I find myself really taken by the ethical and epistemological stakes in considering Hegemann’s literary technique (the technique itself, and her use of it) in the context of global media production, circulation, and consumption. The technique in question involves using material without acknowledging their source, what whistle blowers call plagiarism, but Hegemann defends as “mixing,” according to Nicholas Kulish’s New York Times article. We may ask which it “really” is, or whether the technique itself challenges prevailing notions of knowledge/cultural production, or whether Hegemann’s use of the technique in this case was ethical. Rather than taking and defending a position in the debate (of which there are many sides), I think it’s more interesting to think about different aspects of some of the broader questions such a debate raises.

Hegemann is right, I believe, in claiming that there’s no such thing as originality anyway, and that knowledge production always involves a sort of taking and remixing. I think this is a pretty solid epistemological stance, one which challenges proprietary notions of knowledge and culture, notions grounded in Western philosophical traditions of the Enlightenment that presuppose/require a rational subject, and which are universalizing in nature. This stance also threatens canonicity in art, literature, and other institutionalized domains of cultural production, thus challenging imperial cultural hierarchies of race, nation, gender, class, and ability. Challenging these prevailing notions of knowledge and culture as proprietary and therefore profitable entails a critique of rights predicated on ownership, the model according to which most modern nation-states are articulated; transnationalism enables such a critical position, and transnational approaches to knowledge and cultural production can shine a light on other ways the nation-state is involved. In describing this epistemological stance, I suppose I’m thinking in terms of the post-positivist stance taken by poststructuralist, postcolonial and transnational feminist academics including those thinking in terms of new materialisms, but I also wonder to what extent Hegemann’s defense of her literary technique represents an epistemological stance characteristic of more and more widely held (ie not purely academic) attitudes towards cultural production in the current phase of globalization. In either case, it’s important to clarify that the stance is not the technique. In other words, the technique itself may or may not do these things that its justification does—it depends on context—but the technique and its use are perhaps part of a wider shift in consciousness regarding cultural/knowledge production that attends the current phase in the global circulation of media and information technologies.

I’m more of mixed minds when it comes to the claim that this technique represents a generational shift in thinking about knowledge and culture, as Hegemann’s defense of her technique makes. There are perhaps bits of truth in such a claim, but it’s a bit too totalizing and needs to be thought through in terms of specific and deeply contextualized histories of the developments in new media and information technologies and the global circulation of culture and ideas, as well as the specific techniques, practices, and aesthetics that have developed across a range of modes of cultural production. In other words, we must be careful not to let a specific technique, like sampling and remixing, stand in metonymically for all kinds of similar techniques used in different contexts under globalization, lest we risk losing historical specificity. This is, perhaps, where a transnational analytical approach would be most critical.

And finally, whether or not the technique itself is epistemologically legitimate, or indicative of historical shifts in processes of cultural production and knowledge production (and common sense understandings of/attitudes towards these) in the current era of globalization, was Hegemann’s use of the technique ethical, given the technique’s (implication in) various histories? Answering this question requires taking the long historical view of globalization as driven by the processes of colonization and its aftermath advocated by Paul Jay, while keeping in mind warnings of the inadequacy of theories of “Western” cultural imperialism in explaining globalization, as Inderpal Grewal and Caren Kaplan and others remind us. I make this point in order to be cognizant of the central role that stealing ideas played in various histories of imperialism and colonization—the theft of local knowledges has been central in oppressing indigenous and local mixings of culture via colonization, by which colonizing powers extract local knowledges like a raw material resource and appropriate them in order to exploit colonized peoples, processes which lead to the extermination of entire groups of people and local histories. So the stealing of ideas is not without its history in the history of globalization, but we must also be careful not to let this understanding become reductionist. Acknowledging this tension as part of the context in discussions of “mixing” as a literary technique in the current phase of globalization invites a mode of study similar to what Grewal and Kaplan advocate: one that “adopts a more complicated model of transnational relations in which power structures, asymmetries, and inequalities become the conditions of possibility of new subjects” (671). This view of transnational relations, one that takes the material histories of various kinds of transnational encounters as central to understanding the practices that flow through and out of them, enables a more rigorous and ethical approach to answering the questions such as those raised by Hegemann’s “mixing.”

The opening abstract of Volker Woltersdorff’s article “Paradoxes of Precarious Sexualities” summarizes his considerations of neo-sexualities, a concept developed by Volkmar Sigusch, as relating in part to “the provision of care giving, sustainability of commitments, and loss of autonomy” (164). An approach to Helene Hegemann’s novel Axolotl Roadkill with these three domains in mind yields many opportunities to question concepts of sexuality and gender identity. Moreover, the novel provides ample evidence of the precarity claimed by Woltersdorff, and which is a prerequisite for “queer movements that contest both heteronormativity and neo-liberalism” (165).

