Women Mobilizing Memory, edited by Ayşe Gül Altınay, María José Contreras, et al. (introdcution)

Women Mobilizing Memory

EDITED BY

LJƔĞ 'ƺů ůƨŶĂLJ DĂƌşĂ :ŽƐĠ ŽŶƚƌĞƌĂƐ DĂƌŝĂŶŶĞ ,ŝƌƐĐŚ :ĞĂŶ ,ŽǁĂƌĚ ĂŶƵ <ĂƌĂĐĂ ůŝƐĂ ^ŽůŽŵŽŶ WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

DĂƌŝĂŶŶĞ ,ŝƌƐĐŚ

Introduction Practicing Feminism, Practicing Memory MARIANNE HIRSCH

“Something about the past reminds us of what the future might look like.”

WANGE CHI MUTU

This Book: Practicing Feminism, Practicing Memory

T

his book emerges from a multiyear feminist collaboration. A shifting group of us—scholars, artists, and activists from the United States, Europe, and Latin America—have been meeting in person, working together online, and producing this book to consider how the memories of violent histories that we had either personally experienced or studied in our work could be mobilized for more progressive and hopeful futures. The working group on Women Mobilizing Memory brings feminism and memory studies together to connect the afterlives of political violence in various parts of the globe.1 Under the auspices of Columbia’s Center for the Study of Social Difference and its Women Creating Change initiative, some of us met first in Santiago, Chile in 2013, later in Istanbul, Turkey in 2014, and then in New York in 2015. Others joined us as we envisioned publication. Over the course of our collaboration, the group, as well as the questions and the challenges we faced, expanded and shifted. The rise of right-wing populism in many parts of the globe, the alarming restrictions on freedom in Turkey, and the election of Donald Trump in the United States, as well as continuing wars and a growing refugee population, have energized resistance movements committed to social justice. Specifically feminist mobilizations such as the global #MeToo movement; the fights for abortion rights in Ireland, Chile, [1]

and Argentina; and the feminist student movement in Chile have given our work renewed urgency and inspiration. Responding to the ways in which collective memory has, in recent years, been weaponized for conservative and even violent ends, our project seeks to explore alternative practices for mobilizing the memory of past inequities to spur progressive change.

Yet “mobilizing,” one of the key words in our title, is often used for military mobilization and reactionary agendas. Authoritarian regimes routinely aim to mobilize collectivities in the service of vengeance and destruction. And they often do so precisely by invoking another of our key terms, “memories,” of perceived injuries and injustices that occurred in the past and that shape group identities. In our work, however, to mobilize memory means to find in it a dynamic potential for transformation that counters backward-looking movements that attempt to restore a legendary or mythic past, or, worse, that serve nationalist and divisive ends. We welcome the associations of “mobilizing” with activating, setting in motion, moving. The association of mobilizing with rallying or gathering helps define the value of collectivity in surviving the present to open future possibility. Yet, this volume asks, what makes the difference in mobilizing memory for justice? Is it a matter of different political ends, the nature of what is being remembered, the strategies and techniques of protest and intervention being employed, or all of the above? Our third key term, “women,” is also in need of definition here. We certainly do not suggest that all those who identify as women stand and act for politically progressive ends, nor do we mean in any way to essentialize femininity. Even as our authors foreground and analyze race and gender-based violence and traditions of activism invented by and associated with women, “women,” in this volume, stand in for an expanded range of progressive political subjects and actors, defined quite differently by different authors in this book. Committed to feminist practices and values, we make clear that these are not the property of people who identify as women. And feminism itself, we recognize, has a variety of meanings in different cultural and historical contexts. Eschewing the pressure to agree, this book is shaped by this multiplicity.

We hope that Women Mobilizing Memory will be read as the product of the ongoing encounters, collaborative scholarly inquiry, activism, and creative work that inform its pages. The study of memory has been slow to integrate the analysis of gender and sexuality as markers of social difference.This book makes a unique contribution in building on what is only slowly beginning to emerge as practice-based feminist memory studies.2 In our transnational [ 2 ]

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collaborative work, we developed a process based in solidarity, constructive critique, and a willingness to learn from one another in ways that challenge the insularity of particular disciplines and geopolitical contexts. Certainly, feminism has different meanings and priorities in the parts of the world where we each work, and feminists committed to doing transnational or global feminist work have encountered different barriers and challenges.

This book testifies to some of these differences: while all the essays are attuned to the workings of gender and other forms of social difference, only some explicitly foreground gender and sexuality in their analysis. Others exhibit feminist concerns in less explicit, though equally significant, ways.

All stringently query received histories and work to bring suppressed or unspoken memories of violence to light. These include violence caused by genocide and war, state violence under authoritarianism and dictatorship and even democracy, dispossession, social death, and more intimate forms of gender-based violence. The authors and artists included here find newly engaged ways of telling the stories of such violence, past and present, assuming the responsibility to intervene by seeking paths toward repair and redress.

At the same time, they are vigilant about their own complicity and implication in social structures of inequality. A commitment to a shared feminist practice does not preclude continued debate on how best to promote progressive social change in local and global arenas. Collectively, by highlighting small acts of resistance and everyday practices of refusal, and by bridging disciplinary boundaries and their occlusions, this practice builds on feminist modes of engagement and knowing. For us, thinking, analyzing, performing, writing, and editing were conceived as part of a collective critical practice.

Practicing memory by listening, building solidarity, embracing unknowing, accepting failureâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;all these enable us to invite proximate and distant others into the affective experiences that acts of mobilizing memory can elicit.

Performances of protest and art practices are an integral part of our inquiry into how the past can be opened up and its debilitating legacies transformed. We ask, what strategies can disrupt, disturb, engage, move, mobilize a larger public to counter forgetting and to confront and dislodge entrenched beliefs? What role do the arts play in combating the erasure of past violence from current memory and in creating new visions and new histories for future generations? In particular, what unique strategies have women devised to reveal and attempt to redress the violence directed at women and at other disenfranchised social groups? What does a progressive feminist mobilization look like?

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The sites of our inquiry—North and South America, Europe, and Turkey in particular—determine some of our methods and strategies. Distant yet not dissimilar, Chile and Turkey, specifically, share histories of authoritarian rule, dictatorship, genocide, and troubled transitions to neoliberalism. Each has experienced forced migration and diasporic movements, silence and forgetting. Together, they illustrate the cultural and political effects of West European and U.S. foreign policy, inflected by legacies of imperialism and colonialism; and they demonstrate the devastating consequences of a politics of repression based on silence and denial. At the same time, in both places, literature, art, and other memory practices have not only flourished but have become crucial forms of political action. In fact, they have emerged as central ways of mobilizing other forms of knowledge and alternative ways of intervention in national narratives and imaginaries.

These transnational encounters of vastly divergent yet related histories have led us all to think about the vicissitudes of mobility itself and our own freedom of movement. Carrie Mae Weems’s photographic “Roman Series,” discussed in this volume by Deborah Willis, reflects on the contradictory instabilities introduced by forced migration, on the one hand, and the lack of mobility resulting from enslavement and incarceration, on the other. The artist’s own freedom and her resulting presence at the sites of imperial power activate memory and reveal the invisible human costs of state and imperial power. Judith Butler has recently argued that our mobility as social subjects depends on support and material conditions, on architecture and infrastructure. Her work on public assembly and mobilization stipulates that “freedom can be exercised only if there is enough support for the exercise of freedom.”3 In the course and the aftermath of genocide, war, political repression and massive individual and communal losses, these conditions are necessarily compromised, creating the need for compensatory gestures, like some of the monumental memorial practices our volume explicitly critiques.

