transición
de Jeanine Áñez, como por la gerencia de Quantum Motors cuando apelaba (con
su “un auto hecho en Bolivia y para los bolivianos”) a la condición nacional de
su producción para subrayar uno de sus principales valores añadidos. Un “na-
cionalismo tecnológico” que, siguiendo a Kennedy (2013) y Amir (2007), se fun-
damenta en aquel discurso que enfatiza en la imprescindibilidad de la produc-
ción y control de una tecnología específica para el desarrollo y crecimiento de
una nación, por cuanto ésta le garantizaría al país cierto posicionamiento, um-
bral de seguridad e independencia en el contexto global.
De este modo, ambos gobiernos bolivianos confluían en lo relevante de
incentivar discursivamente esta industria tecnológica y de conocimiento na-
cional. La diferencia estriba en que si los gobiernos del MAS lo hacían apostan-
do por la soberanía estatal, el de Áñez lo hacía en defensa del emprendimien-
artículo | francisco adolfo garcía jerez
981
to privado. Por ejemplo, con respeto a las políticas económicas de los gabinetes
masistas, éstas se basaban en las ideas de descolonización e indigeneidad, y
aunque retóricamente invocaban al “buen vivir” y a la protección de la Pacha-
mama como ejes de su modelo de desarrollo nacional, económicamente apos-
taban por un extractivismo de corte estatal de dudosa compatibilidad con el
medioambiente. A esta propuesta Postero (2017) la denomina “nacionalismo
indígena”. Políticas estatistas y nacionalizadoras que, en cualquier caso, no
eran del todo tributarias y exclusivas del MAS. Muy al contrario, éstas formaban
parte de una herencia política en Bolivia cuyos precedentes más notables se
hallaban en la visión nacionalista del gobierno de Germán Bush y su “socialis-
mo de Estado” en la década de los 1930, y en la Revolución del 1952 y su célebre
expresión “tierras al indio, minas al Estado” (Stefanoni, 2010: 60). A diferencia
de los gobiernos del MAS, el de Áñez bebía más de una visión liberal y virtuosa
del mercado (Fourcade & Healy, 2007), en el que el despliegue de esta tecnología
era una evidencia nítida del carácter creativo e innovador del empresariado
boliviano actual y de su inserción en una verdadera lógica capitalista.
982
terminadas rutas en las que se deberían habilitar puntos de carga que permi-
tieran realizar el recorrido sin problema. En su opinión, y más allá de la reali-
zación de estudios preliminares, era imprescindible en términos generales
incorporar incentivos para el cambio de la matriz energética en el país, formar
a estudiantes en electromovilidad y que las empresas privadas del ramo reali-
zaran una mayor inversión (Página Siete, 2020).
Lo más interesante de esa solicitud era, por un lado, el perfil de sus pro-
motores y, por otro, el tipo de conciencia ambiental y de tendencia ideológica
que subyacían a sus demandas. Una politóloga y un ingeniero eran los iniciado-
res de la campaña, aunque anunciaban que contaban con el apoyo explícito de
organizaciones ambientalistas como Action for Bolivia y Fridays For Future Bo-
livia. Narrativamente se presentaban como urbanitas y universitarios, con una
conciencia ambiental de corte cosmopolita alejada de los enfoques soberanistas.
Reclamaban activamente la incorporación de buses eléctricos en el sistema
público para cuidar el medio ambiente y la salud, pero no reclamaban que éstos
fueran de producción nacional o ensamblados en territorio boliviano. Asimismo,
artículo | francisco adolfo garcía jerez
983
Conclusiones
La electromovilidad se está conformando en un sector de gran relevancia eco-
nómica, política y social a escala global en el que Bolivia juega un papel muy
destacado por contar con una de las principales reservas de litio (Ströbele-Gre-
gor, 2013). Asimismo, en el último lustro se ha ido conformando un mercado
de la electromovilidad en la región, el cual ha suscitado grandes expectativas.
Si bien Bolivia ha sido uno de los países más rezagados en su implementación,
este territorio nos ofrece un escenario sugerente en el que analizar cómo ese
mercado se está desplegando y cuáles son los discursos que han sido elabora-
dos por los diferentes actores en su consolidación. En mi opinión, son tres re-
tóricas las que podrían sintetizarse.
electromovilidad y retórica política
984
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NOTAS
1 Cabe señalar que Stehr (2008) enfatiza no sólo en la con-
dición moral de los mercados sino en particular en el pro-
ceso de moralización de estos, a partir de la adquisición
de conocimientos por parte de los actores participantes.
Esto implica que los mercados también forman parte de
redes sociales que regulan las conductas, lo que permite
introducir y extender en ellos preocupaciones morales.
Por su parte, Fourcade y Healy (2007), y al igual que Stehr,
también conciben los mercados como entidades morali-
zadas y moralizantes. Sin embargo, para las autoras la
relación entre el orden moral y la actividad económica se
muestra más ambigua, ya que las categorías morales que
permean dichas actividades son constantemente forma-
das, contestadas y transformadas.
2 Sig uiendo a estos autores, se entenderá por mercado la
conf ig uración de un tipo de intercambio social y su es-
tructuración bajo las condiciones del capitalismo. Esto
incluye el estudio de las empresas, de los productos, de
las relaciones laborales, de sus proveedores, del Estado,
de los consumidores y de la relación con la cultura local.
Asimismo, también han de incluirse los significados acer-
ca de lo que es un producto y el papel de la moralidad en
la generación de determinados tipos de mercado.
3 Como bien expone dicho autor, con el término “medite-
rraneidad” se refiere a la condición de Estado sin litoral
de Bolivia como consecuencia de la Guerra del Pacífico a
f inales del siglo XIX, cuando el puerto de Antofagasta
quedó en manos de Chile. Una pérdida que aún en la ac-
tualidad se rememora, anhela y se litiga tanto por lo que
este territorio significa desde el punto de vista emocional
(no en vano, cada 23 de marzo se celebra el Día del Mar),
como por ser actualmente un nudo de comercio interna-
cional.
4 No obstante, cabe señalar que, con el fin de alcanzar una
mayor producción, diversificación (con su nuevo modelo
de triciclo y la fabricación de motocicletas) y comerciali-
zación, en el año 2021 Quantum Motors optó por una po-
lítica de exportación de sus productos a Paraguay y Perú
y ubicación de nuevas fábricas de ensamblaje en países
como México y El Salvador.
electromovilidad y retórica política
986
987
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991
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1
Dama do paço chorando num desfile de maracatu de baque virado
extrato do vídeo: https://vimeo.com/92865169
2
Músico Rom da Transilvânia chorando numa festa de batismo Ceuaș, 2005
Foto © Filippo Bonini Baraldi,
extrato do vídeo: http://ethnomusicologie.fr/tsiganes-bonini-baraldi/data/
video_05.html)
inveja e corpo fechado no maracatu de baque solto pernambucano
998
Então, o carnaval, ele traz uma energia muito forte para quem dança, brinca […]
O Carnaval faz a pessoa sorrir e chorar, tanto de alegria como de tristeza. Ou
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 995 – 1023 , set. – dez., 2021
seja, pode chorar porque está feliz, chora porque o brinquedo ganhou, é campeão,
seja lá em que estág io [categor ia] for ele, pode até [ ser] um br inquedo fraco,
fraquinho, e entrar como aspirante, e ser campeão ou vice-campeão, então o
cara vai chorar pelo brinquedo dele, pelo trabalho dele, pela fantasia dele, chorar...
de alegria; ficou emocionado, e essas coisas, seja qualquer chave [categoria] que
for, do aspirante ao especial. E faz chorar... porque [alguém] está doente e não
pode brincar, ou uma pessoa da família, ela não pode brincar... [...] chora pela
pessoa que faleceu, e chora pelo carnaval que não vai poder brincar, chora por
isso aí. E chora de tristeza [...] porque o brinquedo não ganhou... Então o carna-
val tem de tudo que você imaginar, de tudo que você pensar... e muito mais!
999
3
Aguinaldo costurando a própria gola, elemento essencial da
fantasia do caboclo de lança do maracatu rural
Condado, fev. 2017
Foto © Filippo Bonini Baraldi
inveja e corpo fechado no maracatu de baque solto pernambucano
1000
Por outro lado, meu interlocutor aponta que essa mulher chora porque,
provavelmente, se lembra de uma pessoa da família, doente ou falecida, que já
não pode brincar. Na Romênia, quando perguntava aos Roms por que os músicos
choravam em meio a uma festa, ouvi esse mesmo comentário muitas vezes. A
música pode trazer à memória pessoas específicas e, em muitos casos, a emo-
ção sentida é atribuída a essas lembranças (Baumgartner, 1992). De forma mais
geral, uma performance ou um ritual ativa a memória de eventos do mesmo tipo,
e esse processo de repetição intensifica a experiência emocional vivida no pre-
sente (Lüddeckens, 2006).
Além das dimensões do esforço e da memória, a última frase de Agui-
naldo – “O carnaval tem de tudo que você imaginar, de tudo que você pensar...
e muito mais!” – sugere que é possível encontrar outras causas do choque emo-
cional, provavelmente menos explícitas. Certamente, o carnaval é muito mais
que uma simples diversão (Cavalcanti, 2015), mas o que seria “mais do que
tudo”? Visualizando o mesmo vídeo, outro morador de Condado, o rabequeiro
Luís Paixão, sugeriu-me uma possível resposta:
L.P. Isso aí, isso aí tem... [...] uma relação, sabe de quê? Com candomblé velha,
entendeu? Tem relação com isso, é! As marchas que ele fala [canta] aqui, tem
muito em conta com os caboclos, as coisas, caboclo da mata, essas coisas... Aí
[...] tem é [...] muita relação com... com... com candomblé, é... Entendeu? [risada]
L.P. É... tem uma hora que chega nas pessoas aquela emoção de... de chorar... tem
muitos que embola, cai, essas coisas...
L.P. É... fica embolando no chão, fazendo... Que as vezes nem se lembra que pas-
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 995 – 1023 , set. – dez., 2021
sa aquilo. Tem muita gente que tem corpo de médium... [...] Dessas coisas, no
candomblé [...]
L.P. Médium é a pessoa que trabalha na espiritual, que tem aquelas danças, que
brinca com... com… quando está cantando aqueles hinos aí, ele canta, dança [...]
[tem] muitos, que... que é ligado, muitos. É como se esse povo aí... brinca, mas
tem essa ligação com essas coisas. E muita gente gosta disso aí!