Woltersdorff begins his exploration of precarity with Judith Butler’s ideas of instances of instability as sources of pleasure (qtd. in Woltersdorff: 167). He suggests that stability, too, can provide both pleasure and discomfort necessary for eroticism to emerge, and goes on to question exactly where stability and instability might clash. In Hegemann’s novel, it is the protagonist, Mifti, who embodies this interplay. Her reliability as a narrator is at best suspect and at worst non-existent. Clouded by copious drug use, hallucinations, and blackouts bordering on fugue states, her recounting of events produces a jarring experience for the reader. However, between her ramblings and non sequiturs, Mifti manages at times to relate a coherent story. As such, the reader, along with Mifti’s conversation partners are left to question concepts of authority and authenticity.

Sexuality and gender identity are also called into question throughout the novel. In fact, for the first several pages, it is unclear whether the narrator is male or female. An exchange with a “heterosexual female communication designer in blue and grey striped cardigan” (5) clearly identifies one interlocutor, but not the other. A certain maleness is suggested by the fact that Mifti needs help with shopping and food preparation, stereotypically women’s duties, as further evidenced by the communication designer’s assumption that the mother initiated the errand.

The later revelation that Mifti is biologically female does little to straighten out, so to speak, the issue of sexuality. One of Mifti’s first explicitly mentioned sexual encounters involves her friend Ophelia. The two are watching television and discussing scenes they find arousing and end up kissing. As Ophelia describes the situation, “[w]e’re both so gender-confused, honey” (38). Smoothio, a fling of Mifti’s bisexual (gay?) brother questions her orientation directly. Her reply—“I hardly jumped for joy when I found out about it, but yeah, I’m as bi as they come as well”—is not exactly a declaration of pride or conscious branding (130).

Mifti describes sexual relations with several men, too, but always with a sense of detachment or disengagement on her part. With the taxi driver, Pörskin, and the psychoanalyst, she seems to come to midway through the act itself, as if unsure how it began. I believe that Woltersdorff’s ideas of sustainability of commitments and loss of autonomy are important here. Mifti describes early on the conflict she faces in fighting or giving in to her desires. “Doing what I want is dangerous because it really makes me vulnerable. Not doing it is not an option” (15). Here we see the stability versus instability, with the latter seeming to win out. She later states that “[s]ex is always an act of violence anyway” (52), though none of the trysts seem to fall into the category of rape. Indeed, on two occasions she claims rape (172) or offers to (113) as a means of diminishing personal accountability for her own actions. In some way, though, she does seem not to be in control of her own actions, and while drugs are a likely cause, the loss of autonomy is undeniable.

With the psychoanalyst—and eventually Ophelia—sustainability of commitments is the issue. Mifti has trouble maintaining the status of her relationships with these two people. The psychoanalyst states quite clearly that he is not interested in sex (169), and genuinely seems to want to care for an incapacitated and weakened Mifti, but not ten pages later, the relationship takes a carnal turn. With Ophelia, it is an established friendship that withers in the end. Here, the difference in age and functionality again hint at a caregiver relationship somehow complicated by unclear boundaries. A similar disconnect between care giver and charge occurs within Mifti’s immediate family, too. An abusive, mentally ill mother; an affluent but absent father; and older siblings who practice the same drug-filled lifestyle leave her with no adult figures to whom she might turn for guidance. In the end, Mifti seeks to fill that gap in the figure of Alice, a woman who also represents Mifti’s greatest lost love.

The precarity of sexuality and gender identity is illustrated in Axolotl Roadkill in the model of instability argued by Volker Woltersdorff. In Mifti, the reader encounters a teenage girl facing insecurities brought about by drug use and dysfunctional relationships with family and friends. In the wake if these insecurities, Mifti is left to chart her own course and define her own identities as daughter, sister, and lover.

The Guardian’s 2012 interview with Helene Hegemann focuses on surviving the aftermath—specifically the “notoriety”—of the plagiarism controversy that surrounded Hegemann’s debut novel, Axolotl Roadkill. In the interview, more than two years after the controversy began, Hegelmann continues to defend her stance (with an idea/phrase that’s actually “sampled” from Jim Jarmusch in the first place): “But I’ve said it again and it’s still my best defense: there’s no such thing as originality, just authenticity.”

As the Guardian article, as well as this earlier NY Times article notes, this sentiment is lifted from the very Jarmusch quote that she’s accused of plagiarizing: the novel’s page 7 turns the quote into a dialogue between Edmond and Mifti. After Edmond drops another “sampled” line, this one from a blogger by the name of Airen (“Berlin is here to mix everything with everything”), Mifti questions his originality: “Did you make that up?” In reply, Edmond muses, “I steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels my imagination … my work and my theft are authentic…” (7).