Through its critical feminist lens, this volume focuses instead on embodied acts of protest and transformation that are more fleeting and on aesthetic acts that support the exercise of freedom on a more intimate scale, activating unofficial, nonhegemonic collections, archives, and behaviors as well as alternative feminist circuits of connectivity. The memory acts and narratives that we have found most inspiring mobilize personal and cultural injury enabling us to envision potential alternative historical trajectories.

The ideas exchanged in the academic talks, public roundtables, workshop discussions, exchanged manuscripts, and collaborative editing in which [ 4 ]

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many of our authors participated, and the disagreements we attempted to address there, shape much of this volume. Less measurable are the effects of the memory work we performed in smaller and larger groups, which is reflected in the volume and also helps to define its activist feminism and commitment to change.

Accompanied and sometimes guided by survivors of detention and torture under the Pinochet regime, some of us visited the former torture center Villa Grimaldi, and the Museum of Memory and Human Rights in Santiago. We visited the Santiago football stadium where thousands of victims of the Pinochet dictatorship, many of them women, were held and tortured, a site discussed in this volume by Katherine Hite and Marita Sturken. We engaged in a memory walk in Istanbul to bear witness to gender and ethnic violence that remains largely unmarked on site. This walk, which has been developed and expanded by members of our group and which is analyzed in the essay on “Curious Steps” by Bürge Abiral, Ayߞe Gül Altınay, Dilara Çalıߞkan, and Armanc Yıldız, inspired a number of New York-based graduate students in our group to take us for a walk through Harlem. Researching and learning about a rich African American history that is strikingly undocumented by the plaques and architectural preservation projects that are so prominent in other parts of the urban landscape, they built on the gendered memory work of their colleagues in Istanbul. A group visit to the National September 11 Memorial Museum in New York, moreover, occasioned a discussion of the politics of this museum’s monumental staging of the memory of the attacks on the World Trade Center and the exclusionary and nationalistic responses this monumentality seems designed to provoke in its visitors. As individuals and as a group, we were compelled to reflect on our own stakes as witnesses to past and present violence and injustice at these different memory sites. Thus, we analyzed not only the effect these visits had on us but also the potentially disruptive effect our own appearance could have on the sites themselves and on local protocols for engaging with them. “Disrupting Sites,” the first section in this book, emerges from these conversations about mobility and intervention, presence and absence, memory and place.

The rally celebrating the second election of Michelle Bachelet in Chile in 2013 and the weekly vigil of the Saturday Mothers/People in which some of us took part in Istanbul in 2014, and the demonstration addressing Turkish state violence against Kurdish-dominated cities we staged in New York in 2015—all these inspired the second part of the volume, “Performing I N T RO D U C T I O N

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Protest.” The essays included here address embodied performances of protest in both intimate and public spaces, focusing, through the lens of feminism and social difference, on the strategies used by social movements to bring together (and produce) resistant political subjects. They reflect on the modalities of dissent, critique, and memorialization that feminist forms of protest advance, illuminating surprising interconnections between individual and collective, embodied and virtual, intimate and public forms of protest. The essays bring together mothers’ movements, movements for Black Lives, movements memorializing state-sponsored gender-based violence, and movements for justice in the workplace. Through modes of performance—such as public assembly, testimony, digital action, walking tours, site-marking, public funerals, dialogic analysis, and vigils—direct action groups and individuals strategically unearth and represent traumatic memories in order to demand not only recognition of what has been officially forgotten—a demand too easily dismissed with a symbolic monument or official proclamation—but justice and redress.

The two art exhibits “Mobilizing Memory:Women Witnessing” in Istanbul in 2014 and Vienna in 2015, curated by Iߞın Önol and Ayߞe Gül Altınay, and “Women Mobilizing Memory: Collaboration and Co-Resistance” in New York in 2015, curated by Iߞın Önol and Katherine Cohn, presented works by visual artists conceptualizing the parameters of an aesthetics of witness and intervention. The feminist artwork displayed in these exhibits imagines memory as part of a larger politics of resistance. Bringing together women artists, some of whom were themselves direct witnesses to oppression and terror, the exhibits also revealed moments of resilience, resistance, and creative survival. The artists foreground unofficial acts of witness and forms of commemoration that provide alternative histories and different political imaginaries than do many official archives, memorials, museums, and state commemorations. They made visible not only violent crimes and their gendered dimensions but also the intimate texture of lives and communities that have survived or are fighting to survive immense destruction.

In honoring those lives, they also reclaim traditional women’s practices— dance, song, and embroidery, for example—and show their political resonances.4 Some of the artists featured in these exhibits, along with others whose work inspired similar questions in different cultural and historical contexts, are represented in this book’s first and third parts, “Disrupting Sites” and “Interfering Images,” both through their own essays and images and in interpretative essays about their work. [ 6 ]

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Theater and performance formed an integral part of our work both in Santiago and Istanbul. For example, Habeas Corpus by working group member and theater artist María José Contreras was the first public theater performance to be held in Santiago’s Palace of Justice, an event that was specifically staged for our international “Women Mobilizing Memory” group in 2013.5 The performance commemorated the more than 10,000 habeas corpus briefs presented to the court during the Pinochet dictatorship on behalf of the disappeared, only to be ignored. As Contreras walked through the formidable lobby of the court, blindfolded, dressed in white and showing her pregnant belly, she incarnated both blind justice and the responsibility to transmit the story of its failure to future generations. To that end, she read a letter given to her by her father before his death with the request to destroy it. Instead, she revealed its contents, exposing her uncle’s complicity in the failed judicial proceedings during the dictatorship, his effort to exonerate himself, and the burden of family memories that he passed on to her and her generation. Sharing that burden with her, as active spectators and co-witnesses, on the very site of the crime, we sought ways to shift its knowledge and meaning for the future. In this book’s fourth part, “Staging Resistance,” we include essays that theorize the power, as well as the limitations, of embodied performance to provoke resistance and open horizons of change for actors and spectators alike.

Part V, “Rewriting Lives,” includes feminist theoretical essays on Chilean and Turkish literary and cinematic works that specifically engage the political violence of the last century in these two dictatorial and postdictatorial regimes. How can the stories of ordinary lives under dictatorship be told, and how do personal, public, and political narratives intersect? Many of the accounts written in the wake of authoritarianism and state violence document how cultural memory is mobilized for conservative and reactionary as well as progressive political purposes. A feminist reading practice attuned to the relationship of gender and power can help show what is at stake in using the past for present and future ends, and how those stakes change in shifting political climates.