Luís faz uma relação direta entre a emoção intensa da dama do paço,
durante um desfile de carnaval, e o culto do candomblé.6 “Tem muita gente que
tem corpo de médium”, afirma, indicando de maneira explícita que algumas
pessoas podem receber espíritos ou entidades sobrenaturais. Será essa dimen-
são místico-religiosa que Aguinaldo indica quando alega que “o Carnaval tem
de tudo... e muito mais”? Em que medida essa dimensão entra em jogo nas
brincadeiras do carnaval pernambucano, em particular no maracatu de baque
solto? Como se relaciona com a estética visual, musical e coreográfica das per-
formances do maracatu? São perguntas bastante complexas, uma vez que o cul-
artigo | filippo bonini baraldi
1001
O corpo atingido
A antropologia das religiões afro-brasileiras, desde as pesquisas de Roger Bastide
(2001), aponta que o corpo é lugar privilegiado em que as entidades sobrenaturais
se manifestam. Tanto os pesquisadores quanto os adeptos dessas religiões utilizam
a palavra “incorporação” para dar conta dessas manifestações, que podem resultar
em estados de transe, geralmente em lugares predestinados, como as casas de
culto, onde vários rituais são promovidos para as estimular e também controlar. 7
No contexto do maracatu rural, é raro ouvir falar em incorporações duran-
te as apresentações e desfiles de carnaval. Deparei-me frequentemente, no entan-
to, com a ideia de que o corpo pode ser atingido involuntariamente, atacado subi-
tamente por entidades negativas. Os ataques podem causar todo tipo de problemas
durante os desfiles, como impedir o mestre (poeta) de tocar seu apito, interromper
de repente o som dos instrumentos ou ainda furar os pneus dos ônibus que trans-
portam o grupo, mas o efeito mais recorrente nos relatos é a provocação de doen-
ças imprevistas nos brincantes. Isso parece bastante lógico, pois o corpo é o lugar
principal em que as entidades invisíveis se manifestam, e, portanto, quando elas
são consideradas negativas, podem prejudicar seu funcionamento. Por que, porém,
é dada tanta relevância à preocupação de o corpo ser atingido, atacado, fragilizado
por entidades negativas durante o carnaval? Por que ter tão grande preocupação
durante a festa?
O maracatu de baque solto está associado, no imaginário coletivo dos mo-
radores da Zona da Mata norte de Pernambuco, a uma ética de conflito, luta, guer-
ra e morte. Todos os brincantes têm um discurso muito explícito sobre esse aspec-
to, sendo comum ouvir frases do gênero: “Antigamente, o maracatu era pra furar
o inimigo” ou “Maracatu era só porrada”. Confrontações físicas podiam acontecer
entre dois indivíduos ou entre dois grupos rivais. As pessoas mais velhas contam
que quando os caboclos saíam para o carnaval, a pé, nos canaviais, era possível
que se deparassem com “inimigos”, ou seja, algum caboclo com quem tivessem
desavença ou conflito, fosse por dinheiro, família, relação amorosa, entre outras
causas. Armados de uma lança afiada na mão, denominada guiada, elemento in-
inveja e corpo fechado no maracatu de baque solto pernambucano
1002
1003
4
Aguinaldo indicando o “cemitério dos caboclos”,
perto de Nazaré da Mata, 2016
Foto © Filippo Bonini Baraldi
1004
E. Antes também, e quanto mais perto, que vai chegando o dia, mais... misterio-
artigo | filippo bonini baraldi
1005
so vão ficando as coisas. De repente acontece assim uma coisa, de nada, de re-
pente, você nem imagina! […]
F.B.B. Mas tudo isso só acontece no carnaval ou em outros períodos do ano tam-
bém tem esse tipo de...
E. É como se fosse assim... inveja. Assim, inveja sabe? Tem durante todo o ano,
mas nessa época é mais forte. Entende?
E. Inveja é quando você.... tipo assim, você tem estes óculos... A í eu acho os
óculos lindos. Mas eu acho tão lindo, tão lindo, a ponto que eu vou lá e compro
um só porque você tem um deste. Aí eu vou lá e compro porque eu quero ter um
igual a você. Está entendendo? Ou quando é ainda mais sério ainda, quando...
assim, você tem uns óculos daqueles... “Mas como é que ele tem? Por que é que
ele tem? ” E aí já vai dar para o lado da... do olho grande... assim... entendeu? Ele
tem... [então] eu quero ter. E se eu não consigo ter, eu faço de tudo para que ele
não tenha. Está entendendo?
E. Olho grande é assim... é... é... ficar de olho em tudo que você tem, eu quero ter.
Entendeu? [...] Quando o olho g rande, a inveja, é for te mesmo, a pessoa f ica
doente, fica doente mesmo, assim, de cama mesmo! A gente fica [dizendo] “Por-
que é que fulano ficou doente assim de repente? ” Sabe? Dá uma dor de barriga,
uma dor de cabeça, do nada, assim, você está ótimo, e de repente vem aquela
dor de cabeça infernal que não se sabe de onde.
1006
Proteção da inveja
Nas conversas intermináveis que acompanham o carnaval, Bel foi considerado
vítima da inveja, do olho grande de um rival, embora também fosse acusado
de não se ter defendido de maneira apropriada. Na opinião dos maracatuzeiros,
quanto mais uma pessoa está exposta à inveja, mais deve recorrer a práticas
de defesa e proteção. Como, afinal, proteger-se da inveja?
Em meio à grande quantidade de talismãs, amuletos e objetos de prote-
ção contra o mau-olhado, em vários países europeus encontramos precisamen-
te... o símbolo do olho. É o caso dos barcos de pesca no Mediterrâneo, pintados
com dois olhos na frente, ou das árvores votivas da Capadócia (Turquia), deco-
radas com centenas de nazar boncuk, amuletos em vidro branco e azul, que
representam o olho e são considerados eficazes na proteção do mau-olhado.
artigo | filippo bonini baraldi
1007
Esse emblema existe também no Brasil, onde é chamado de olho grego. Pode
parecer curioso utilizar o símbolo do olho para defender-se do olho grande dos
invejosos, mas esse tipo de defesa – que poderíamos chamar de analógica, por-
que se serve da mesma “arma” que causa o prejuízo – é prática muito antiga.
Pensamos na máxima “olho por olho, dente por dente”, que exprime a ideia
segundo a qual a punição deve ser igual ao crime, um princípio que deu origem
à lei registrada de forma escrita mais antiga da história da humanidade: a lei
de talião. 9
Voltando ao maracatu rural e observando de perto (e de bom olho...) a
fantasia da sua personagem mais emblemática, o caboclo de lança, seria mes-
mo possível ver uma correspondência entre o símbolo do olho grego e as lan-
tejoulas que compõem o manto decorado que cobre o corpo dos brincantes
(figura 5 abaixo e a figura 6 na página seguinte).
5
“Olho grego”, amuleto de proteção contra mau-olhado
Foto: Reprodução/Pixabay
inveja e corpo fechado no maracatu de baque solto pernambucano
1008
6
Detalhe da gola do caboclo de lança
Condado, fev. 2017
Foto © Filippo Bonini Baraldi
1009
O brilho
O caboclo de lança, símbolo do carnaval de Recife, cuja imagem colorida é uti-
lizada para publicidade dessa manifestação, é por definição uma figura brilhan-
te (figura 7). Esse adjetivo é válido num plano simbólico, como sinônimo de
pessoa valiosa, com qualidades positivas como a coragem, a resistência, a be-
leza, a habilidade na dança. Brilhante significa também “caráter ou condição
daquilo que esbanja luxo, opulência, esplendor, magnificência” (Houaiss & Villar,
2001); de fato, não é difícil observar essa abundância e essa magnificência na
fantasia do caboclo. Os materiais utilizados não são, em si, preciosos, mas são
inveja e corpo fechado no maracatu de baque solto pernambucano
1010
7
O brilho dos caboclos de lança
Condado, fev. 2017
Foto © Filippo Bonini Baraldi
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 995 – 1023 , set. – dez., 2021
1011
mento de clímax, quando diante da sede mostram sua fantasia à cidade toda,
o olho dos outros é hipersolicitado, hiperestimulado. Junto aos comentários de
admiração pela beleza de um caboclo e pela sua maestria nos passos de dança,
a exposição pública da própria fantasia, da própria magnificência, da própria
habilidade, pode gerar críticas e dúvidas do tipo: “De onde ele tirou todo aque-
le dinheiro para poder comprar um material tão caro?” Quando essa atividade
do olhar se torna intensa demais, provocando pensamentos ou comentários
desse tipo, já não pressupõe um olho normal, mas um olho “grande”, “gordo”,
invejoso. Isso explica por que o risco de esse olho ficar “grande” é maior nesse
período do ano: o carnaval é o momento em que as pessoas mostram publica-
mente, dentro e fora da comunidade, a própria beleza, riqueza, habilidade, po-
der – numa palavra, o próprio brilho.
O brilho atrai, mas também reflete, recusa, rejeita. As lantejoulas da
gola, as fitas do chapéu, os óculos de sol do caboclo, são materiais altamente
refletores que, por definição, em vez de absorver a luz, não a deixam entrar. Da
mesma forma, esses materiais recusam o olhar dos outros: não é possível olhar
algo brilhante por muito tempo sem fechar os olhos, porque eles são “atacados”
pela luz refletida. Eis o paradoxo: a fantasia tem a dupla propriedade de cativar,
atrair o olhar dos outros, e simultaneamente providenciar defesa desse olho
que pode tornar-se demasiado “grande”, perigoso. “Olha o meu brilho, mas
cuidado para não olhar demasiado senão vai ficar cego” parece ser uma tradu-
ção do efeito visual da fantasia do caboclo de lança.
O mesmo tipo de efeito paradoxal – atrair e afastar – é obtido acustica-
mente: “Ouve-me, mas cuidado para não me ouvir em demasia senão vai ficar
surdo”, poderia ser uma metáfora do caboclo que dança na rua batendo o sur-
rão. Nessa estrutura em madeira que o caboclo carrega nos ombros, sob a gola,
são colocados grandes chocalhos em metal, que emitem um som seco, forte e
regular a cada passo. O som dos chocalhos, além de ser forte, é também “bri-
lhante”. Esse adjetivo, no domínio sonoro, indica som com muitos harmônicos
superiores realçados e frequentemente associado ao timbre dos metais (Shi-
moda, 2013). Um som brilhante, do ponto de vista perceptivo, é um som “claro”,
ou seja, capaz de ativar instantaneamente o ouvido, de “abrir as orelhas”. Ao
mesmo tempo, especialmente quando à caraterística do brilho do som vem
juntar-se uma intensidade elevada e um ataque abrupto, como é caso nas per-
cussões metálicas, o efeito incomoda, perturba o ouvido. Os maracatuzeiros
têm um gosto particular em ouvir os chocalhos dos caboclos e afirmam reco-
nhecer a pessoa a partir do som do seu surrão. Para quem não brinca ou não
gosta do carnaval, esse som pode ser bastante desconfortável, convidando a
tapar as orelhas.
É útil lembrar que o som dos chocalhos e dos sinos em geral, em muitas
sociedades diferentes, tem uma função apotropaica (Schaeffner, 1978; Ricci,
2012). Nas regiões rurais da sul da Europa ainda é possível encontrar, durante
inveja e corpo fechado no maracatu de baque solto pernambucano
1012
Fechar o corpo
A melhor estratégia para prevenir os perigos é evitar que o olho dos inimigos
se “abra” demasiado, fora de um alcance razoável, até ficar grande ou gordo. A
fantasia do caboclo de lança pode ser interpretada como um escudo que, por
meio dos padrões labirínticos e do brilho refletido, “captura” as entidades ne-
gativas e fecha o olho dos invejosos. “Fechar”, porém, não é apenas uma práti-
ca de ataque (ou contra-ataque); é simultaneamente estratégia defensiva fun-
damental, que interessa também ao próprio corpo do caboclo.