But what really is authenticity? Or rather, what does it mean to be authentic in terms of literary production? For Edmond (via Jarmusch), work, and even theft, are authentic “as long as something speaks directly to [his] soul.” What are the implications if we define it as he does? What weight does and should “authenticity” really hold? If we understand and valorize authenticity as Edmond/Hegemann/Jarmusch do, does it mean that we are willing to consciously blur the boundaries of intellectual property rights?

What disposes the judges of this literary contest to shrug off plagiarism charges based on Hegemann’s claims to “authenticity” (“I believe it’s part of the concept of the book,” one jury member says)? What inclines us, and those judges, to understand the literary “sampling” or “mixing” that Hegemann engages in as “authentic” in the first place?

What does it mean to be an “authentic” writer in a transnational context? What does authenticity mean in a postmodern globalized world?

* * *

The NY Times notes that in response to the plagiarism charges, Hegemann “defended herself as the representative of a different generation, one that freely mixes and matches from the whirring flood of information across new and old media, to create something new.”

This idea—particularly the “whirring flood of information across new and old media”– reminded me most immediately of Appadurai’s mediascapes, which “provide large and complex repertoires of images, narratives, and ethnoscapes to viewers throughout the world”(35). Indeed, if, as Appadurai argues, “the imagination in the post-electronic world plays a newly significant role . . . and has now become part of the quotidian mental work of ordinary people in many societies”(5), then it would seem to follow that in the postmodern world, the imagination in itself “samples” from various “narratives, images, and ethnoscapes.” Once it is incorporated into the individual imagination, is it authentic? Is it theirs?

My mind is brought back from both Appadurai’s idealism and grounded in my own English 101 students’ difficulties as they struggle with those admittedly fine lines involved in internet etiquette and fair use. In building their own webpages—which are, from the start, modeled after the NY Times’ Room for Debate pages–they are required to incorporate research from popular sources and encouraged to incorporate images, or even embed YouTube videos. While they are of course required to cite everything and are only allowed to use images licensed for re-use for the project, my experience so far has shown that while all of my students are using Flickr/creative commons & Wikimedia Commons because I told them they have to—most of them don’t quite understand why. “What if we include a hyperlink to the original article where the image is from under the image?” multiple students have asked.

When they know the image is just a click away for their audience—it’s hard to see exactly why they can’t just eliminate that click.

While my students can’t, in the end, eliminate that “click,” it’s easy to see what Hegemann means about being “representative of a different generation.”

* * *

In the end, I also wonder if Hegemann’s idea of “sampling” can be seen as an extension—a sort of update, or an extreme version—of what Jameson has described as “pastiche.” For Jameson, pastiche, in short, is comprised of cannibalized style or styles: after the fragmentation of the subject in the postmodern world and the subsequent dissolution of unique or peculiar style, the postmodern artist must look to the past for style. In other words, since there is no longer a subjective self to express or from which to generate authentic content, artists must resort to “imitation of dead styles, speech through all the masks and voices stored up in the imaginary museum of a new global culture” (Jameson 18).

But Hegemann doesn’t limit herself to “imitation of dead styles.”  While Hegemann often does seem look to the past for her samplings—Mifti references her “excessive identification with Patti Smith”(139) and celebrates her playlist comprised of found 60s garage band music, for example—she just as often looks to the present. As she said, she “mixes and matches from the whirring flood of information across new and old media.”

Indeed, names, both past and present, high and low, local and global, (Western) pop culture and world (also, more often than not, Western) literature are dropped all over the place throughout the novel, in seemingly random places and to the point where it does become difficult to tell what comes from where—even when she’s seeming to cite things. In a chapter headed with a quote (about nostalgia for the 70s!) from American actress Leisha Hailey, Mifti goes with her class to the site of a Concentration Camp; it almost seems appropriate that Giorgio Agamben’s Homo Sacer appears in this chapter. Luis Buñuel (perhaps an inspiration for her surreal cinematic style) appears as her stepmother flicks through a documentary, shortly after chapter headings dedicated to Sexy Julia (who, from my quick Google-work, seems to be a German YouTube sensation) and a German broadcasting company’s advertising slogan.

Is this all received naturally (in the West) as part of our “global” imaginary? Does our own postmodern and globalized condition incline us to both intuitively understand and accept Hegemann’s version of artistic authenticity?