One of this book’s contributions is to assemble a broad and distinctive archive of works that mobilize memory for progressive change and intervene against daily acts of forgetting. Visual and conceptual artists Silvina DerMeguerditchian, Lorie Novak, Doris Salcedo, Aylin Tekiner, Kara Walker, Carrie Mae Weems, Dilek Winchester; as well as Kurdish artists Bilal, Zarife Bitim, Leyla Demir, Nejbir Erkol, Elif Kaya, Zeynep Öztap; playwrights and I N T RO D U C T I O N

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performance artists Patricia Ariza, Caryl Churchill, Marie NDiaye, Teresa Ralli, Jeff Weiss; writers Halide Edib, Birgül OОuz, Murat Uyurkulak, Zabel Yesayan; Mapuche poets Elicura Chihuailaf, Maribel Mora Curriao, Karla Guaquin, María Huenuñir, Graciela Huinao, María Teresa Panchillo, and other Mapuche women poets included in the Hilando en la Memoria project; filmmakers Macarena Aguiló and Susana Foxley and others contribute to an archive of works that perform forward-looking acts of memory in different cultural contexts. Connecting these works with each other—whether in our group encounters, in individual essays, in the book’s subsections, or the book as a whole—this volume creates a platform in which to think, theoretically, about feminist connectivity and co-resistance.

The Context: Memory Practices, Memory Studies Now The acts of memory represented in this book offer urgent and at times hopeful responses to our current era of monumental memory that supports nationalist, ethnocentric, and masculinist imaginaries. Over the last decade, impressive commemorations have marked momentous anniversaries of histories of conflict, armed struggle, and military victory. The hundredth anniversary of the beginning of World War I, for example, was commemorated by a sea of ceramic red poppies surrounding the Tower of London, one for each of the 888,246 soldiers from Britain and its colonies who lost his or her life in the war. Inspired by the wartime poem “The Blood-Stained Lands and Seas of Red,” written by an anonymous soldier, as well as by the widespread use of the poppy as a symbol of remembrance, the installation was visited by millions. Recent anniversaries marking the end of the Second World War, the liberation of Paris, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Rwandan genocide, the Easter Rising in Ireland, the 1967 War in Israel, were all observed in similarly monumental ways, highlighting nationalism and militarism, on the one hand, victimization and suffering, on the other—all distinctly gendered.

These punctual and fleeting commemorations have been occurring in tandem with the opening of new monuments and monumental memorial museums dedicated to national catastrophes or to persecuted or injured minority populations across the globe—from sites like the National September 11 Memorial Museum in New York and the memorial to the victims of the German occupation in Budapest, to the Polin Museum of [ 8 ]

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the History of Polish Jews in Warsaw, the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington, the National Memorial to Peace and Justice dedicated to the memory of lynching in Montgomery Alabama, the Palestinian Museum in Ramallah, the Womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Active Museum on War and Peace in Japan, the War and Womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Human Rights Museum in South Korea, and the Womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Museum Istanbul, to name just a few. New Holocaust museums are being planned in London, Rome, Amsterdam, and Santiago, older memorial museums like the Anne Frank House and the Jewish Museum in Berlin, and many sites of concentration, detention, torture, and forced labor across the globe are undergoing massive renovation to tell more inclusive stories for new generations.

What is the function of these proliferating memorial institutions, what cultural work do they perform, and what kind of memory practices do they perpetuate? How can they shift national imaginaries to accommodate multiple narratives, even incongruent and competing ones? Of course, the stakes of these institutions vary greatly. Some of them are state-sponsored, consolidating nationalist narratives, while others are the result of years, even decades, of progressive memory activism with the goal of telling inclusive histories, building archives, combatting amnesia, and imagining justice. At the very same time that these memorial structures are going up, however, shocking displays of nationalist and ethnic violence have created new occasions for massive mourning and for future acts of commemoration. Sadly, there may not be a contradiction here.

I would argue that, whether celebrating moments of patriotism or using the occasion for a national reckoning and an attempt at redress, the monumentality of some of these structures and rituals actually risks strengthening rather than contesting the ethnic, racialized, and national barriers that are responsible for the violent histories they are recognizing. Monuments to a lost past risk enhancing foundational myths, confirming hegemonic versions of history, denying national complicity, and neglecting more complex historical explanations.6 While many nations still have no museums marking their fractured pasts, others, like the United States, are urgently debating the meaning of memorials to contested aspects of their histories, such as the confederacy. In Chile, official memory projects are only slowly taking shape after a postdictatorship pact of silence. Memory sites outside the capital and those involving women and gender-based violence during the dictatorship, in particular, are only recently being shaped for and opened to the public. The official I N T RO D U C T I O N

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denial of the Armenian genocide and the state-sponsored amnesia about state violence in Turkey, on the other hand, leave the memory work and the creation of a memorial culture to oppositional subaltern groups struggling for recognition.

The predominance of memorials and museums as media of popular memory risks overlooking alternative media and more temporary interventions, as in the public memory projects of Colombian artist Doris Salcedo, discussed in this volume by Andreas Huyssen, that critically expose and thus challenge hegemonic national and transnational memory tropes. Salcedo’s engaged feminist art practice, attuned to the effects of repression on individual and communal lives, brings people together to question and reflect rather than consume a pregiven history. Salcedo’s work, like Kara Walker’s “A Subtlety,” discussed in this book by Carol Becker, appropriates the monumentality of current memory practices, but the ephemeral nature of these works, and the materials they use—shirts, dresses, sugar—qualify that monumentality. Specifically citing the grandeur and size of recent monuments in the form of gendered and racialized mimicry, Walker sends up self-serving monumentality to provoke an uncomfortable recognition of her visitors’ deep complicity with the violence of capitalism and a history of slave labor.

Sometimes, also, a memory institution, like the nascent Women’s Museum Istanbul, can inspire alternative activist memory practices that are more fleeting and contingent, such as the gender memory walk “Curious Steps.”

Sensitive to how easily memory can be activated for conservative and reactionary political ends, scholars of memory have been inspired by critical public memory practices such as Salcedo’s and Walker’s—in other words, by countermonuments and by public acts of counter-memory.7 In our present moment, however, such practices are fewer, often re- rather than proactive. As Andreas Huyssen argued in his book Present Pasts, the evolution of memory culture in the 1990s was marked by antimonumentalism, precisely out of suspicion about the monument’s nineteenth-century association with nationalism.8 The preference, during that period, for an architecture of trauma, consisting of voids and gaps, in large part inspired by the antimonumentality of Maya Lin’s 1982 Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial in Washington D.C., is reflected in structures as diverse as Daniel Libeskind’s addition to the Jewish Museum in Berlin, highlighting voids and disorientation, as do the works of Horst Hoheisel and Andreas Knitz, Renata Stih and Frieder Schnock’s work in Germany, the Parque de la Memoria in Buenos Aires, and Villa Grimaldi in Santiago, consisting of multiple often incongruous [ 10 ]

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elements. As these examples show, the architecture of voids can still be monumental even while calling monumentality into question. Along with these critical memory structures, the smaller and more modest memory practices so creatively developed during the 1990s spawned a new public memory culture that inspired new theories of cultural memory.9 The now widespread Stolpersteine project initiated in Germany by artist Gunter Demnig, for example, installs small memorial plaques into the pavement in front of the homes of victims of National Socialism. More than 50,000 Stolpersteine have been placed in numerous sites in formerly Nazi-occupied Europe since the project’s inception in 1996 (http://www.stolpersteine.eu/en).