Nos comentários dos maracatuzeiros da Zona da Mata norte, emerge
uma oposição explícita entre corpo aberto, sinônimo de corpo susceptível, vul-
nerável, e corpo fechado, sinônimo de corpo protegido (ver também Garrabé,
2010; Teixeira, 2016). Assim, quando perguntei a um velho brincante do Mara-
catu Leão de Ouro o que ele pensava a respeito da dor repentina que atingiu a
perna do mestre caboclo Bel, ele olhou para mim, fez o gesto de abrir a boca, e
comentou: “Não se pode sair no carnaval de boca aberta!” Outro dia, olhando
artigo | filippo bonini baraldi
1013
1014
Conclusão
Resumindo, os membros dos grupos de maracatu rural da Zona da Mata norte
pernambucana sentem-se particularmente expostos, na época do carnaval, a
vários tipos de doenças. Repentina dor nas pernas dos caboclos dançarinos ou
dor de barriga nas damas do passo podem até os impedir de brincar.
Em Condado, pequena cidade do “Nordeste místico” (Bastide, 1978), as
pessoas atribuem uma explicação unânime a esses acontecimentos. As doenças
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 995 – 1023 , set. – dez., 2021
que afetam o corpo têm origem no sentimento de inveja das pessoas que “que-
rem ter e não têm”. Esse sentimento intersubjetivo é exacerbado na época do
carnaval, um contexto competitivo no qual a confrontação e a rivalidade, di-
mensões fundamentais do éthos guerreiro do maracatu rural, assumem propor-
ções consideráveis. A necessidade e o desejo de expor publicamente habilidade
e magnificência correspondem ao perigo de tornar o olho dos invejosos dema-
siado grande. Daí a necessidade de práticas defensivas, tanto no plano ritual
quanto no plano estético.
É possível interpretar algumas características do maracatu rural e de
sua personagem principal, o caboclo de lança, a partir de um aparente parado-
xo: atrair atenções, olhares e ouvidos e ao mesmo tempo recusar, refletir, re-
bater as entidades negativas que o olho grande pode despertar. Os padrões
decorativos labirínticos da gola, aos quais pode ser atribuída uma função apo-
tropaica (Gell, 1998), os materiais brilhantes e refletores utilizados na fantasia
e a atenção minuciosa em revestir todo o corpo, incluindo os olhos, convidam
a pensar o caboclo de lança como um “corpo-armadilha”. Essa estética exprime
artigo | filippo bonini baraldi
1015
um tipo de defesa que pode ser chamada de analógica: o brilho é uma proprie-
dade óptica capaz de atingir o mesmo órgão do qual vem o perigo. Quanto mais
cresce o olho dos invejosos mais o brilho da luz pode atacá-lo de volta. Fechan-
do-o, o torna inofensivo.
Para brincar o carnaval sem arriscar a própria saúde é necessário fechar
os olhos dos invejosos, mas também é preciso fechar o próprio corpo, fisioló-
gica, simbólica e esteticamente. A expressão corpo fechado, nesse contexto, é
sinônimo de corpo protegido, poderoso, saudável, invencível, enquanto corpo
aberto o é de corpo vulnerável, susceptível aos ataques das entidades negativas
despertadas pelo olho grande de rivais e inimigos.
Na primeira parte deste artigo, declarei meu interesse principal de per-
ceber quais experiências emocionais são mobilizadas pela música e pela dan-
ça, e revelar o significado dessas experiências num contexto cultural particular.
Nessa direção explorei a dimensão social do sentimento de inveja, o que cer-
tamente não é suficiente para determinar com precisão as vivências emocionais
dos maracatuzeiros e a relação delas com a música e a dança. No entanto, é
útil lembrar que, de acordo com Spinoza (1954, apud Solomon, 2003: 33), as
emoções são “afecções do corpo, pelas quais sua potência de agir é aumentada
ou diminuída, estimulada ou refreada, bem como, ao mesmo tempo, as ideias
dessas afecções”. Damasio (1995), em seus importantes trabalhos sobre as emo-
ções, inspira-se nessa mesma definição, abrindo o caminho para um novo pa-
radigma, no qual o corpo é o centro da atenção. Hoje em dia, os cientistas
cognitivos dão muito mais importância à pesquisa sobre “incorporação” (embo-
diment) dos estados afetivos (De Gelder, 2016). Os antropólogos também se in-
teressam pelo corpo enquanto lugar privilegiado de expressão, percepção das
emoções (Héritier & Xanthhakou, 2004) e o paradigma do embodiment também
é relevante para a pesquisa em música (Leman, 2007; Desroches, Stévance &
Lacasse, 2014).
Dessa forma, um primeiro passo para perceber a vivência emocional dos
maracatuzeiros foi olhar de perto como, na época do carnaval, o corpo dos
brincantes é concebido. Trata-se nesse caso de uma verdadeira transformação
espiritual e estética, que por sua vez é ligada a um universo místico bem par-
ticular. O maracatu, porém, é uma atividade coletiva na qual vários corpos
individuais devem cooperar. É evidente que as vivências emocionais dos pro-
tagonistas − e especialmente a alegria procurada no carnaval − dependem des-
ses sistemas de interações e movimentos coletivos (manobras). O próximo
passo será, portanto, perceber como esse corpo individual transformado se
relaciona com outros corpos ao longo de uma performance de maracatu. Mas
essa é outra história, à qual vou dedicar outro artigo.
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sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 995 – 1023 , set. – dez., 2021
1017
Notas
* Este artigo se enquadra no projeto “The Healing and Emo-
tional Power of Music and Dance”, (HELP-MD), financiado
pela Fundação da Ciência e Tecnologia de Portugal (PTDC/
ART-PER /29641/2017). A pesquisa de campo em Pernam-
buco foi possível graças a uma bolsa Capes de professor
convidado (PVE 0337-14-5) e ao prog rama “Investigador
FCT” da Fundação da Ciência e Tecnolog ia de Portugal
(IF/01233 /2014 /CP1221/CT0002). Ag radeço a Carlos San-
droni, Aguinaldo e todos os membros do Maracatu Leão
de Ouro, de Condado, a hospitalidade e amizade que me
ofereceram ao longo de minha pesquisa de campo. Meus
agradecimentos também a Leon Bucaretchi, Fatima Bara-
hona, Jean-Pierre Estival, Alan Monteiro Jr., aos revisores
anônimos e à equipe editorial de Sociologia & Antropologia
pelos conselhos e correções deste texto, escrito original-
mente em português.
1 Nessa e nas demais citações em idiomas estrangeiros a
tradução é nossa. No or ig inal: “Happiness is the emotion
most frequently associated to musical listening and may cons-
titute one of the ‘universals’ of cross-cultural studies of music
and emotion.”
2 No original: “musically aroused and excited”.
3 O documentário explora a dimensão religiosa e sagrada
dos grupos de maracatu de baque virado e de baque solto.
A dama do paço, figura fundamental de todos os maraca-
tus, dança tendo na mão uma pequena boneca preta, a
calunga, que supostamente guia e protege o grupo, ligan-
do o maracatu com os orixás (divindades de origem afri-
cana).
4 O cavalo mar inho é um teatro de rua, praticado pr inci-
palmente durante a época do Natal, no qual vár ios per-
sonagens mascarados narram comicamente a vida dos
trabalhadores rurais (Murphy, 2008; Acselrad, 2013). Para
uma descrição do maracatu rural, ver Real (1967), Chaves
(2008 ), Garrabé (2010 ), Teixeira (2016), Morais e Silva
(2018).
5 Trata-se, grosso modo, de religião de origem afro-indígena
misturada com elementos da corrente esotérica europeia
conhecida como kardecismo (Assunção, 2006; Guimarães
de Salles, 2010). Nela são venerados os orixás, como no
inveja e corpo fechado no maracatu de baque solto pernambucano
1018
of all, that relations of conf lict and struggle are just as ‘social’
as relations of solidarity, and secondly, that wherever one
finds conf lict there one finds abundant deployment of all
kinds of decorative art. Much of this art is of the variety
known as ‘apotropaic.’ Apotropaic art, which protects an agent
[...] against the recipient (usually the enemy in demonic rather
than human form), is a prime instance of artistic agency, and
hence a topic of central concern in the anthropology of art.
The apotropaic use of patterns is as protective devices, defen-
sive screens or obstacle impeding passage. This ‘apotropaic’ use
of patterns seems paradoxical in that the placing of patterns to
keep demons at bay seems contrary to the use of patterns in
other contexts as a means of bringing about attachment between
people and artefacts. If pattern attract, wouldn’t they also
attract, rather than repel demons? But the paradox is ap-
artigo | filippo bonini baraldi
1019
ReferÊncias
1020
1021
1022
1023
1026
1027
1995: 60). Uma vez que a transformação das condições materiais do país impu-
nha uma tomada de consciência crítica pelos intelectuais, compreendendo a
questão do desenvolvimento como um problema político e epistemológico,
Guerreiro buscava no pensamento político brasileiro subsídios para uma ideo-
logia orgânica, que naquele momento servisse de “suporte à estruturação efe-
tiva das tendências de autodeterminação vigentes no país” (Ramos, 1995: 60).
Seus textos do período do Iseb refletem esse deslocamento de seus estudos, do
pensamento sociológico para o político: A problemática da realidade brasileira, de
1955, A dinâmica da sociedade política no Brasil, de 1955, Esforços de teorização da
realidade nacional politicamente orientados de 1870 aos nossos dias, de 1955, A ide-
ologia da jeunesse dorée, de 1955, O inconsciente sociológico: estudo sobre a crise
política no Brasil, na década de 1930, de 1956, Nacionalismo e xenofobia, de 1956,
Ideologias e segurança nacional, de 1957, Caracteres da intelligentsia, de 1957, e
Condições sociais do poder nacional, de 1957. Tendo em vista a preexistência de
artigo dedicado ao estudo do período ibespiano (Lynch, 2015), durante o qual
Guerreiro se debruçou sobre o pensamento sociológico brasileiro para elaborar
sua teoria da sociedade brasileira (1953-1955), o presente artigo contemplará
esse segundo momento ou fase de sua pesquisa, ao longo do qual, no seu pe-
ríodo isebiano, Guerreiro se debruçou sobre a história do pensamento político
brasileiro, no intuito de lastrear sua ideologia nacional-desenvolvimentista
(1955-1958).