The opening pages of Helene Hegemann´s Axolotl Roadkill may lead us to assume that we are about to read a Bildungsroman. The narrator, Mifti, is a sixteen-year-old girl, growing up in Berlin in a wealthy family. This story, however, complicates as we find out about her absent father, her drug addicted mother or Mifti´s serious psychological issues related to some traumatic events during her childhood.  Drugs, sex and depression pervade the episodes included in this diary-like narrative in which any expectation to come across a “coming-of-age drama” (197) is frustrated. On the contrary, as the novel progresses, irresolution and ambivalence become the only certainties. Unlike the traditional Bildungsroman, Mifti does not find her place within the social order, embodying the axolototl: “a comic character (…) reaches sexual maturity without ever undergoing metamorphosis out of the amphibian stage- it just never grows up” (133). This is one of the main aspects that distinguishes this novel from more conventional “coming-of-age” stories: “The typical Bildungsroman journey results in the hero’s return home and his reabsorption into society and an ordained social order. Thus the hero discards his rebellion, taking home only that which has been learned via the rebellion, not the rebellious attitude which has propelled his Bildung” (Estill 26). Regarding the classical Bildungsroman, it is important to remember that this genre originates in a very specific context -Germany in the 18th century- and it reflects the coming-of-age of a male character. Thus, this type of novel has been connected to a specific notion of selfhood that could be defined in the following terms: “all `I´s are rational, agentive, unitary. Thus the `I´ becomes `Man´ … effectually what Spivak has termed the ´straight white Christian man of property´” (Smith & Watson xvii). This connection between gender and genre prompts us to examine how gender matters are articulated throughout Hegemann´s narrative.

Through this post I would like to examine to what extent Hegermann´s representation can be related to neoliberal sexualities and gender identities. To start with, an interesting comparison can be established between sexuality and gender identity represented in Axolotl Roadkill and some central tenants in neoliberal feminisms. One of the main points that needs to be taken into consideration in relation to neoliberal feminism is the emphasis put on choice and the individual. The identification of gender identities and sexualities as an individual choice could be positive to certain degree. On the one hand, it recognizes individuals as agents, able to exert some power on their particular circumstances, which also avoids leading to victim stances that reproduce the idea of certain groups as helpless, in need of someone to liberate them. Nevertheless, if this idea is not accompanied by an examination of some structural constraints that work at the social and collective levels, neoliberal feminism risks supporting the perverse idea that individuals are to blame for their own oppression. Axolotl Roadkill distances itself from this ideology through the depiction of a character that is largely influenced by her particular conditions. In this sense, Mifti is given some agency, but she does not reproduce in any way the illusion of the lone, self-sufficient and self-made individual that different feminists like Susan Bordo, Carol Pateman or Nancy Chodorow helped to unmask. The author seems to acknowledge that extending this illusion to traditionally oppressed groups would not offer any solution. Instead, she depicts a character that comes close to Woltersdoff´s notion of precarious identities, understood within the framework of neoliberal capitalism.

Volker Woltersdorff focuses on “neo-sexualities” in order to define “the sexual forms that go along with this social and economic transformations” (165). Neoliberal capitalism generates an ambivalence between insecurity and the opportunity to disturb normative roles. A Foucaultian approach leads her to conceive power as inescapable, but she keenly stresses that, as Foucault argued, “where there is power, there is resistance”. To defend her point, she draws on “the dialectical potential that is set free by the very paradoxes which emerge from neo-sexual settings” (165). The paradox lies on the fact that certain practices do not limit to reinforce normativity, but also have destabilising effects. Mifti embodies her own definition of precarious sexuality as “the juxtaposition of the gains in individualization and the increase in insecurity that arises through economic deregulation and the decline of social tradition” (167). In this sense, Axolotl Roadkill delves into this ambivalence that Woltersdoff would identify as a potential for change: “For the neo-liberal model opens-up a potential for politicizing and resistance within the process of domination, and paradoxically legitimizes the acceptance and active participation of the dominated. Through this arise the ambivalent situation that criticism is possible as much through refusing as through taking part, and that both, however, can equally lead into affirmation” (179). However, I personally consider that whether the novel ultimately succeeds in destabilising normative roles is questionable and left open to interpretation. Both the danger and the potential of this approach lies on the fact that contradictory interpretations are feasible, as ambivalence embraces normativity and resistance.

Estill, Adriana. “Building the Chicana Body in Sandra Cisneros´s My Wicked Wicked Ways”. Rocky Mountain Review of Language and Literature 56. (1994): 25-43. Print.

Smith, Sidonie & Julia Watson. De/colonizing the subject: The politics of gender in women’s autobiography. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. 1992. Print.