They intervene in the present with uncomfortable reminders of daily persecution that occurred in that very place, ensuring that former inhabitants will not be forgotten. The transitory night-time projections onto monuments, buildings, or the night sky by artists like Shimon Attie in Berlin and New York; Kristof Wodiszcko in London and Charlestown, Massachusetts; Ruth Beckermann in Vienna; or the “Tribute in Light” to the twin towers in New York, were all designed to contest monumental nationalist memory and call forth ghosts of a past that has yet to be worked through.10 Like these earlier public projects suspicious of the reification of national memory, the interdisciplinary field of memory studies has struggled to evolve from its nation-centered beginnings in the work of scholars like Pierre Nora or its immersion in singular traumatic histories like the Holocaust. The reliance on paradigms based on European histories, such as trauma and psychoanalysis, has been critiqued from global and postcolonial perspectives, even as they continue to be invoked to describe injury and survival from South Africa and Rwanda to postdictatorship Latin America.11 In the 2000’s, Memory Studies as a field has come to conceive memory as transnational and transcultural, building on the assumption that cultures and nations themselves are not static or clearly circumscribed but in constant active contact with one another. It looks at mnemonic itineraries, at travel and traffic, and at mobility, working against nationalism and ethnocentrism.12 Our working group on Women Mobilizing Memory and this volume join a number of recent conferences, journal issues, books, articles, and multi-year research projects that—with titles such as “Gendered Memories of War and Political Violence,” “Memory Unbound,” “Transnational Memory of the Holocaust,” Transnational Memory in Europe,” “Memories on the Move,” “Cosmopolitanism and Transcultural Memories,” “Memory Without Borders,” “Entanglements and Aftermaths”—have addressed the I N T RO D U C T I O N

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mobility of memory. In conversation and collaboration, memory scholars have been attempting to devise approaches that are suited to this mobility, playing with new terms that qualify memory as “cosmopolitan,” “multidirectional,” “global,” “globital,” “comparative,” or “connective.”13 The new Memory Studies Association, inaugurated in 2016, has given the journal Memory Studies, established in 2008, new energy and testifies to the global energy and ambition of the field.

The transnational turn in memory studies builds on the field’s critical potential—its questioning and enlargement of the present, its contestation of official histories and its efforts to make space for forgotten and suppressed voices. Thinking about how memory travels and how it reflects cultural entanglements and connectivities presents particular methodological challenges, however. The historian Dirk Moses has called attention to the potential of comparative memory, and especially comparative memory of genocide, to relativize the violence perpetrated on specific populations. He criticizes, for example, Timothy Snyder’s comparison, in his massive book Bloodlands, of the crimes committed by Hitler to those committed by Stalin in the bloodlands between Poland, Ukraine, and Belarus. In response, Moses calls for an “ethics of transculturality” that would be sensitive to particularity and difference, even while embracing a transnational perspective.14 As feminists attuned both to difference and to the potentials of solidarity, the authors of this volume are especially sensitive to the need for such an ethics.

Women Mobilizing Memory: Feminist Memory Studies This book can help define the parameters of what we might think of as a feminist “ethics of transculturality.” Significantly, transnational feminist memory work as practiced here aims to document and commemorate daily injustice and slow violence, as experienced cumulatively and bodily, as well as by large-scale disaster.15 Rob Nixon’s notion of “slow violence,” in fact, comes up in a number of essays in this book, speaking specifically to feminist concerns with the vicissitudes of daily lives.

While this volume as a whole is committed to placing violent histories as well as social movements demanding redress in relation to each other, rather than allowing them to stand separately and competitively as the exclusionary property of a single identity-based group, the artists and authors in this book are also acutely aware of the challenges of doing transnational feminist work. [ 12 ]

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In the last decades, global feminist conversations and collaborations like ours have become at once more widespread and more difficult. The increased availability of the internet, the growth of social media, and the pervasiveness of English as a lingua franca have facilitated these alliances, even when they originate in non-English-speaking countries. Yet this deceptive facility of communication threatens to reinstate old hierarchies between scholars who are Anglophone and those who are not, between those who have enjoyed U.S. or European education and privilege and others who have not.

In attempting to practice a feminist “ethics of transculturality,” the authors in this volume, and the artists and activists they are discussing, are sensitive to the limits of translatability among different contexts and histories, however entangled. They refuse to collapse divergent experiences into false equivalences. In moving between the local and the transnational, they eschew the nationalism and ethnocentrism lurking within both and the tendency toward the monumental within the mobile and borderless. They make space for practices and strategies—sometimes unremarkable and unremarked— that contest hegemonic acts of memory. Comparison, as Moses warns, might easily become a competition over suffering, encouraged by the zero-sum economy of exclusionary identitarian politics. Instead of comparison, this volume suggests connectivity and entanglement as means of conceptualizing transnational circuits of trauma. For an example of such connectivity, we might think about the fraught role of mothers illustrated in several of the essays. The revolutionary mother blamed for maternal neglect in the Chilean film The Building of the Chileans discussed by Milena Grass Kleiner and the sacrificial mothers in the plays by Marie NDiaye analyzed by Noémie Ndiaye display similar cultural desires for female and maternal nurturance and care, inevitably resulting in the accusation of maternal neglect and the assumption of maternal guilt.The nationalist mothers in the novels discussed

by Hülya Adak show maternal complicity in state structures that perpetuate violence. A contrary case is offered by the activist Saturday Mothers/People whose fight for justice is discussed by Meltem Ahıska and highlighted in the installations of Aylin Tekiner, analyzed by Nicole Gervasio. These cases are connected by gendered structures of oppression, but they can in no way be equated. To place these analyses in the same volume requires an attention to both specificity and commonality, as Diana Taylor argues in her essay on the “traumatic meme.”

The complexity posed by the mobility of the global and the persistent untranslatability of the local can only be offset by slow, patient, and I N T RO D U C T I O N

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durational collaborative work, emanating from and reaching across different locations in both the global North and the global South.16 Through the work in our group, we have learned that for collaboration to be effective, it must be rooted in the historical circumstances of specific locations— locations themselves traversed by global political and economic forces, as well as in shared experiences of these locations by those in dialogue and collaboration.

Thus, rather than identification, or even empathy with those most affected—practices that are open to the risk of appropriation or misunderstanding—the essays in this volume propose and perform responses of solidarity, accompaniment, and co-witnessing, or, even more powerfully, co-resistance.17 At the same time, we have also learned to pause and make space for the difficulties posed by an eagerness for collaboration and a smoothing over of difference. As the contribution of five blank pages by Susan Meiselas and Iߞın Önol so powerfully shows, we have had to learn to pay attention to, and to live with, refusal to communicate in pregiven registers, and with the failure of even the most well-intentioned efforts at transnational solidarity.18

Vulnerability and Resistance In practicing collaboration and solidarity across multiple borders, the feminist contributors to this volume make themselves vulnerable in multiple ways. Vulnerability is a key aspect of the feminist memory ethics and aesthetics that this book, and the practices that brought it about, help to define.

But this is not a vulnerability that is manufactured to provoke fear or disavowal, not a vulnerability that produces monumental memorial museums that defend national boundaries. Instead, feminists have defined “vulnerability” as a space of interconnection in the face of entangled histories.19 As an embodied species, we share a common vulnerability emerging from the condition of living in bodies and in time. Importantly, however, vulnerability is also socially, politically, and economically created and differentially imposed and can be mobilized for divergent political aims. Such a conception of vulnerability can provide a way to expand and redirect discourses of trauma, circumventing the unforgiving temporality of catastrophe, the sense of inexorable repetition of the past in the present and future in which injury cannot be healed or repaired but lives on, shattering worlds in its wake. Redirecting the retrospective glance of trauma opens a [ 14 ]

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view toward alternate temporalities that might be more porous and futureoriented, situated on the threshold of alternate reimagined realities.