O presente artigo também busca elucidar as motivações de Guerreiro
em semelhante projeto de pesquisa no período. A crise política que resultou
no suicídio de Vargas afetou profundamente os membros do Ibesp, que passa-
ram a reivindicar a sustentação ideológica do processo de desenvolvimento em
oposição às ideologias liberais por eles julgadas conservadoras. Atuando junto
ao Ministério da Educação e Cultura, Hélio Jaguaribe conseguiu estatizar o Ibesp,
sob o nome de Instituto Superior de Estudos Brasileiros (Iseb). Convidado a
assumir o Departamento de Sociologia do recém-fundado instituto, Guerreiro
passou a argumentar que a industrialização, a urbanização e o crescimento do
mercado interno viabilizavam a superação da condição semicolonial denuncia-
da em seus escritos anteriores. O presente artigo pretende, assim, recortar o
período histórico de produção dos textos isebiano (1955-1958) e examiná-los
cronologicamente, a fim de descobrir a lógica de sua produção e o itinerário
íntimo do autor na tentativa de elaborar sua teoria da sociedade brasileira. Uma
análise organizada dos textos do período, acredita-se, permite identificar os
elementos de continuidade entre os trabalhos do período anterior, dedicado ao
estudo do pensamento sociológico brasileiro, no intuito de elaborar os funda-
mentos de uma teoria sociológica brasileira, e os escritos do período seguinte,
dedicados ao estudo do pensamento político brasileiro, com vistas à elaboração
de uma teoria ou ideologia política brasileira, voltada para o esforço desenvol-
vimentista. Ao fim, será possível desenvolver a hipótese de que, já armado, na
teoria pós-colonial e pensamento brasileiro na obra de guerreiro ramos
1028
1029
1030
1031
matividade “a dialética infinita da realidade social” (Ramos, 1995: 63). Por suas
vezes, as classes e os grupos dominantes consideravam definitivo o estádio
atual da estrutura social, admitindo a mudança apenas na chave de atualização
do existente. Enfatizando o valor da ordem e da hierarquia, as classes domi-
nantes acreditavam na naturalidade ou eternidade das leis de funcionamento
da realidade. Já as classes e os grupos declinantes, “aposentados da eficácia
histórica” (Ramos, 1995: 64), desejavam retornar ao período em que dominavam,
clamando pela restauração do passado. As posições de ascensão, dominação e
declínio, com suas respectivas ideologias, seriam também posições de coexis-
tência e sucessão: elas existiriam simultaneamente, brandidas classe a classe,
conforme as posições por elas ocupadas em cada período histórico. O modelo
elaborado por Guerreiro concluía que, somente quando se acentuassem as con-
tradições decorrentes das transformações materiais, as classes dominadas
romperiam a alienação e assumiriam posição de autonomia no processo polí-
tico.
Segundo sua interpretação, ascendente até 1822, a “classe latifundiária”
teria dominado a cena brasileira até 1930, cedendo então paulatinamente sua
hegemonia à “burguesia industrial” (Ramos, 1995: 72), que dominaria depois de
1945, em uma aliança conflituosa com a classe latifundiária decadente, mate-
rializada partidariamente no Partido Social Democrático (PSD). A expansão da
produção para o mercado interno e o incremento da produção de bens de capi-
tal teriam determinado “o declínio da burguesia latifúndio-mercantil como clas-
se dominante” em benefício da “burguesia industrial”. Entre 1930 e 1945, uma
situação de equilíbrio de poder teria se conformado, diante da necessidade de
expansão da capacidade regulatória do Estado. Por isso, Guerreiro explicava o
intervalo bonapartista do Estado Novo como uma “ditadura da híbrida burguesia
nacional” (Ramos, 1995: 74). A posterior exacerbação dessa polaridade decorria
do aprofundamento da industrialização, considerada fator determinante da
dinâmica social e política, ainda que não exclusivo. No intervalo crucial de 1870
a 1930 destacara-se a classe média, que sempre atuara como uma “espécie de
vanguarda” progressista, responsável por todas as mudanças sociais (Ramos,
1995: 72). Após 1930, com a emergência do proletariado e da burguesia industrial,
essa “pequena burguesia” viria adotando tendências direitistas, abraçando su-
cessivamente o integralismo e a UDN (União Democrática Nacional). Depois de
1945, a classe média tinha se tornado “uma força reacionária domesticada por
uma ideologia reformista e moralista” (Ramos, 1995: 75). Por sua vez, nascida de
elementos oriundos da massa de ex-escravos e da plebe rural em torno das fa-
zendas, a “classe proletária”, ascenderia desde a década de 1880 de sua primiti-
va irrelevância, ganhando acelerado protagonismo desde 1930. Ela encontrava
sua tradução partidária no Partido Trabalhista Brasileiro (PTB). Se até 1930 era
na classe média que se manifestavam “as tendências dominantes do processo
de desenvolvimento da sociedade brasileira”, era nas suas ideologias que Guer-
teoria pós-colonial e pensamento brasileiro na obra de guerreiro ramos
1032
reiro buscava antecedentes para formular sua ideologia orgânica de uma socie-
dade brasileira em processo de mutação. A campanha civilista (1909-1910), a
reação republicana (1922), o movimento tenentista (1922-1930), movimentos
puramente liberais, eram marcos “da revolução da classe média contra as oli-
garquias latifúndio-mercantis” (Ramos, 1995: 72).
1033
1034
1035
Ação Integralista Brasileira (1932) e por Luís Carlos Prestes à frente do Partido
Comunista do Brasil (1935). Esta última já não o interessava, porque suas linhas
teriam mimetizado aquela o fascismo e esta o bolchevismo. A conclusão indica-
va que a “diferenciação social das classes pela expansão industrial e a reorienta-
ção da economia brasileira no sentido de um amplo mercado interno e, portanto,
anticolonial” (Ramos, 1995: 97) vinham se acelerando sob o impulso da crise do
imperialismo (colonialismo). Nenhuma, no entanto, teria produzido “a formula-
ção de uma ideologia orgânica da realidade nacional que refletisse a direção do-
minante do processo de desenvolvimento da sociedade brasileira” (Ramos, 1995:
97). Daí a crise da organização político-partidária, cujas premissas ideológicas
estavam em descompasso com as mudanças sofridas desde 1930. A superação
dessa crise dependia de uma teoria que sustentasse um pensamento político
(isto é, uma ideologia) que encaminhasse “as forças políticas no sentido da ten-
dência dominante do processo de desenvolvimento do país” (Ramos, 1995: 97).
Em busca de contribuições para a sua projetada teoria, Guerreiro voltou-
se se de modo mais detalhado para o pensamento político da década de 1930,
apontando as tendências conservadoras e progressistas da sociedade brasilei-
ra em três textos na sequência. O primeiro, dedicado à linhagem de autores
classificados antes como responsáveis pela “direção normativo-acadêmica”,
chamava-se A ideologia da jeunesse dorée (1955). Tratava-se de uma orientação
de tendência conservadora, própria “de um grupo de escritores, oriundos de
famílias tradicionais e abastadas, afastados das lutas partidárias e preocupados
quase exclusivamente com a vida intelectual” (Ramos, 1961: 152). Diante da
investida da classe média e do proletariado, seus representantes – como Alceu
Amoroso Lima (Tristão de Ataíde), Afonso Arinos de Mello Franco e Otávio de
Faria – interpretavam os acontecimentos recentes na chave da decadência, sau-
dosista da boa e velha ordem do Império, época em que sua classe social pre-
valecia na política brasileira. As mudanças eram explicadas como decorrentes
da “indisciplina mental, desordem intelectual e consequentemente só poderão
ser erradicadas por operações psicológicas: recristianização, primado das elites
letradas, melhoria do caráter nacional” (Ramos, 1961: 153-154). Cultivando uma
noção livresca de cultura, os conservadores eram “induzidos a um certo este-
ticismo diante de si mesmos e da vida, tentando a perfeição anterior pela au-
toanálise, pelo esclarecimento, pelo exercício do domínio da vontade e, além
disso, pela concepção do homem e da sociedade em termos preponderante-
mente psicológicos” (Ramos, 1961: 153). Por isso, eles tenderiam “a conceber o
mundo como uma ordem ideal, por excelência, de que seria reflexo o mundo
material. Guerreiro interpretava que, por suas condições de classe, esses auto-
res permaneciam distantes das “questões práticas da vida” (Ramos, 1961: 160).
A tese da salvação do país pelos intelectuais e pelas elites explicitava o eleva-
do conceito que esses escritores tinham de si, o seu temor das novas classes
emergentes e seu inconformismo com a perda da hegemonia: “A estrutura eco-
teoria pós-colonial e pensamento brasileiro na obra de guerreiro ramos
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
“que decorre da perda de exemplaridade das ideias, por meio das quais justifi-
cava sua dominação uma classe há quase duas décadas em processo de apo-
sentadoria histórica” (Ramos, 1961: 190).
Clarificados os referentes conceituais centrais relativos à ideologia, do
nacionalismo e da intelligentsia, Guerreiro já estava em condições de apresentar
sua proposta de uma ideologia nacional-desenvolvimentista. Ela viria na aula
inaugural do curso regular do Iseb para 1957, “Condições sociais do poder na-
cional”. O poder nacional era “o conjunto de todos os grupos e indivíduos diri-
gentes que desempenham papel ativo na organização de um país, de todos os
elementos políticos por excelência que concentram em suas mãos a direção
econômico-social, o poder militar e as funções administrativas” (Ramos, 1960:
18). O Brasil teria sido até 1930 um enorme território de economia agrária e
população ganglionar, governada por oligarquias agrárias e sujeita ao imperia-
lismo inglês. Esse arranjo lhe rendera uma posição periférica e complementar
perante as nações desenvolvidas, impedindo a emergência de um povo e de um
poder nacional. A complementariedade típica dos países periféricos era um
“fato social total” que “permeava todos os níveis de nossa existência” (Ramos,
1960: 22). Daí o caráter hegemonicamente alienado de sua cultura, impedindo
a emergência da consciência crítica necessária à autodeterminação. Guerreiro,
porém, não era fatalista ou pessimista como Alberto Torres. Para o Brasil, “não
havia outra maneira de integrar-se na história universal, senão começando por
ser uma região periférica do Ocidente” (Ramos, 1960: 20). Como Oliveira Viana,
ele também reconhecia que a antiga classe dominante teria desempenhado
com rara competência o seu papel político dirigente: “Desde a chegada de D.
João VI ao Brasil em 1808, até a década de 1920, essa classe cumpriu a sua mis-
são, não raro com admirável senso de oportunidade” (Ramos, 1960: 20). Havia
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1025 – 1049 , set. – dez., 2021
1041
1042
Conclusão
Este artigo procurou comprovar duas hipóteses gerais. A primeira delas é a de
que, partindo de uma perspectiva que hoje se denominaria pós-colonial, Guer-
reiro Ramos pretendia elaborar uma teoria social brasileira, crítica da sociolo-
gia positivista. A hipótese era desafiadora, haja vista que seus livros publicados
entre 1953 e 1961, com a exceção de A redução sociológica, não apresentam ca-
ráter sistemático. Em vez de ler cada um dos livros pressupondo a sua unidade
cronológica ou lógica, a investigação adotou um método “histórico-sistemático”,
que os decompôs em seus diversos textos, a fim de os ler na ordem em que
foram orginalmente publicados em revistas e jornais da época. Assim proce-
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1025 – 1049 , set. – dez., 2021
1043
1044
1045
deputado federal em 1963 (Bariani, 2011: 182-185). Nessa terceira fase, Guerrei-
ro Ramos produziria textos programáticos como Princípios do Povo Brasileiro, de
1959, Cinco princípios do povo brasileiro, de 1959, Panorama do Brasil contemporâneo,
de 1961, e Mito e verdade da revolução brasileira, de 1963. Tomado pelos aconte-
cimentos, Guerreiro foi adiando seu projeto de sistematização de sua teoria,
para além da parte epistemológica já exposta em A redução sociológica. O golpe
militar do ano seguinte, cassando seus direitos políticos, o obrigaria a dar uma
guinada radical em seus planos, abandonando aquele projeto. Ele deslocou seu
espaço de atuação acadêmica para o campo da administração pública e emigrou
para os Estados Unidos, onde se tornou professor em tempo integral na Uni-
versidade da Califórnia do Sul. Mas o essencial de sua teoria social e política
já estava desenvolvido, e suas obras influenciariam de modo decisivo alguns
dos principais representantes da primeira geração de cientistas políticos bra-
sileiros na virada da década de 1960 para a de 1970, como Bolívar Lamounier,
José Murilo de Carvalho e Wanderley Guilherme dos Santos (Lynch, 2013; Lynch
& Cassimiro, 2018).