If one is impelled to summarize Helene Hegemann’s Axolotl Roadkill, one can say that it is a metaphor of a society the refuses to grow up and accept the abyss that their parental negligence has created for their children. Mifti, a sixteen year old teenager immersed in a world of drugs and sexual excesses, writes in her diary about what has turned her life into a whirlpool of lavishness: a schizophrenic and destructive mother and her absent father, a well-off artist hardly present in her life. Adrift and neglected by her father and abused by her mother, she experiences the club scene of Berlin which offers Mifti hardcore drugs including cocaine, heroin, and ecstasy, among others.

About her «schizophrenic, obsessive-compulsive, neurotic, sadistic» mother she adds that «putting up with her corporal punishment was a relatively bearable state of affairs because then our roles were clearly defined and my position was clear-cut: just being the weak one for a change» (172). Mifti even goes far by saying: «I am less than existent in German culture. I’ll just let you know you have your world and you let me have mine» (177).

And so we witness page after page how the lack of care of a generation of parents have pushed their children to immerse themselves in an underground world that seems to be the everyday life of contemporary Berlin. For Mifti, Berlin’s pop culture is the club scene, drugs and sex, but she does not forget to mention what pop culture was for her parents’ generation, references that are made throughout the novel in which we find the names of Bob Dylan, , Madonna, Donnna Summer, Roberta Flack, etc.

If we live in world in which ideas flow back and forth and end up affecting everyone’s lives, there is an immediate antecedent to Mifti, more specifically a character found in the Swedish trilogy Millennium, published in 2005 by the late Stieg Larsson: Lisbeth Salander, who survived a traumatic childhood and was declared incompetent by the Swedish State and is then appointed to Nils Bjurman, the guardian who sodomizes her and is one of the key reasons why she abuses drugs and lives a promiscuous life.

Taking one step back in time and with the strong argument the literature has reached a transnational level that crosses borders, time and space, it is difficult not to mention another antecedent to Hegemann’s novel: Julio Cortázar’s short story «Axolotl», a story that literally let the world know about this Mexican animal unknown in other countries. Here, we find it quite impossible that Helene Hegemann did not hear about Cortázar’s short story particularly because she is the daughter of Carl Hegemann, a well-known dramaturg and Cortazar’s story had been translated into all European languages including German, and some of his other stories were made into movies.

In describing the Mexican pink salamander as she looks at it in an aquarium (again the flow of ideas in a mass media controlled world), Hegemann’s description reads as follows: «It has funny little tentacles, beady blue eyes and the friendliest smile I’ve ever seen… it’s really low-maintenance and it reaches sexual maturity without ever undergoing metamorphosis out of the amphibian stage – it just never grows up» (133).

Cortázar’s protagonist also contemplates the salamander in a Parisian aquarium. For several weeks of perhaps months he visits the aquarium until one particular axolotl attracts his attention. He realizes that the animal feels sad and this feeling allows him to create a bond with the animal. At the end of the story we realize that the narrative voice belongs to the axolotl as if in the bonding process man and salamander have exchanged consciousness.

Such a transit of a consciousness, from one being to another, regardless of time, space and physical constitution, although considered a trademark in Cortázar, could be traced to Romanticism, when the poet claimed that intuition was a state of consciousness in contact with nature and the divine forces.

Diminished, reduced in Cortázar’s story to a transit between a specific and rare animal and a human, this romantic consciousness dies in Hegemann’s Berlin. Only a metaphor remains in her novel. Mifti sees a possible symbiosis between the axolotl that never grows up with a German a generation of parents that does exactly the same.

Julio Cortázar’s narrator states that «In the library at Sainte-Geneviève, I consulted a dictionary and learned that axolotls are the larval stage (provided with gills) of a species of salamander of the genus Ambystoma. That they were Mexican I knew already by looking at them and their little pink Aztec faces and the placard at the top of the tank». But unlike Cortázar’s protagonist who becomes an axolotl himself, Mifti is unable to escape, even through an axolotl, from her consciousness and therefore, from her rage and pain.

Even more: You can say that the exchange of consciousness in Cortázar is either denigrating or humoristic, but the fact is that the narrative voice keeps its integrity until the last word of his short story. Salamander or human, the voice narrating the story does not suffer changes: we feel the same loneliness, same discreet, stoic, curious and objective tone. Mifti, the heir of the unified Berlin, born in one of the most developed countries of the planet, can narrate her story of fragmentation but to a certain point only where actions become dislocated and her voice sinks and disappears inside them.

With obvious differences, Mifti’s contemplation of the axolotl in a Berliner aquarium resembles Cortázar’s protagonist pondering on the same animal and this intertextuality seems to be a salutation to the renowned Argentine writer. About the uproar caused by the accusations of plagiarism in Hegemann’s novel, it is always a good idea to look back in history and learn that in the Middle Ages the notion of originality did not exist. We see stories like the life of Alexander the Great and Tristan and Isolde being written in different countries and in different languages but what was important in each version was not originality itself but the nuances that the author brought to a preexisting story.