Feminists are particularly attuned to the risks of claiming a gendered vulnerability, identifying women and other disadvantaged populations as especially vulnerable and in need of paternalistic protection. And yet, looking specifically at recent forms of public protest and assembly, the feminist volume on Vulnerability in Resistance claims that “vulnerability is part of resistance, made manifest by new forms of embodied political interventions and modes of alliance that are characterized by interdependency and public action.”20 As Judith Butler argues in her chapter in that collection, “[a]s a way of being related to what is not me and not fully masterable, vulnerability is a kind of relationship that belongs to that ambiguous region in which receptivity and responsiveness are not clearly separable from one another, and not distinguished as separate moments in a sequence; indeed where receptivity and responsiveness become the basis for mobilizing vulnerability rather than engaging in its destructive denial.”21 Vulnerability, in other terms, could be claimed as a platform of openness and connection and as a key aspect of political resistance.

To think about how memory of past and ongoing atrocity can be activated in the interests of justice, the essays and artworks in this volume mobilize the archives not only of violence and catastrophe but also of different scales and formats of resistance: from small acts of repair mobilized by art practices to larger-scale performances of collective protest actions, local and global.

Art, Mieke Bal writes in her work on migratory culture, “can enact small-scale resistances against the status quo in the social domain. These acts, which we call ‘little resistances,’ determine the limited yet potentially powerful political impact of art.”22 Similarly, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick describes what she calls “middle ranges of agency” that, as alternatives to grand reactive gestures, “offer space for effectual creativity and change.”23 Art, in its production and reception, enables the practice of receptivity by means of an acknowledgment of vulnerability, both shared and produced. Art can be a gesture of resistance and interference, as Laura Wexler shows in her analysis of Lorie Novak’s images and installations in this volume. It can open a space of interconnection as well as a platform for responsiveness and for “little resistances,” as we see in Silvina Der-Meguerditchian’s “Treasures,” remade by the artist for this volume.

Art practices and aesthetic encounters enable us to see vulnerability as I N T RO D U C T I O N

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an openness toward surprising possibilities, enabling us to engage it more creatively—as a position to work from and not only as something to be overcome. As the responses practiced and analyzed in this volume— Habeas Corpus and Aquí in Santiago, performed by María José Contreras; memory walks in Istanbul and New York; journeys of return such as Nancy Kricorian’s; theater events by Caryl Churchill discussed as embodied evocations of slow violence by Jean Howard and by Teresa Ralli and Patricia Ariza, discussed by Leticia Robles-Moreno; or the poetic protest practices such as the Mapuche lyrics discussed by María Soledad Falabella Luco, to name just some examples—they can thus inspire an ethics and a politics of open-endedness and mobility, attuning us to the needs of the past in the present, as well as to the urgency for change in the future.

The memory practices this book highlights engage in acts of repair that demand justice but do not aim at restitution. If they rebuild, they take up temporary, often virtual, spaces. They acknowledge the haunting imprecisions of memory, they perform its wounds but, at the same time, they enable us to imagine alternative histories and queer potentials that can reconfigure painful pasts.

On a larger scale of resistance, the protest movements studied in this book create political subjects and collectivities. While some recall and reclaim earlier movements for justice and social change, others create new strategies of mobilization. While varying in scale and format, protests have always involved performance, as the Latin etymology of the word attests: pr‫گ‬testčrҸ—pr‫ گ‬+ testčrҸ—is to bear witness together, to testify publicly. Protest requires joint action and, importantly, addressees and an audience: those with the authority to satisfy the demand and those to observe the claim.

From suffragist pageants to labor pickets, from guerilla graffiti teams to street theater troupes, from lunch counter sit-ins to sidewalk kiss-ins and die-ins, from fax zaps to hashtag activism, groups seeking justice have used their bodies, available technologies, and their collectivity to make their causes seen and heard.

This volume attends specifically to powerful twenty-first century forms of public mobilization that both build upon and challenge the historic legacies of protest movements. In accessing this “usable past,” movements can simultaneously honor and dismiss the efforts that preceded them. Self-distinguishing slogans like one frequently expressed at Black Lives Matter demonstrations—“This is not your grandmother’s civil rights

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movement”—both call attention to prior civil rights activism and alter its terms and modes of protest. In her essay on healing justice, Deva Woodly finds affirmative antecedents to the Movement for Black Lives in the concept of négritude and in earlier assertions that “Black is Beautiful.” Some protest traditions, the “motherist” protests in Istanbul, Argentina, and Mexico, discussed by Hülya Adak, Meltem Ahıska, Nicole Gervasio, and Diana Taylor, for example, were earlier critiqued for assuming the universality of motherhood or its priority as a female identity, yet the astonishing persistence of protests based on the grief and anger of actual or symbolic mothers reveals how effective this strategic use of identity politics can be, even as feminist horizontal organizing practices defy top-down hierarchies of power.

In their analysis of the graduate worker unionization movement at Columbia University, Andrea Crow and Alyssa Greene show the precarity of memory deprived of institutional structures and generational transmission. But they also show that twenty-first century forms of repression and injustice do sometimes require new tactics and can avail themselves of new tools and opportunities—and that old tactics encounter new challenges in our present context.The very act of assembling in parks or plazas has new meaning in the context of neoliberalism’s widespread privatization of public space. Public assembly brings public space into being by occupying it, and it stretches its shrinking boundaries. Those challenging the precarity of their lives—Latin American students, relatives of people disappeared by authoritarian regimes, women who endured political sexual violence, African Americans subjected to police brutality, artists who stage public performances—lay claim to a public platform typically denied them and make themselves vulnerable in the very act of protesting their vulnerability. They imagine and enact their collective power even as they place themselves at risk.24 What is more, digital technologies have changed the form and substance of contemporary protest, for organizers from all sides of the political spectrum. Do progressive movements use the digital in particular ways? Certainly this is a tool restricted to privileged organizers. Two cases discussed in this volume highlight the potential merits of such tools—digital mapping that calls attention to political erasure in Chile, discussed by María José Contreras Lorenzini in this volume, and the use of hashtags as accumulative memorialization in the campaign against femicide in Argentina, #NiUnaMenos (NotOneWomanLess), discussed by Marcela Fuentes. Both,

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importantly, emphasize connections rather than disconnections between on- and offline practices. Digitization has also effectively mobilized social movements by allowing for the instant documentation of repressive violence. The video filmed in New York in 2014 by a bystander that showed Eric Garner being driven to the ground through a chokehold by a police officer and then going limp is just one of many that has gone viral, igniting mass protests. His gasping plea for release—“I can’t breathe”—became a rallying cry in the national movement for police accountability. This accelerated democratic creation and dissemination of an archive of violence contrasts with the long, laborious, and officially thwarted efforts of activists in Turkey, Chile, and elsewhere to obtain records that document state atrocities long denied. And yet, videos of brutal state violence can also act as renewed weapons wielded against targeted bodies, such as those of black men in the United States, who are subjected to their viral repetition.