1046
NOTAS
1 Com o golpe de Estado de 1964 , a oportunidade para a
redação daquela obra se perdeu. Até então, Guerreiro so-
mente sistematizara a parte epistemológ ica de seu pro-
jeto em A redução sociológica (1958). O material que guar-
dava acabou aproveitado para o Tratado nos capítulos 4, 5
e 6 de Administração pública e estratégia do desenvolvimento
(1966), obra produzida a pedido da Escola Brasileira de
Administração Pública e de Empresas da Fundação Getu-
lio Vargas (Ebape-FGV ) e alg uns artigos publicados na
sequência. Daí que, em entrevista no fim da vida, ele la-
mentasse o aspecto fragmentário de sua produção: “Nada
foi acabado” (Oliveira, 1995: 160). Isso não significa, en-
tretanto, que sua teor ia da sociedade brasileira já não
estivesse suficientemente esboçada nos diversos textos
publicados no período. Esse havia sido o tema da própria
A redução sociológica, abordado diversas vezes antes de
sistematizá-lo no livro de 1958. Em outras palavras, a não
publicação do Tratado de Guerreiro Ramos não impede o
estudioso de recuperar e reconstituir, pelo exame de seus
textos, a teoria que ele deixou de sistematizar.
2 “Aparentemente rigorosa, a atitude do economista parna-
siano é comodista e primária. De um lado, porque deso-
briga o economista a pensar em termos nacionais, o que
seria penoso; do outro, porque essa atitude supõe que o
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1025 – 1049 , set. – dez., 2021
ReferênciaS
1047
1048
1049
PÓS-COLONIALISMO E DECOLONIALIDADES:
ETNICIDADE, REPRODUÇÃO, GÊNERO E
SEXUALIDADE – VOZES DA ÁFRICA – NOTAS
A PARTIR DE UM CONHECIMENTO EM CURSO
1052
vidos entre outros por Quijano, 2000, no âmbito do debate sobre decolonialida-
de). Referimo-nos a Gonzalez (2019a) e Nascimento, (2018).
Note-se que um dos autores pioneiros do pensamento decolonial foi o
sociólogo Aníbal Quijano em finais dos anos 90 (ver sobre a trajetória inicial de
tal pensamento em Ballestrin, 2013). De Quijano o conceito de “colonialidade
do poder”, enfatizando raça como construto da modernidade, em que relações
assimétricas entre colonizadores e colonizados seriam justificadas em nome
da não humanidade dos colonizados, os de pele escura, e teriam colaborado
para a acumulação de riquezas e avanços, até no plano do conhecimento em
centros da ‘intrusão colonial, e a reprodução desse processo. Ballestrin (2013)
indica que o conceito de colonialidade do poder foi ampliado por Mignolo em
2010, a partir da elaboração original de Quijano em 1992, “considerando distin-
tos controles da natureza e dos recursos naturais”. Assim ter-se-ia:
— controle da economia;
— controle da autoridade;
— controle do poder − controle da natureza e dos recursos naturais;
— controle do gênero e da sexualidade; e
— controle da subjetividade e do conhecimento.
É no plano da lida com o controle da subjetividade e do conhecimento
que as resistências ou decolonialidades mais viriam entusiasmando acadêmi-
cos e ativistas ou conseguindo mais realizar alguma virada epistemológica.
A denúncia da dependência cognitiva a eurocentrismos enriquece os
debates sobre colonização apresentados por autores da decolonialidade, ainda
que haja mais do que discutir o que seria eurocêntrico e o que teria o aval de
acervo civilizatório positivo, assim como a importância de redes de conheci-
mento, em especial para o feminismo, o que pede mais traduções ou adaptações
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1051 – 1075 , set. – dez., 2021
1053
nero. Nesse romance, por exemplo, os personagens “Delfina e João dos Montes
se casam para matar a paixão” (Chiziane, 2018: contracapa).
Em Quijano (2000) a ênfase na diferença de sentidos da modernidade
para a Europa e as regiões colonizadas se associaria às relações de dependên-
cia e de exploração das colônias. Destacamos desse autor o acento na relação
entre a vida material, as relações intersubjetivas e sua representação subjeti-
va, legitimada por saberes:
1054
ções enunciadas como decoloniais, por Lélia Gonzalez (2018: 329), que propõe
busca por um conhecimento “político-cultural da amefricanidade”: “Para além
do seu caráter puramente geográfico, a categoria de amefricanidade incorpora
todo um processo histórico de intensa dinâmica cultural (adaptação, resistên-
cia, reinterpretação e criação de novas formas) que é afrocentrada”.
Considerando que a dinâmica cultural a que se refere Gonzalez (2019b
vai além da adoção de modelos pretéritos, calcados em heranças pré-coloniais
ou formas de resistências, mesmo em tempos pós-coloniais, mas que “a criação
de novas formas” resgata, adaptando ou negando experiências, modelou-se um
Curso, interessado em mais conhecer representações sobre Áfricas, relações
sociais várias aí, em especial no campo de gênero e de processos de colonização,
considerando alguns grupos étnicos, ou seja, na micro e macropolítica, a partir
de sujeitos específicos: mulheres romancistas com dupla inserção cultural. Elas
são de países africanos, resgatam tradições étnico-político-culturais diversifi-
cadas, em alguns casos combinam biografia com história de formação da nação,
destacando colonização e resistências pelas mulheres e são herdeiras da tra-
dição griô. São contadoras de estórias, mas foram educadas em centros univer-
sitários de países cêntricos e muitas aí vivem.
Insiste-se, a “decolonialidade do saber” é projeto caro nos debates com
perspectiva decolonial, que destacam a importância de espaço para vozes não
eurocêntricas nas universidades e entrelace de saberes, como os academica-
mente legitimados e aqueles que encarnam vivências comunitárias e heranças
culturais de povos originais e escravizados. Considerando autoras, em especial
feministas, latino-americanas e africanas, sobre pós-colonialismo e decoloniali-
dade, no Curso se analisam romances de autoras africanas e se o desenha como
busca por uma experiência crítica à colonialidade do saber. Tal objetivo, porém,
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1051 – 1075 , set. – dez., 2021
1055
tos e produtoras dos contextos de que fazem parte, os autores sugerem pensar
essa relação menos em termos de reflexo e mais a partir de um “paradigma da
reflexividade”, posição essa que
1056
Não sou uma literata ‘de cathedra’, não conheço com profundidade as nuanças
da língua portuguesa. O que conheço da nobre língua vem dos estudos escolares
e do hábito prazeroso de ler. Sou uma literata por necessidade. Tenho uma men-
te formada pela líng ua portug uesa e pela líng ua yorubá. Sou bisneta do povo
lusitano e do povo africano. Não sou branca, não sou negra. Sou marrom. Carre-
go em mim todas as cores. Sou brasileira. Sou baiana. A sabedoria ancestral do
povo africano, que a mim foi transmitida pelos ‘meus mais velhos’ de maneira
oral, não pode ser perdida, precisa ser registrada. Não me canso de repetir: o que
não se registra o tempo leva. É por isso e para isso que escrevo. Compromisso
continua sendo a palavra de ordem. Ela foi sentenciada por Mãe Aninha e eu a
acato com devoção. Em um dos artigos que escrevi, eu digo: Comprometer-se é
obrigar-se a cumprir um pacto feito, tenha sido ele escrito ou não. O verbo obri-
gar, que tem origem no latim obligare, significa unir.
1057
1058
1.Etnicidade
2. O “giro decolonial”, lugar da raça
3. Pós-colonialismo – economia política, lugar do gênero, da sexualidade
e do biopoder – violências
4. Contribuições feministas ao debate sobre decolonialidade – vozes nas
Américas
5. A reprodução da vida – conceito com potencialidades para construção
de um pensamento crítico feminista decolonial
6. Exorcizando eurocentrismos em gênero – Críticas de pensadoras/es
de países africanos
7. Vozes da África no feminino. Romances da diáspora (seminários por
alunas participantes)
8. Saber desde a sexualidade e do sagrado, Brasil
9. Pensamento afrodiaspórico no feminino – pioneiras, Brasil: Lélia Gon-
zalez e Beatriz Nascimento
Recapitularei um pouco – não será inútil, o que andei dizendo. Tentei mostrar
que a etnicidade pode ser mais bem entendida se vista em situação, como uma
forma de organização política; essa perspectiva tem sido muito fecunda e tem
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1051 – 1075 , set. – dez., 2021
1059
Alguns de nós estávamos cansados, no início dos anos de 1980, da vulgata jor-
nalística que consistia e ainda consiste em explicar um acontecimento qualquer
ocorrido no continente africano como ‘conf lito tribal’ ou ‘luta étnica’ remetendo
a uma espécie de selvageria essencial que apenas teria sido interrompida por
um breve período, o da colonização europeia.
Alguém tentou pará-los [os hutus]? ONU e Bélgica tinham forças de segurança
em Ruanda, mas não foi dado à missão da ONU um mandato para parar a matan-
ça. Um ano depois que soldados norte-americanos foram mortos na Somália, os
Estados Unidos estavam determinados a não se envolver em outro conf lito afri-
cano. Os belgas e a maioria da força de paz da ONU se retiraram depois que 10
soldados belgas foram mortos. Os franceses, que eram aliados do governo hutu,
enviaram militares para criar uma zona supostamente segura, mas foram acu-
sados de não fazer o suficiente para parar a chacina nessa área. O atual governo
de Ruanda acusa a França de ligações diretas com o massacre − uma acusação
negada por Paris (BBC, 2014).
pós-colonialismo e decolonialidades: etnicidade, reprodução, gênero e sexualidade
1060
Em 1994 , o estupro foi uma das ar mas usada pelo genocídio. Quase todos os
estupradores eram portadores do vírus HIV. Nem toda a água de Rwakibirizi e
de todas as nascentes de Ruanda teriam bastado para ‘lavar’ as vítimas da ver-
gonha pela per versidade que sofreram. Nem toda a água seria suficiente para
limpar os rumores que corriam dizendo que essas mulheres eram portadoras da
morte, e fazendo com que todos as rejeitassem. Contudo, foi nelas próprias e nos
filhos nascidos do estupro que essas mulheres encontraram uma fonte viva de
coragem e a força para sobrev iver e desaf iar o projeto de seus assassinos. A
Ruanda de hoje é o país das mães-coragem.