In reading Axolotl Roadkill, the protagonist, Mifti, instantly reminds me of Woltersdorff’s definitions of precarious sexualities, however, in my opinion Mifti also lies outside of the demographics that Woltersdorff discusses.  As a sixteen year old product of child abuse, Mifti’s sexual exploits cannot be considered as a means to regain her sexual independence or her emancipation because of the passiveness with which she pursues them.  Although Mifti’s existence is definitely one of incertainty–her copious drug use and erroneous mental state prohibit her from being certain or truly desirous of any of her actions–I would certainly not consider her sexual escapades as a means of her self-identification or emancipation.  I would, however, agree with Woltersdorff’s attestation that “…sexuality is…simultaneously an agent and a resource of precarity…” in Mifti’s life (Woltersdorff 167).   Her sexual endeavors with the taxi driver, with her male friends, and with random men at parties are remarkably frequent and yet Mifti hardly remarks on them at all and, for the most part, maintains a position of disinterest or even distaste towards them.  I would argue that Mifti’s incessant drug use coupled with her difficult upbringing and limited social interaction with her father has led to a life of denial and desperation.  Her mentally-ill mother abuses and neglects her as a child, leaving her locked out of their house for days on end and leading Mifti to the conclusion that she is dead.  Furthermore, her father, who is mentally stable and financially capable, continues the pattern of neglect towards Mifti as, rather than raising her and taking care of her himself, he leaves her care to his older children, Annika and Edmond who form a sort of neo-family that fails to meet Mifti’s needs as a depressed adolescent. Instead of acknowledging her mental illness and drug addiction, Mifti’s father just throws money at her.  We see references throughout the book to the luxury in which these children live–countless MacBook Pros scattered around the house, a housekeeper, etc. which evidences the presence of their father’s money, however, his physical presence appears on less than five pages throughout the novel.

Despite her father’s belief that “…there’s really no reason to explain to a fifteen-year-old semi-adult how to peel a bloody orange,”–or to pay attention to her at all–it is clear throughout the novel that Mifti still embodies the needs and desires of this abandoned, neglected child and therefore necessitates parental intervention (Woltersdorff 137).  Since her mother is deceased and her father refuses to acknowledge his parental obligations beyond financing her expensive lifestyle, she searches throughout the book for someone to take care of her.  This caretaker takes many forms throughout the novel from Mifti’s disheveled, drug-addict twenty-eight year old friend, Ophelia to the various men with whom she partakes in various sexual exchanges.  Mifti’s agency is extremely questionable as, throughout the book, she is high on ecstasy and other drugs which problematizes the emancipatory qualities that Woltersdorff attributes to Mifti’s so-called neo-liberalistic sexuality.  Although Mifti certainly fits within Woltersdorff’s constraints–her sexuality is deregulated, she sleeps with all types of partners, it is impossible to suggest that Mifti’s sexual identity “…unfolds [its] appealing authority precisely by taking pleasure in uncertainty and insecurity…” nor does her sexuality exist as a “…deployment of power that produces and mutually relates embodied subjects…” but rather as an escape mechanism, like drugs, to help convince herself that she is a liberated adult and not a trapped, helpless child (Woltersdorff 167).