Digital culture, which resists top-down hierarchies and favors fluid networks, has also fostered rapid and extensive connectivities among protesters across borders, especially at moments when public assembly is severely restricted, as is the case in Turkey today. Contemporary protests cannot be understood without paying attention to the role of a transnational contagion of memes, tactics and strategies, images and behaviors disseminated on the internet: for instance, the communications and cross-citations among occupiers of Cairo’s Tahrir Square, Wall Street’s Zuccotti Park, and Istanbul’s Gezi Park; the associations forged between activists in Missouri demonstrating against racist police violence and Palestinians resisting Israeli occupation; Istanbul’s Saturday Mothers/People adapting the methods and imagery of the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo in Buenos Aires.

The citing, recuperation, and remixing of protest tactics produce solidarity and ideological connectivity across time and space. As Diana Taylor argues in her essay, “Traumatic Memes,” certain memes and rhetorics circulate globally, adapted to particular circumstances while symbolically claiming a place in the continuity of struggle through historical time and global geographies. And yet, of course, these repetitive, citational, accretive, and affective practices are just as readily utilized for reactionary as for progressive ends.

Acknowledging these complexities, this volume considers the myriad ways in which grass-root protests intervene in the public sphere, transforming it with the intimacy of shared grief. Giving voice to silenced memories or reclaiming and reframing collective memories that have [ 18 ]

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been deliberately misrepresented in official narratives, this volume seeks to support the calls for justice embodied in collective action, whether they address state, patriarchal, academic, or domestic regimes. It seeks to affirm the possibility of change.

Ariella Azoulay’s notion of “potential history,” inspired by Walter Benjamin’s idea of “incomplete history,” helps to theorize such an open-ended sense of possibility. “Potential history” is a sense not just of what was but of what might have been, and the act of encountering history in this way is, actively, to “potentialize” it—to revisit it so it yields different, perhaps incongruent, “unrealized possibilities”—eventualities that resonate across time and space. To “potentialize” history is to see what was from a different angle, through different eyes. The capacity to envision different potential, instead of one single linear history would mean the ability to accommodate conflicting truths that could lead to alternate futures, and, counter-intuitively perhaps, to alternate pasts as well.25 This kind of capacity can be developed through collaborative and connective practices that embrace commonality as well as difference. As Alisa Solomon demonstrates in her essay in this volume, queer theorists have redefined linear temporality in favor of lateral, contingent, nongenealogical forms of transmission that can also inform our thinking about memory and its conception of the past, the present, and the future. The demand for aparición con vida for those who were disappeared by repressive dictatorships reverses linear temporality in favor of counterfactual claims for a reappearance that would constitute justice. We see such alternative histories in the Turkish coup narratives analyzed by Sibel Irzık in this volume, narratives that “mourn” the “possibility” envisioned by activists organizing the revolutionary movements of the 1970s that were crushed by the military coup d’état of 1980. They are also present in the ambivalent memories of the MIR, the Revolutionary Left Movement in Chile, highlighted by Milena Grass Kleiner. They are visibly palpable in artist Dilek Winchester’s reconstructions of “what has been said before” in Turkey’s suppressed languages, discussed by Banu Karaca. And they suffuse the trans women funerals evoked by Dilara Çalıߞkan.

The gestures of intervention performed by these and other artists and activists discussed in this book enable such contemplations of alternative trajectories. Even as they recognize the pitfalls of insisting on forward movement and progress as the horizons of political aspiration, they aim to envision a future that recalls past crimes without appropriating them, without I N T RO D U C T I O N

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being paralyzed by them, and without succumbing to nationalist or ethnocentric ideologies that perpetuate a culture of fear and denial.

The ongoing collaboration that our interdisciplinary and transnational working group on Women Mobilizing Memory has practiced, our meetings in Chile, Turkey, and the United States, and the expanded collaboration represented by the work on this volume, provide no more than a promising beginning. The feminist ethics of transculturality it aims to enact provides a provocation to think further about how memory might inspire the work of co-resistance and a vision of livable lives.26

Notes 1. See https://www.socialdifference.columbia.edu/projects-/women-mobilizing -memory.

2. For volumes on gender and memory, see, for example, Marianne Hirsch and Valerie Smith, eds., “Gender and Cultural Memory,” Special Issue of Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 28, no. 1 (2002); Ayߞe Gül Altınay and Andrea Petö, eds., Gendered Wars, Gendered Memories: Feminist Conversations on War and Political Violence (New York: Routledge, 2016); Andrea Petö and Ayߞe Gül Altınay, eds., “Open Forum: Feminist Questions at the Centennial of the First World War,” European Journal of Women’s Studies 21, no. 3 (2014): 293–312; Cynthia Enloe, Maneuvers: The International Politics of Militarizing Women’s Lives (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000).

For queer approaches to memory studies, see especially Ann Cvetkovich, An Archive of Feelings: Trauma, Sexuality and Lesbian Public Culture (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003); David L. Eng, The Feeling of Kinship: Queer Liberalism and the Racialization of Intimacy (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010).

3. Judith Butler, Zeynep Gambetti, and Leticia Sabsay, eds. Vulnerability in Resistance (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2016), 14.

4. https://www.socialdifference.columbia.edu/publications-1/mobilizing -memory-women-witnessing-exhibition-catalogue; https://www.socialdifference .columbia.edu/publications-1/collaborative-archives-connective-histories -exhibit-catalogue.

5. http://www.mariajosecontreras.com/habeas-corpus.

6. See, for example, Marita Sturken, “The 9/11 Memorial Museum and the Remaking of Ground Zero,” American Quarterly 67, no. 2 (2015): 471–90.

7. On countermonuments, see the generative essay by James Young, “The CounterMonument: Memory against Itself in Germany Today,” Critical Inquiry 18, no. 2 (1992): 267–96. On counter-memory, see Michel Foucault, Language, [ 20 ]

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8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

Counter-Memory, Practice: Selected Essays and Interviews (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980).

Andreas Huyssen, Present Pasts: Urban Palimpsests and the Politics of Memory (Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University Press, 2003).

See esp., James E. Young, The Stages of Memory: Reflections on Memorial Art, Loss, and the Spaces Between (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2016). http://shimonattie.net/portfolio/the-writing-on-the-wall/; http://culture.pl /en/artist/krzysztof-wodiczko#publ; http://www.ruthbeckermann.com/home .php?il=103&l=eng; https://www.911memorial.org/tribute-light.

See especially Laura S. Brown, “Not Outside the Range: One Feminist Perspective on Psychic Trauma,” in Trauma: Explorations in Memory, ed. Cathy Caruth (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995); Stef Craps, Postcolonial Witnessing: Trauma Out of Bounds (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2012); Didier Fassin and Richard Rechtman, The Empire of Trauma: An Inquiry into the Condition of Victimhood, trans. Rachel Gomme (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2009); Michael Rothberg, Multidirectional Memory: Remembering the Holocaust in the Age of Decolonization (Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University Press, 2009); and Rob Nixon, Slow Violence and the Environmentalism of the Poor (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2011). For the continued use and reinterpretation of psychoanalytic paradigms of trauma, see e.g., the work of Pumla GobodoMadikizela, most recently, What Does It Mean to Be Human in the Aftermath of Historical Trauma?: Re-envisioning the Sunflower and Why Hannah Arendt Was Wrong (Uppsala, Sweden: Nordic Africa Institute, 2016).