1061
1062
1063
1064
– Mais conhecer sobre a intersecção gênero, classe e raça. Curso ciências políticas,
e não vemos muito sobre esse tema, e em especial quero ler sobre etnicidade. É
tema que só interessa a estudos sobre Áfr ica e povos tradicionais? Por que é
importante hoje?
– Primeira vez que vejo um programa de curso na área de ciências sociais apelar
para romances e de escritoras feministas negras. Venho de direito, lá nem pensar.
– Parece que África está de moda, mas o foco do curso em etnicidade atrai para
mais conhecer diversidades culturais e olhares feministas, como das escritoras
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1051 – 1075 , set. – dez., 2021
afrodiaspóricas sobre uma África que nos chega, como diz a ementa do curso,
de forma idealizada por uns e tão negativa por tantos.
– Sei não, mas o curso me estimula indagar sobre minha ancestralidade; conhe-
cendo mais sobre o outro creio que mais nos conhecemos; nosso passado colonial
e colonialidades ou heranças coloniais.
1065
1066
1067
1068
NOTAS
1 A referência é o “Curso sobre pós-colonialismo e decolo-
nialidades − etnicidade, reprodução, gênero e sexualida-
des” ministrado por Mar y Garcia Castro − com a colabo-
ração de Thays Monticelli, PhD em sociologia, pós-douto-
randa − no âmbito do Prog rama de Pós-g raduação em
Sociologia e Antropologia/IFCS/UFRJ, durante o segundo
semestre de 2019.
Agradeço a Thays Monticelli e às alunas que dele partici-
param a colaboração por ricos debates em sala. Também
agradeço a Thays Monticelli e Amanda Volotão − douto-
randa em sociologia, com formação em letras e também
aluna no Curso −, bem como a parecer istas da revista
Sociologia & Antropologia. Essas pessoas em muito contri-
buíram com seus comentários para a revisão do artigo
2 Criticas del feminismo posestructuralista, al esencialismo
de la categoría mujer y la política de identidad.
3 hay una gran acumulación de evidencias históricas y re-
latos etnográficos que muestran de forma incontestable
la existencia de nomenclaturas de género en las socieda-
des pre-intrusión.
4 La pregunta que surge es ¿Después del largo proceso de
la colonización europea, el establecimiento del patrón de
la colonialidad, y la profundización posterior del orden
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1051 – 1075 , set. – dez., 2021
1069
ReferÊncias 5
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1073
1074
1075
In thinking about this sense of a home that one might find in the work of oth-
ers, I am very grateful to have this opportunity 1 to discuss Textures of the ordinary
(Das, 2020) which I receive with a deep sense of acquaintance but also of excit-
ing unfamiliarity. As a way of flagging this conjoined sense of acquaintance
and unfamiliarity, I pause over the dedication with which the book begins: “For
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1079 – 1088 , set. – dez., 2021
1080
public.” (Das, 2020: 5) That sounds promising, but let’s ask a further question.
What state were we in prior to that education, and where do we find ourselves
after it? I place this question next to the first line of Kant’s famous essay, “What
is Enlightenment?”: “Enlightenment is man’s release from his self-imposed
immaturity” (Kant, 2006: 16). Unmundigkeit, the word used by Kant to describe
the state of immaturity from which the human seeks or ought to seek freedom,
translates both as “tutelage” and as “minority”. Are there other ideas of con-
tinuing education we might arrive at, rather than as a linear passage into adult-
hood?
Whether or not we find our Wittgenstein or our Walden, early or late in
life, it is among the key lessons of Textures that a continuing education, that is,
to be open to the possibility of being teachable, even in adulthood, is that tu-
telage is not only reception. It is also an art of rewriting oneself, while still
retaining traces, or more than just traces of earlier selves. Differently put, even
with the essays that I have long read and taught in previous incarnations, for
instance “Wittgenstein and Anthropology”, which first appeared in the Annual
Review of Anthropology in 1998, and which is, as Veena puts it, the bija sutra, or
seed of this book, even with these previously familiar essays, the specific re-
writings and additions, are as, if not more striking than the previously unpub-
lished essays in this book.
More on the significance of these rewritings ahead, but first let me sug-
gest an orienting thought on this question of the education of grownups as
Cavell calls it. The Kantian proposition invites us to grow older. In contrast, we
might say that to age well is perhaps to grow older and younger at the same
time. Strange as that sounds, I offer this as my basic proposition for my com-
ments today. In reading Textures I find the author to be older and younger than
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1079 – 1088 , set. – dez., 2021
their previous books. So let me say more about each end of this movement,
growing older and younger, beginning with the former arc. These movements
are not entirely distinct, but for the sake of clarity I offer two ways of under-
standing this bipolar movement, first, in relation to concepts, and second, in
relation to moods, or the range of moods and feelings that a thinker might be
receptive to.
In terms of concepts, how does Textures relate to Veena’s previous books?
Most immediately, how is the concept of textures of the ordinary related to or
distinct from the idea of a descent into the ordinary? One possible answer would
be to read these books in an intensifying order of immanence, with textures
entirely liberated from any transcendent structure or event or nation. But that
is still too teleological an answer for my taste, so, instead of Life and words or
Afflictions, let us begin earlier, with Veena’s first book Structure and cognition:
aspects of Hindu caste and ritual published in 1977. I should say that the thoughts
I offer today build on two previous occasions where I was invited to comment
formally on Veena’s work. The first occasion was in 2018, when, in a reversal
research record | bhrigupati singh
1081
1082
between life and death”, with forms of liminality that potentially threaten and
renew social and cosmic orders. (End quote) If we take these structural coordi-
nates to be virtual, in a Bergsonian sense, then we can see these virtualities
reappear one book, two books later. For instance, the habitation of a zone be-
tween life and death is a central issue of Life and words, as with Shanti, who
tragically takes her own life, unable to live with the loss of her husband and
sons, who were killed in the 1984 riots. In the time before her suicide (I quote
from Life and words): “Shanti would often get up in the middle of the night and
wander to the park opposite their house, where she would gather sticks and
make them into little piles, which she would proceed to burn. She was unable
to explain what she was doing, but some neighbors believed that she was try-
ing to cremate the bodies of the dead” (Das, 2007: 142).
Resonantly, while the events of Critical events are some of the most news-
worthy of its preceding decade (as the subtitle puts it, the book is: An anthro-
pological perspective on contemporary India), the idea of the contemporary is not
straightforwardly “historical” or timely. Rather, the quite varied events of the
book, the Bhopal Gas tragedy, Sati, Sikh militancy, and questions of “founding”
national violence, are understood through a transfiguration of concepts of sac-
rificial death and theodicy, or how suffering is understood to be distributed.
This is not to point to a seamless continuity across these books, since the
transfigurations are as important. For example, we can see a significant shift
in the concept of the event, as we move from Critical events with its conception
of the event, as (quote) “moments when new modes of action came into being”
(Das, 1995: 12).
In contrast, Life and words sets out a significantly revised conception of the
event, which many of us will remember, with questions like: when might an event
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1079 – 1088 , set. – dez., 2021
be said to begin and end; the relation between event and everyday, and further,
the ways in which skepticism, and voice, and the “evented-ness of the everyday”
appeared as living concepts in Life and words. Within these forms of newness, as
I indicate, it is still possible to read the concerns of Structure and cognition, if we
do not take books to be dated only by their year of publication, or maturity to be
a linear ascent, even as we may recognize findings and innovations.
Within this trajectory, if I was to extend “Conceptual vita” further, we might
say that Affliction (published in 2015) extends this arc. The animating structure in
some ways is the experience of ill-health in the context of urban poverty, and the
concept of the event goes even further into the nooks and crannies of the ordinary,
with what Veena calls the “quasi-event”, or the aspects of life and non-life that
we begin to see, for example with the opening chapter of Affliction on “how the
body speaks”, and the intensification of the question of what evented-ness might
be, as we see how much happens, even when seemingly “nothing” is happening.
So far so good. I was pleased to have arrived at a conceptual architecture, with
which this body of thought may be received non-teleologically.
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But then, Textures of the ordinary seems to disrupt this dynamic architec-
ture of structure and event. Or does it? I want to leave this as a puzzle for
further discussion, of what kind of a transfiguration this book might be from
its past. Is Textures a further intensification of the “descent” into the ordinary
or is it a rupture? Again, rather than an opposition between the implied tran-
scendence or non-transcendence of “descent”, as against the purer immanence
of “textures”, I suggest that perhaps a crucial point of continuity and trans-
figuration is what it means to go “further”, not as transcendence but still in a
form of the metaphysical, understood as the joining of threads with that which
exceeds what is immediately visible.
How is this further shore reached within the threads of Textures? This
can take a variety of forms, for instance, with uncanny near-death voices of
kin, or intimates whom we thought we knew. One discovery of this book, among
others, which continues conversations that this group has had, led by Sandra
and Andrew Brandel among others, is the methodological and metaphysical
significance of details. (I quote from p.2 of Textures): “I contend that the ethno-
graphic impulse to render the texture of the ordinary depends upon close at-
tention to detail. But how much detail and what kind of detail?” (Das, 2020: 2).
Some chapters later, Veena suggests that more than Renato Rosaldo’s
canonical anthropological essay on grief and the headhunter’s rage, written in
the aftermath of his wife Shelley’s untimely death during fieldwork, his poems
published nearly two decades after her death in 1981, (I quote from Textures)
“go further, much further, in explicating the relations between biography and
ethnography” (Das, 2020: 202). What is the meaning of the word further here?
Consider the second aspect of Kant’s unmundigkeit, which we were meant to
outgrow, not as tutelage, but “minority” or the minor. Here is how Veena sug-
gests Rosaldo goes further (I quote) “…minor currents of stories, accidental
encounters in the field, words blurted out that derange the context, are pre-
cisely what make up the texture of the ordinary in the present book. Rosaldo’s
genius lies in the fact that he absorbs these as part of the milieu even when
they were absent in the initial ethnography” (Das, 2020: 212).
Let us say that one form of aging and maturity evident in Textures is the
temporality of return, as a mode of rewriting the self and one’s sense of others,
as with the rewriting of the chapter on Swapan from Affliction, to arrive at a
strikingly different thought in Textures, contra Foucault. So far I have spoken
about the forms that maturity might take, without the negation of a younger
self. But as you’ll remember, I opened with a two-part proposition: the author
grows older and younger. So as steps to a conclusion, let me point out three
ways in which this book also expresses forms of youthfulness.