Although I do think that this novel presents a political discourse for the existence of neoliberal sexualities in Berlin through the various casual and non-heteronormative exchanges seen throughout the book–particularly those of male characters: Edmond’s bisexuality and his relationship with Smoothio–I do not correlate Mifti’s sexuality with one of neoliberal emancipation.  While Edmond seems to possess a great deal of agency in his sexual exchanges–he cognitively decides to sleep with Smoothio and whoever else he chooses–but Mifti’s precarious mental state and her drug-addled mind strip her of the agency that sexual liberation requires by definition.  Mifti’s descriptions of her sexuality are extremely problematic as they often contain motifs of pain, rape, and her lack of desire.  Although the drugs make it challenging to determine Mifti’s exact feelings, such statements as “…men want to rape me, of course, certain parts of my body are constantly swollen, this world is paradise, pain doesn’t exist…” reveal her deeply entrenched lack of self-esteem, her jaded outlook of her own body, and her resolution to give herself as a human sexual sacrifice to random men which, in no way, resonate with the ideologies of neoliberal sexuality (Hegemann 31).  Her overall desperation presents itself again when she admits, in a rare moment of mental clarity, that “…I’m sixteen years old and presently capable of nothing but wanting to establish myself–despite colossal exhaustion–in contexts that have nothing to do with the society in which I got o school and suffer from depression.  I’m in Berlin.  It’s all about my delusions” which reinforces her lack of agency and desire to adhere to societal pressures–including the sexual liberation that is emphasized as such an integral part of her society in Berlin (16).  Finally in a moment of complete honesty, Mifti admits to a classmate that she “…[has] issues with sex, because sex counteracts unconditional love, and that’s what [she] want[s].  Sex is nothing but a selfish, bestial urge that unmasks the people [she] love[s] as remote-controlled conglomerations of reflexes…” (Hegemann 92).  In these rare moments of clarity and sobriety I believe we really see Mifti as an individual.  Not only does Mifti counter the empowered epitome of Woltersdorff’s neoliberal sexuality, she denounces sexuality altogether.  The only sexual version of Mifti that we see in the book–the girl who has indifferent sex with a taxi driver and is taken advantage of by her male friends at parties, is the version of Mifti that is heavily drugged.  These drugs strip her of all agency and empowerment and we cannot, therefore, consider her fluid, relentless sexual advances as components of a a neoliberal sexual discourse.  I see Mifti, rather, as a child trying desperately to regain the care and love she lacked so greatly in childhood and, who, in order to avoid the reality that no one will ever care for her, turns to drugs and meaningless sexual encounters to numb herself from the painful acceptance of this realization.

Based on our readings for this week, as well as discussion we’ve had previously about feminism on the transnational level, I think transnationalism is more effective in particularizing feminist ideals than in universalizing them; in fact I think looking at feminism through a transnational lens is a good way of seeing that we perhaps shouldn’t universalize it.  In “Global Identities,” Grewal and Kaplan give explanations of varying uses of the word ‘transnational’, one of which involves what they call the “NGOization of social movements” which leads to U.N. and other conferences on “transnational women’s movements” (665-666).  The problem with this use of ‘transnational’ as a synonym for ‘global,’ Grewal and Kaplan suggest, is that it allows for critical studies of intersectionality within movements such as feminism to be neglected or ignored – differences based around race, socio-economics, immigration and other factors are largely glossed over in favor of discussing a “global” feminist vision, which typically ends up being centered around the West.

Aili Mari Tripp’s piece on the evolution of feminism through the transnational lens also problematizes the idea of there being a global feminism meant to cover everyone.  Tripp describes how Western feminism has come to see itself as the forebearer for feminism in the rest of the world, and in less developed parts of the world especially, when in fact “the current consensus is a product of parallel feminist movements globally that have learned from one another but have often had quite independent trajectories and sources of movement” (51-52).  She gives many examples supporting this, such as the fact that abortion rights were first put into international law in Africa, and that there are now several nations that have specified that women must take up a certain percentage of governing seats.  These things did not come about solely because of Western feminism, Tripp explains, because feminism has evolved parallel to that in the U.S. and the West in other parts of the world, and has not always had the same ideals at the same time.  As an example, while the West focused closely on suffrage at the turn of the century, other regions were focused more on social equality in general.  Today, she says, women in the U.S. are way behind other parts of the world, yet somehow (through lack of media coverage or other factors) the U.S. and other Western nations continue to be seen as the models for feminism.  “Winning the right to vote for women in Europe and North America had taken the momentum out of many women’s rights movements in these countries,” she writes (57).

While reading Tripp’s piece, particularly the part with that quote, I was reminded strongly of the current status of LGBT rights, and especially of a headline I saw a few weeks ago.  The Daily Beast ran an article about Mike Michaud, the openly gay Democrat who was running for governor in Maine, with the headline, “America’s First Post-Gay Governor.”  The article argued that most voters didn’t seem to care that he is gay “in an era when gay people come out of the closet at younger and younger ages” and in light of the growing number of states with marriage equality, which seems fair enough, but I couldn’t help but be irked by the use of the term “post-gay.”  Are we really “post-gay”?  What does that even mean?

Similar to what Tripp suggests about suffrage having been the biggest cause in Western feminism in the past, marriage has been by far the most discussed LGBT rights issue in the U.S. for years now, despite being far from the only or even – arguably – the most pressing issue.  I personally know several people who seem to view these issues purely from a U.S.-centric perspective and assume that since it’s such a big deal here, marriage must be the focus in most other nations as well.  However, as with feminism, the goals of rights movements in other parts of the world will likely be based more on multiple, intersectional factors as suits different cultures and peoples (for example, look at the movements around the Ugandan bill that originally proposed the death penalty for homosexual acts; marriage was certainly not the center of discussion there).  Taking a transnational approach to studies of these movements rather than a global one allows these differences to be seen, as opposed to gathering up similar movements from around the world and averaging them, or even summarizing them with the ideals of one particular region and assuming that all other movements have stemmed from there.