See the special issue of Parallax 17, no. 4 (2011), ed. Richard Crownshaw, especially the essays by Astrid Erll, Anna Reading, Susannah Radstone, Dirk Moses, and Andrew Hoskins; Astrid Erll, “Traumatic Pasts, Literary Afterlives: New Directions of Literary and Media Memory Studies,” Journal of Aesthetics & Culture 3, no. 1 (2011); Ann Rigney and Chiara de Chesari, eds., Transnational Memory: Circulation, Articulation, Scales (Amsterdam: De Gryuter, 2014); and the special issue of Memory Studies 11, no. 3 (2018) on “Cultural Memory After the Transnational Turn,” edited by Astrid Erll and Ann Rigney.

On cosmopolitan memory, see Daniel Levy and Natan Sznaider, The Holocaust and Memory in a Global Age: Politics, History, and Social Change (Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 2006); Andreas Huyssen, “Transnationale Verwertungen von Holocaust und Kolonialismus,” in Verwertungen von Vergangenheit, ed.

Elisabeth Wagner and Burkhardt Wolf (Berlin: Workwerk8, 2009); on globital memory, see Anna Reading, “The London Bombings: Mobile Witnessing, Mortal Bodies and Globital Time,” Memory Studies 4, no. 3 (2011): 298–311; on connective memory, see Marianne Hirsch, The Generation of Postmemory: Writing and Visual Culture After the Holocaust (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012) and Andrew Hoskins, “7/7 and Connective Memory: Interactional Trajectories I N T RO D U C T I O N

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of Remembering in Post-Scarcity Culture,” Memory Studies 4, no. 3 (2011): 269–80.

14. Dirk Moses and Michael Rothberg, “A Dialogue on the Ethics and Politics of Transcultural Memory,” Days and Memory (blog), February 16, 2014, https://hgmsblog.weebly.com/blog/a-dialogue-on-the-ethics-and-politics -of-transcultural-memory-part-i and https://hgmsblog.weebly.com/blog/a -dialogue-on-the-ethics-and-politics-of-transcultural-memory-part-ii.

15. Rob Nixon, Slow Violence and the Environmentalism of the Poor (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2011).

16. See Geraldine Pratt and Victoria Rosner, eds., The Global and the Intimate: Feminism in Our Time (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012).

17. On co-witnessing, see Irene Kacandes, Talk Fiction: Literature and the Talk Explosion (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2001). On co-resistance, see Nancy Kricorian, this volume.

18. On failure, see Jack Halberstam, The Queer Art of Failure (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011).

19. On vulnerability, see Martha Albertson Fineman, Vulnerability and the Human Condition, Emory University, accessed December 7, 2018, http://web.gs.emory .edu/vulnerability/index.html; Judith Butler, Zeynep Gambetti, and Leticia Sabsay, eds., Vulnerability in Resistance (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2016). Some of these ideas about vulnerability build on earlier reflections, my essay in that volume “Vulnerable Times” and Marianne Hirsch and Leo Spitzer, “Vulnerable Lives: Secrets, Noise and Dust,” Profession (2011), 51–67. See also the important caveats raised by Ewa Plonowska Ziarek: “Feminist Reflections on Vulnerability: Disrespect, Obligation, Action,” Substance 42, no. 3 (2013): 67–84.

20. Butler et al, Vulnerability in Resistance, 7.

21. Butler et al, Vulnerability in Resistance, 25.

22. Mieke Bal and Miguel Hernández-Navarro, Art and Visibility in Migratory Culture (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2011).

23. Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy, Performativity (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003).

24. See Judith Butler, Notes Toward a Performative Theory of Assembly (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2015).

25. Ariella Azoulay, “Potential History: Thinking Through Violence,” Critical Inquiry 39, no. 3 (2013): 548–74. On such alternate conceptions of temporality, see also e.g. Walter Benjamin’s writings about “incomplete history” and messianic time, “Theses on the Philosophy of History,” Illuminations, trans. Harry Zohn (New York: Schocken, 1969); Giorgio Agamben on potentiality, Potentialities: Collected Essays in Philosophy, trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen (Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University Press, 2000); Reinhard Koselleck, Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time, trans. Keith Tribe (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004); and [ 22 ]

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Jennifer Wenzel, Bulletproof: Afterlives of Anticolonial Prophecy in South Africa and Beyond (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2009).

26. This introduction was written in conversation with the co-editors of this volume and some of its authors. Special credit for some of these reflections and formulations goes to Ayߞe Gül Altınay, María José Contreras, Jean Howard, Banu Karaca, Alisa Solomon, and Diana Taylor.

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[ 23 ]

͞dŚŝƐ ǀŽůƵŵĞ ĐŽŶĮƌŵƐ Ă ƐŚŝŌ ŽĨ ƉĂƌĂĚŝŐŵ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ĮĞůĚ ŽĨ ŵĞŵŽƌLJ ƐƚƵĚŝĞƐ͕ ůŝŶŬŝŶŐ ŝƚ ŶŽǁ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ŵŽďŝůŝnjŝŶŐ ĨŽƌĐĞ ŽĨ ŚŝƐƚŽƌŝĐĂů ŝŵĂŐŝŶĂƟŽŶ͘ tŝƚŚŽƵƚ ŵŝŶŝŵŝnjŝŶŐ ƚŚĞ ĚĞǀĂƐƚĂƟŶŐ ĞīĞĐƚƐ ŽĨ ǀŝŽͲ ůĞŶĐĞ ĂŶĚ ĚĞƐƚƌƵĐƟŽŶ͕ ƚŚĞƐĞ ĂƵƚŚŽƌƐ ĚĞŵŽŶƐƚƌĂƚĞ ƚŚĂƚ ƚŚĞ ƉĂƐƚ ŝƐ ĂŶ ĂƌĐŚŝǀĞ ŽĨ ƵŶůŝǀĞĚ ƉŽƐƐŝͲ ďŝůŝƟĞƐ ĂŶĚ ƵŶƉƵƌƐƵĞĚ ĨƵƚƵƌĞƐ͘ dŝŵĞ ƐŚŝŌƐ ĂƐ ŽŶĞ ƌĞĂĚƐ ĞĂĐŚ ŽĨ ƚŚĞƐĞ ƉŝĞĐĞƐ͕ ŐƌŽƵŶĚĞĚ ŝŶ ĂŶ ƵŶĐĞƌƚĂŝŶ ĂŌĞƌŵĂƚŚ ŽĨ ĚŝĐƚĂƚŽƌͲ ƐŚŝƉ ĂŶĚ ǁĂƌ͕ Žƌ ĐŽŶƟŶƵŝŶŐ ĐŽůŽŶŝnjĂƟŽŶ͘ dŚĞLJ ƚĞůů ŚŝƐƚŽƌŝĞƐ ƚŚĂƚ ƌĞůĞĂƐĞ ǁĂLJƐ ŽĨ ŝŵĂŐŝŶŝŶŐ ǁŚĂƚ ĐŽƵůĚ ŚĂǀĞ ďĞĞŶ ĂŶĚ ĞǀĞŶ ǁŚĂƚ ƐŚŽƵůĚ ŚĂǀĞ ďĞĞŶ͕ ĞdžƉĞƌŝŵĞŶƟŶŐ ǁŝƚŚ ƚĞŶƐĞ ƚŽ ŽƉĞŶ ƉŽůŝƟͲ ĐĂů ƉĂƚŚǁĂLJƐ ĂŶĚ ĂĸƌŵĂƟǀĞ ƉŽůŝƟĐƐ ĨƌŽŵ ƚŚĞ ƐƵƐƚĂŝŶĞĚ ĂŶĚ ĚŝƐĐĞƌŶŝŶŐ ƌĞŇĞĐƟŽŶ ŽŶ ĂďLJƐŵĂů ůŽƐƐ͘ KƉƉŽƐĞĚ ƚŽ ƌĞǀŝƐŝŽŶŝƐŵ͕ ƚŚĞƐĞ ĂƵƚŚŽƌƐ ƉƌŽďĞ ŵŽƌĞ ĚĞĞƉůLJ ŝŶƚŽ ƚŚĞ ƉĂƐƚ ƚŚĂŶ ƉŽƐŝƟǀŝƐƚ ŚŝƐƚŽƌŝĞƐ ŚĂǀĞ ĞǀĞƌ ĚŽŶĞ͕ ĨŽůůŽǁŝŶŐ ƚŚĞ ŇĂƐŚ ŽĨ ƉŽƐƐŝďŝůŝƚLJ ŝŶƚŽ ƚŚĞ ĨƵƚƵƌĞ͘ ďƌŝůůŝĂŶƚ͕ ƟŵĞůLJ͕ ĂŶĚ ƐŝŶŐƵůĂƌ ǀŽůƵŵĞ͘͟ :h /d, hd> Z͕ hE/s Z^/dz K& >/&KZE/ ͕ BERKELEY