While signs of youth may be many and varied, one feature we might say
is a combative, agonistic spirit. As I mentioned, Structure and cognition began, as
a young person might announce themselves, by contesting two global notables,
“in your writing i am existed”: reading the history of anthropology
1084
Dumont and Srinivas. Such contests though are not over prestige, but in sharp-
ening what might be critical disagreements. One such critical disagreement in
Textures is with Foucault. One of the discoveries of Foucault’s Psychiatric power
lectures, in which, as we know, he rewrites his own difference and distance
from Madness and civilization, is the idea of madness not only as a discursive
formation but what Foucault memorably called a “contest of wills”. Within this
battlefield, as Veena points out in Textures, in the Foucauldian microphysics of
power, the family appears simply as a juncture or a node through which indi-
viduals are injected, as Foucault put it, into circuits of disciplinary power. In
contrast, we might say that in continuity with earlier books and broader an-
thropological preoccupations, Textures points us to a much richer microphysics
of power, where the lines of battle and care within kinship, intimacy and the
domestic, can be unpredictably drawn and redrawn, in an aspect or threshold
of life that would remain invisible with Foucault.
In itself, disagreement is not necessarily a sign of youth. What I also
want to emphasize is the way in which critique may be voiced and addressed,
at times, to everyone and no one. For instance, in Chapter 10 of Textures, “Con-
cepts Crisscrossing”, Veena is discussing her enduring preoccupation with the
theme of sacrifice. Here is how she voices the problem: “I was bold enough in
1980 when I delivered the Henry Myers lecture to conclude it by saying ‘Vedic
sacrifice may be seen to constitute a global alternative to the Christian idea of
sacrifice…’ Of course, my claim went unheeded, but it was never extinguished
for me” (Das, 2020: 285).
One can imagine a “mature” masculine way of flagging this kind of an
unheeded claim, in ways that would make it even more unappealing. Instead,
Veena lures us back to her argument by broaching it not as a critique of Euro-
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1079 – 1088 , set. – dez., 2021
centrism, which it partly is, but – and here is how this chapter of Textures ends
–, by offering this critique as (quote) “an expression of gila (a Hindi Urdu word)
– a loving reproach – to my interlocutors in anthropology” (Das, 2020: 305).
One last expression of youthfulness or minority status, in which hope-
fully I played a small part! To hazard a contestable difference, we might say
that Veena is justly known, if not explicitly so, as a profound writer of tragedies.
In Textures, perhaps for the first time, other moods and genres appear. I hesitate
to call the contrary of tragedy as comedy, although consider a character like
Prem Singh (in Chapter 2, “A politics of the ordinary”), who writes a letter to
George Bush as the leader of the world, and posts it to the “White House, Wash-
ington”, about his neighbors spreading garbage in the streets, along with com-
puter-generated notices on neighborhood walls, with texts like (I quote from
Veena’s translation), “Dogs in the form of Humans, of their Barking, Neither is
there any specific time, nor any limit” (Das, 2020: 72). Molière or Chekov might
recognize such a character as their own.
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A shift in mood is not only to do with minor characters. The seed or the
bija sutra has also altered slightly. I was delighted to notice a seemingly minor
addition to the opening chapter, “Wittgenstein and anthropology”, which was
not there in the 1998 version of the essay. Rather than comedy, following Cavell,
we might call this addition, the entry of an Emerson mood. The addition I am
referring to, briefly, is Veena’s expression of admiration for Cavell’s 2005 essay
“Fred Astaire asserts the right to praise”. Perhaps it needed an Indian, steeped
in Bollywood, to be genuinely moved by the philosophical appreciation of seem-
ingly mundane cinematic song and dance.
In an Emerson mood, comedy can be deadly serious, as it is in Cavell’s
emphasis on the political significance of Fred Astaire’s almost crazed dance
with a black shoeshine boy, copying his moves and making them his own, not,
as Cavell suggests, as an “appropriation of black culture”, but rather, citing
Cavell in the passage quoted in Textures: “Astaire’s dance of praise is to be un-
derstood specifically as this painful and deadly irony of the white praise of a
black culture whose very terms of praise it has appropriated, even climatically
about being brushed with madness in one’s participation in it” (Das, 2020: 41).
In other words, rather than appropriation Cavell takes Astaire to express a form
of gratitude that makes (quote) “America’s partial democracy happier or more
heartened than it might otherwise be” (Das, 2020: 42). We might take this to be
the bija (or seed), for instance, of the marriage of Kuldip and Saba in a chapter
ahead, and the question of what it might mean for a Hindu and a Muslim to be
married, while maintaining their sense of self.
It is easy to dismiss cheerfulness, as Cavell variously shows us in rela-
tion to Emerson, but it is not to speak lightly, as I hope I have also indicated, in
emphasizing this particular new opening in Textures. I had some role to play in
this, he said modestly. I cite a line from my own 2015 book, Poverty and the quest
for life, where I argued that one way to be more attentive to the “quality of life”
was to be open to varying moods and thresholds of life. Here is a line from that
book which remains dear to me (I quote): “Strangely enough, in my scholarly
neck of the woods, such is the view of life (or is it only a mode of feigning
gravitas?) that it is harder for now to prompt a smile than it is to confirm a
global catastrophe. What spirits possess us?” (Singh, 2015b: 62).
That said, happily, or sadly, now in my 40s, having lived a bit more, I am
naively less cheerful, and am preparing to write a dark and gloomy book. So
maybe now Veena and I can switch places, and she can write comedies and I
will write tragedies. And here I’ll stop with the beautiful last line with which
Textures closes: “Should thought stop here?”
1086
note
1 This essay was initially presented as a talk as part of a
book panel on Textures of the ordinary organized by the
Department of Philosophy, Sapienza, University of Rome.
I am grateful to Piergiorgio Donatelli and Sandra Laugier
for organizing this forum and for several years of ongoing
conversation and inspiration, all the more cherished in
these pandemic-infused years. I am g rateful to Leticia
Ferreira and Adriana Vianna for inviting me to be share
these thoughts as part of the special issue of Sociologia &
Anthropologia honoring Veena Das’s work.
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1079 – 1088 , set. – dez., 2021
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REFERENCES
1088
Bila Sorj I
1090
nos países do norte global, e as variadas formas institucionais que assume fi-
zeram do cuidado um campo de estudos específico.
As elaborações feministas ocorreram simultaneamente às mudanças
sociais de grande escala que colocaram o cuidado no centro das atenções. As-
sim, o tema do cuidado emerge como um problema social, uma arena de con-
flitos mais ou menos explícitos, marcando novas e importantes divisões sociais
e tensões subjacentes, em razão de diversos processos: o acelerado aumento
da inserção de mulheres no mercado de trabalho, as mudanças demográficas,
como o envelhecimento da população, os novos modelos de política social que
continuamente redefinem as fronteiras entre responsabilidade privada e social,
e a expansão da mercantilização das relações sociais.
A recente publicação de três volumes sobre o trabalho do cuidado de
Nadya Araujo Guimarães, do Departamento de Sociologia da USP, e Helena Hi-
rata, do CNRS, Paris (Guimarães & Hirata, 2021, 2020a, 2020b), evidencia a ex-
pansão do interesse a respeito do tema nas ciências sociais no Brasil e na
América Latina. Fruto de longa e profícua parceria entre as autoras, seus estu-
registro de pesquisa | bila sorj
1091
1092
1093
Perspectivas Latino-americanas
As desigualdades sociais têm sido um dos principais temas da sociologia latino-
americana desde a segunda metade do século XX. A questão foi formulada
sobretudo a partir do prisma das teorias da modernização e da dependência,
fortemente ancoradas em abordagens econômicas dos processos sociais. Re-
centemente, o estudo das desigualdades sociais na região passou a incorporar
perspectivas teóricas mais multifacetadas e complexas. As duas coletâneas em
língua estrangeira sobre a América Latina representam essa virada analítica,
que tem no tema do cuidado um lugar privilegiado de observação e produção
de conhecimentos sobre a região.
Publicadas no exterior, El cuidado en América Latina e Care and care workers
são coletâneas que reúnem um notável grupo de pesquisadoras, sobretudo
latino-americanas, que participaram de seminário realizado na Universidade
de São Paulo em 2018. As organizadoras, Nadya e Helena, mostram mais uma
vez que ocupam um lugar destacado na formação de redes de estudiosas que
atravessam diferentes países.
A perspectiva interseccional das desigualdades de gênero, de raça e de
classe é a postura analítica que informa as análises apresentadas. Ao reunir
estudos sobre o trabalho de cuidado e sua organização social em cinco países
da região, Brasil, Uruguai, Argentina, Chile e Colômbia, as coletâneas apresen-
tam análises abrangentes e diversificadas, apoiadas em sólidas pesquisas em-
píricas.
A diversidade de temas que compõem as coletâneas é impressionante.
Eles vão desde a questão do cuidado estético de mulheres negra que, ao assu-
mir o cabelo afro, resgatam uma identidade coletiva abafada pelas representações
racistas do corpo negro, até análises macrossociológicas sobre mudanças estruturais
que vêm alterando os padrões de oferta e procura por trabalho de cuidado, além de
abordar regimes de proteção social e políticas públicas de cuidado nos países sele-
cionados, passando pela análise das tensões entre mercantilização e ética do cuida-
do e ainda diferentes ativismos políticos que emergiram recentemente entre pesso-
as com deficiências.