(Note: I tried to post this earlier, but when I just came to read everyone else’s posts it wasn’t here anymore.  I’m not sure if it ever actually posted the first time.  Apologies, therefore, for the late post, or if this results in a duplicate post!)

At a large university in the United States, it may be difficult to imagine an educational and research environment prior to the popularization of Wikipedia and other online tools. Yet, what happens when the “Global South” also gains access to these tools? Can people from these countries only see themselves as consumers of content produced by the “Global North?” To what extent can people from all over the world become content creators as well as consumers?

Despite all the progress Wikipedia has made to become a free, open access, multilingual, easily comprehensible and editable resource for people around the world to use, Raval seeks to address and challenge the issue of continued Western male dominance of the site editors. Raval indicates that a 2012 study found that “nine out of ten” Wikipedia editors are male, according to the Wikimedia Foundation blog. Further, although the Wikipedia Zero initiative seeks to make content more readily available in Africa and Asia through platforms other than computers, such as cell phones and SMS services, this may only solve the issue of granting more people access to reading Wikipedia content, rather than actually editing or contributing articles.

I’d like to explore how knowledge is being consumed and produced on digital platforms in the non-Western world by specifically considering how national, large-scale hyper-modernization projects in Sub-Saharan African countries are heavily focused on the development of ICT (Information Communication Technology) initiatives that may include the dissemination of Wikipedia content on multiple platforms. In Rwanda, for example, President Kagame has developed a national initiative called “Vision 2020,” which calls for the nation to transform its economy from an agricultural base to a technological one by the year 2020. In his speech to Carnegie Mellon University in 2011, upon his announcement of the new Carnegie Mellon graduate technology program in Rwanda, he claimed that technology was the perfect industry for the Rwandan people to contribute to because, while they do not have the most abundant natural resources, their large population of young people can learn the tools and trade of technology and help to transform Rwanda into the ICT capital, or “Silicon Valley” of Africa.

Rwanda is not the only African country interested in ICT development. In fact, nations like Kenya, Ghana, Nigeria, Tanzania, and South Africa (a.k.a. the “Silicon Cape”) are in many ways competing to be the ICT leader of Africa. In addition, they are arguably uniting to overcome past and ongoing national conflicts by rebranding themselves as countries of economic growth and technological innovators in the “Silicon Savannah.” You can read more about the respective economic achievement and competition in Kenya and Rwanda here. This blog also includes numerous articles about ICT development in Africa as a whole and Rwanda in particular, from the perspective of a Carnegie Mellon tech professor teaching at CMU-Rwanda.

Infographic of African tech innovation hubs and labs

With this development plan in mind, I’d like to revisit the question of how information such as Wikipedia articles might be disseminated in places like Rwanda. I think the Wikipedia Zero initiative is helpful because most people in Rwanda, especially outside the capital city, only have regular access to mobile phones (but not smart phones). This is why many Rwandan-based ICT developers are focusing on creating automated tools and content that people can access by listening to prompts and pressing corresponding buttons, rather than touch-screen applications that would only be accessible to a small elite.

I’m curious to know what the form of a Wikipedia article would look like on a mobile device without internet access. According to the Wikipedia Zero plan, articles could be sent to users via text message. This idea could be helpful if people wanted to quickly find out a bit of information about a particular topic, but it seems as though it would be less easy to use if one wanted to do a considerable amount of research or even browse a page for different content. Translations would be available for the content, but it’s unclear as to who would be translating the documents and how many articles could actually be translated into less commonly taught languages such as Kinyarwanda, let alone Swahili.

I also don’t see any indication in the Wikipedia Zero plan that the project will be conducive to people who may want to contribute to Wikipedia in some way. If I look at Wikipedia now, I see very little information about Rwandan arts and culture. Some artists’ names may be listed, but only three of them have at least a paragraph of information about their works. If more Rwandans are able to access Wikipedia articles, will it be common knowledge to them that they have the ability to edit this open access encyclopedia and contribute their own entries, or will they only see it as something they can read?

In short, I find it interesting and productive that projects like Wikipedia Zero are aiming to provide more people from around the world with free access to digital content, yet I remain concerned about how accessible or cumbersome this technology may be, and how more people can see themselves as producers rather than merely consumers. Perhaps these issues may be addressed in later proposals for the project. Many people in urban Rwanda might tell you that technology cannot be pre-packaged and disseminated easily from the U.S. to Africa. If ICT development projects are going to have any sustainable success in Sub-Saharan Africa, as well as many other parts of the world, it is important that local innovators who understand particular societal and infrastructural concerns can develop projects that help to enable people, rather than merely aid them.