O chão comum do trabalho de cuidado é a informalidade, a fragilidade
dos sistemas de proteção social, a precária institucionalização da atividade e
seu pouco reconhecimento social, marcas que refletem a longa experiência da
colonização, escravidão e formas de dominação racial e étnica na região, apesar
das especificidades das trajetórias históricas nacionais. A identificação de ra-
ízes históricas de tais processos não implica uma leitura estática da questão
do cuidado, pois as autoras identificam novas e emergentes tendências do tra-
estudos sobre o cuidado na sociologia: a contribuição de nadya guimarães e helena hirata
1094
1095
Referências
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1097
Carolina Parreiras I
Dar às palavras um lar. É com essa lavras está, por exemplo, em seu reco-
proposição que Veena Das (2007) en- nhecimento da dificuldade e da im-
cerra seu livro, já clássico e recente- possibilidade de prosseguir na escrita
mente traduzido para o português, de determinados textos ou de certas
Life and words. A expressão, repetida narrativas; ou em sua abertura a ser
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1101 – 1106 , set. – dez., 2021
1102
campo e com colegas da academia. O ainda que a autora negue ser uma
livro, composto por 11 capítulos, con- scholar especialista em Wittgenstein
ta também com novas “encarnações” – o fio condutor utilizado por Das para
para ensaios escritos em outros mo- propor reflexões que, em última ins-
mentos, revisitados e que reaparecem tância, buscam avançar na compreen-
com nova conformação a partir da são do que pode ser entendido como
passagem do tempo. Essa forma de cotidiano e como ordinário. Para os
entender a montagem do livro e sua leitores mais familiarizados com a
narrativa, em que reconhece a dificul- obra de Veena Das, esses temas não
dade de recontar, reinterpretar e res- serão novidade, visto que um de seus
significar dados e relações, está de grandes argumentos está em pensar o
acordo com seu projeto mais amplo entendimento da vida social a partir
de pensar como a vida cotidiana – a do cotidiano e do que ela chama – e
dela mesma aí incluída – se faz a par- que funciona como orientação para a
tir de uma trama, da composição de própria feitura da etnografia – de des-
uma textura em que fios diversos se cida ao ordinário. O léxico fornecido
misturam, se sobrepõem e se entre- por Wittgenstein permeia todo o livro,
cruzam. Desse modo, cada capítulo especialmente a partir de ideias como
traz um aspecto do cotidiano e atesta formas de vida, gramática e lingua-
o caráter evasivo do ordinário. Mostra, gem, ceticismo, aprendizagem e cenas
sobretudo, o quanto o projeto argu- de instrução. Esta última ideia fornece
mentativo de Veena Das só pode ser os subsídios para que Veena Das tra-
compreendido a partir da compreen- balhe, em quase todos os capítulos,
são da tessitura de vidas concretas, com a tessitura de cenas, com base em
que não podem e nem devem ser en- dados etnográficos de diferentes mo-
cobertas pelos muitos conceitos que mentos de sua trajetória e em exem-
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1101 – 1106 , set. – dez., 2021
1103
1104
1105
Recebido em 15/04/2021 |
Aprovado em 19/07/2021
John C. Dawsey I
1108
1109
1110
1111
Mariana Barreto I
, O novo livro de Gisèle Sapiro, Peut-on que continue devedora de crenças co-
dissocier l’œuvre de l’auteur?, parte de letivas profundas e antigas. Se o autor
uma questão que não é nova, remete macula sua obra por condutas, priva-
às noções de autor e obra, construções das ou públicas, repreensíveis, as con-
sociais que ganham significados par- cepções que o singularizam ganham
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1113 – 1119 , set. – dez., 2021
1114
por vezes revelando posturas autori- tornam públicas: os limites de seu pe-
tárias que tendem a rechaçar, desqua- rímetro e a coesão de sua unidade. O
lificar as argumentações racionais nome do autor funciona bem para de-
sobre as questões. Por essas razões, a signar cada uma de suas obras, toda-
autora convida a examinar os argu- via, quando escolhemos uma e não
mentos do confuso debate, a fim de os outra para isso, isto é, quando a esco-
clarificar, oferecendo elementos capa- lha se torna seletiva, altera-se o perí-
zes de permitir que cada leitor/a se metro que dava coesão à obra como
posicione nessa arena, desenredando- conjunto. Situação que pode ser ob-
se das confusões e más-fés discursi- servada quando a obra é dividida em
vas que, muitas vezes, se impõem períodos, fases, gêneros, fazendo com
como forma de desacreditar quem que duas descrições de um mesmo
possa lhe parecer adversário/a. autor não sejam intercambiáveis (p.
Na primeira parte do livro, a dis- 45), ou, ainda, quando o autor denega,
cussão se dá sobre as formas de iden- recusa-se a reconhecer como sua a
tificação entre o autor e sua obra. Ela própria obra.
é concebida a partir de uma tripla re- A relação de semelhança entre o
lação entre metonímia, semelhança e autor e a obra remete à pessoa, o que
causalidade interna (intencionalida- não ocorre na relação metonímica. A
de) que, se à primeira vista fortalece crença coletiva na responsabilidade
a crença no vínculo íntimo entre um moral do autor é tão forte, que a maior
e outro, sob olhar agudo não resiste evidência dessa illusio, ultrapassando
ao confronto com as estratégias dos as fronteiras do campo da produção
próprios autores e dos intermediários cultural, talvez esteja na sua institu-
culturais, e à recepção das obras. Co- cionalização, como expresso na legis-
mo formas de identificação, metoní- lação dos direitos autorais, entre ou-
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1113 – 1119 , set. – dez., 2021
1115
1116
mas o debate público sobre seus cri- grupos, tampouco façam apologia à
mes, sobre sua torpe conduta e, o se- violência física ou simbólica (p. 20).
gundo exemplo, o New York Times per- Daí porque, sua resposta à questão
guntava se era hora de censurar Gau- posta no título do ensaio é simultane-
guin, quando de uma exposição, em amente “sim” e “não”.
Londres, dos retratos do pintor fran- Por que sim? Porque a identifica-
cês acusado de abuso de menores (p. ção entre a obra e o autor jamais é
13 e 14). São os argumentos envolvidos completa; a obra lhe escapa. Autono-
nesses dois grupos de respostas que miza-se no processo mesmo de pro-
circulam de um país a outro, dando dução; sua existência é fruto de um
formas específicas às polêmicas. O trabalho coletivo implicado na exis-
objetivo no pequeno ensaio é exami- tência de uma série de intermediários
nar alguns desdobramentos dos argu- culturais. De modo semelhante, trans-
mentos dos adeptos das duas posições gride-lhe uma segunda vez, nos pro-
extremas. Uma vez delineados, são cessos de recepção, pelas formas de
sintetizados em duas posições típico- apropriação, que podem ser contradi-
resenha | mariana barreto
1117
1118
dos a sua pessoa e não a seus traba- não anule o debate público, pois que
lhos. Uma vez que não são denegados, é ele, animado pelos movimentos fe-
assim como os cientistas sociais, os ministas, antirracistas ou contrários
intermediários culturais, editores, crí- a toda sorte de discriminação e inci-
ticos, tradutores etc., têm um singular tação ao ódio contra populações, que
papel no exercício de suas responsa- pode sensibilizar para problemáticas
bilidades nesse trabalho de releitura, ainda ocultadas, provocando a eleva-
reavaliação e atualização dos padrões. ção dos níveis de tolerância em cada
Por fim, a discussão nos conduz a período de tempo histórico. Para com-
observar que os casos cuja notorieda- preender os argumentos suscitados
de internacional foi incontestável tal- pela forma que as polêmicas tomam
vez estejam associados aos movimen- entre nós, resta refletir sobre o modo
tos norte-americanos, #MeToo e a como a elas respondemos: censura-
cancel culture, os dois que convidam a mos nossos/as autores/as, criadores/
suprimir autores, criadores e suas as e artistas, suprimimos suas obras,
obras sexistas e racistas. O poder de ou as discutimos e os/as chamamos
internacionalização dessas lutas, as- para assumir as consequências de su-
sim como a própria posição cultural as responsabilidades e cumplicida-
dominante dos Estados Unidos, não des? Material para iniciar o debate não
deve impedir o debate público sobre nos falta.
as condições de produção das obras
intelectuais ou artísticas. Assimilar a Recebido em 23/11/2020 |
censura, assumindo uma postura re- Aprovado em 14/01/2021
comendável, de “bom tom”, equivale-
ria a eliminar o próprio debate, num
momento em que “sua existência é
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1113 – 1119 , set. – dez., 2021
1119
Nota ReferÊncias
1 Nesse sentido, Peut-on dissocier l’œuvre Bourdieu, Pierre. (2009). Les condi-
de l’auteur? continua a discussão que tions sociales de la circulation inter-
a autora faz em outros trabalhos, mas nationale des idées. In: Sapiro, Gisèle
notadamente em Des mots qui tuent, (dir.). L’espace intellectuel en Europe. De
igualmente publicado no segundo se- la formation des États-nations à la mon-
mestre de 2020, em que trata do pro- dialisation XIXe-XXIe siècle. Par is: La
cesso de autonomização do autor em Découverte, p. 27-39.
relação à moral pública, tomando co- Foucault, Michel. (2001). O que é um
mo objeto o julgamento das respon- autor? In: Ditos e escritos: estética – li-
sabilidades dos intelectuais que cola- teratura e pintura, música e cinema (v.
boraram com a ocupação alemã na III). Rio de Janeiro: Forense
França em 194 4-1945. Tanto numa Universitária, p. 264-298.
obra quanto na outra, a questão da
Sapiro, Gisèle. (2020). Peut-on dissocier
responsabilidade do autor vincula-se
l’œuvre de l’auteur? Paris: Seuil.
a seu processo de autonomização, so-
bretudo em relação a uma moral pú-
blica.
On page 414,
For:
“TIME, AND THE
PRODUCTION OF SPACE IN
SOCIOLOGY”
Read:
“TIME AND THE
PRODUCTION OF SPACE IN
SOCIOLOGY”
INSTRUÇÕES PARA OS AUTORES
4) Entrevistas
Os textos deverão ser escritos em fonte Times New Roman, tamanho 12,
recuo padrão de início de parágrafo, alinhamento justificado,
espaçamento duplo e em páginas de tamanho A4 (210x297cm), numa
única face.
5. Coletânea
Botelho, André & Schwarcz, Lilia Moritz (orgs.). (2009). Um enigma
chamado Brasil. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras.
6. Artigo em coletânea organizada pelo mesmo autor
Gonçalves, José Reginaldo Santos. (2007). Teorias antropológicas e
objetos materiais. In: Antropologia dos objetos: coleções, museus e
patrimônios. Rio de Janeiro: Iphan, p. 13-42.
7. Artigo em coletânea organizada pelo autor em conjunto com outro
Villas Bôas, Glaucia. (2008). O insolidarismo revisitado em O problema do
sindicato único no Brasil. In: Villas Bôas, Glaucia; Pessanha, Elina Gonçalves
da Fonte & Morel, Regina Lúcia de Moraes. Evaristo de Moraes Filho, um
intelectual humanista. Rio de Janeiro: Topbooks, p. 61-84.
8. Artigo em coletânea organizada por outro autor
Alexander, Jeffrey. (1999). A importância dos clássicos. In: Giddens,
Anthony & Jonathan Turner (orgs.). Teoria social hoje. São Paulo: Ed.
Unesp, p. 23-89.
9. A rtigo em Periódico
Lévi-Strauss, Claude. (1988). Exode sur exode. L’Homme, XXVIII/2–3,
p. 13-23.
10. Tese Acadêmica
Veiga Junior, Maurício Hoelz. (2010). Homens livres, mundo privado:
violência e pessoalização numa sequência sociológica. Dissertação de
Mestrado. PPGSA /Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro.
11. Segunda ocorrência seguida do mesmo autor
Luhmann, Niklas. (2010). Introdução à teoria dos sistemas. Petrópolis:
sociol. antropol. | rio de janeiro, v.11.03: 1121 – 1126 , set. – dez., 2021
Vozes.
Luhmann, Niklas. (1991). O amor como paixão. Lisboa/Rio de Janeiro:
Difel/Bertrand Brasil.
12. Consultas on-line
Sallum Jr., Brasílio & Casarões, Guilherme. (2011). O impeachment de
Collor: literatura e processo. Disponível em <http://www.acessa.com/gr
amsci/?page =visualizar&id=1374>. Acesso em 9 jun. 2011.
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responsabilidade pelo conteúdo do manuscrito submetido, bem como
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sua versão final, da pesquisa à redação.
A Declaração de Singapura sobre Integridade em Pesquisa foi desenvolvida como parte da II Conferência Mundial sobre Integridade
em Pesquisa, realizada de 21 a 24 de julho de 2010, em Singapura, como guia global para a condução responsável de pesquisas. Não
é um documento regulatório, nem representa as políticas oficiais dos países e organizações que financiaram ou participaram na Con-
ferência. Para informações sobre políticas oficiais, normas e regras na área de integridade em pesquisa, devem ser consultadas as
agências nacionais e organizações apropriadas. A Declaração original em inglês está disponível em: <http://www.singapore
statement.org>.