͞dŚŝƐ ŝƐ ŵŽƌĞ ƚŚĂŶ ĂŶ ĞdžƚƌĂŽƌͲ ĚŝŶĂƌLJ ŬͶŝƚ ŝƐ Ă ĨĂƐĐŝŶĂƟŶŐ ũŽƵƌŶĞLJ ĂƌŽƵŶĚ ƚŚĞ ǁŽƌůĚ͘ /ƚ ůŝŶŬƐ ƚŚĞ EŽƌƚŚ ĂŶĚ 'ůŽďĂů ^ŽƵƚŚ ƚŚƌŽƵŐŚ ƵƌŽƉĞ͕ ŚŝůĞ͕ dƵƌŬĞLJ͕ ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞ hŶŝƚĞĚ ^ƚĂƚĞƐ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ŶĂŵĞ ŽĨ ŝŶŶŽǀĂƟǀĞ ĨĞŵͲ ŝŶŝƐƚ ƉƌĂĐƟĐĞƐ ĂďůĞ ƚŽ ƌĞƚŚŝŶŬ͕ ƌĞĨƌĂŵĞ͕ ĂŶĚ ŐŝǀĞ ŶĞǁ ŝŶƐŝŐŚƚ ŝŶƚŽ ŵĞŵŽƌŝĞƐ ŽĨ Ă ƚƌĂƵŵĂƟĐ ƉĂƐƚ ĂŶĚ ĚŝĸĐƵůƚ ƉƌĞƐĞŶƚ͘͟ W dZ/ / s/K>/͕ hE/s Z^/dz K& K>K'E

͞ZĞĐůĂŝŵŝŶŐ ƚŚĞ ǁŽƌĚ ͚ŵŽďŝůŝnjŝŶŐ͛ ĨƌŽŵ ŝƚƐ ŵŝůŝƚĂƌŝnjĞĚ ĐŽŶƚĞdžƚ͕ ƚŚĞ ĂƵƚŚŽƌƐ ŽĨ ƚŚŝƐ Ŭ ƐĞƚ ĂŶ ĞdžĂŵƉůĞ ŽĨ ŚŽǁ ƚƌĂŶƐŶĂƟŽŶĂů ĨĞŵŝŶŝƐƚ ƐĐŚŽůĂƌƐŚŝƉ ĐĂŶ ƉƌŽĚƵĐĞ ŵƵĐŚͲŶĞĞĚĞĚ ƵŶĚĞƌƐƚĂŶĚŝŶŐ ŽĨ ŚŽǁ ŵĞŵŽƌŝĞƐ ŽĨ ƉĂŝŶĨƵů ƉĂƐƚƐ ĐĂŶ ďĞ ŝŶƚĞƌƉƌĞƚĞĚ ďĞLJŽŶĚ ƚƌĂƵŵĂ ŝŶ ĂŶ ĞŵͲ ƉŽǁĞƌŝŶŐ ǁĂLJ͕ ŽīĞƌŝŶŐ Ă ůŝǀĂďůĞ ǀŝƐŝŽŶ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ĨƵƚƵƌĞ ĨŽƌ Ăůů͘͟ E Z W dS͕ EdZ > hZKW E hE/s Z^/dz͕ h W ^d

LJƔĞ 'ƺů ůƨŶĂLJ ŝƐ ƉƌŽĨĞƐƐŽƌ ŽĨ ĐƵůƚƵƌĂů ĂŶƚŚƌŽƉŽůŽŐLJ ĂŶĚ ĚŝƌĞĐƚŽƌ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ 'ĞŶĚĞƌ ĂŶĚ tŽŵͲ ĞŶ͛Ɛ ^ƚƵĚŝĞƐ ĞŶƚĞƌ ŽĨ džĐĞůůĞŶĐĞ Ăƚ ^ĂďĂŶĐŦ hŶŝǀĞƌƐŝƚLJ͘ഩͻഩDĂƌşĂ :ŽƐĠ ŽŶƚƌĞƌĂƐ ŝƐ Ă ƉĞƌĨŽƌͲ ŵĂŶĐĞ ĂƌƟƐƚ ĂŶĚ ĂƐƐŽĐŝĂƚĞ ƉƌŽĨĞƐƐŽƌ Ăƚ ƚŚĞ &ĂĐƵůƚLJ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ƌƚƐ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ hŶŝǀĞƌƐŝĚĂĚ ĂƚſůŝĐĂ ĚĞ ŚŝůĞ͘ഩͻഩDĂƌŝĂŶŶĞ ,ŝƌƐĐŚ ŝƐ ƉƌŽĨĞƐƐŽƌ ŽĨ ŶŐůŝƐŚ͕ ĐŽŵƉĂƌĂƟǀĞ ůŝƚĞƌĂƚƵƌĞ͕ ĂŶĚ ŐĞŶĚĞƌ ƐƚƵĚŝĞƐ Ăƚ ŽůƵŵďŝĂ hŶŝǀĞƌƐŝƚLJ͘ഩͻഩ:ĞĂŶ ,ŽǁĂƌĚ ŝƐ ƉƌŽĨĞƐƐŽƌ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ĞƉĂƌƚŵĞŶƚ ŽĨ ŶŐůŝƐŚ ĂŶĚ ŽŵͲ ƉĂƌĂƟǀĞ >ŝƚĞƌĂƚƵƌĞ Ăƚ ŽůƵŵďŝĂ hŶŝǀĞƌƐŝƚLJ͘ഩͻഩ ĂŶƵ <ĂƌĂĐĂ ŝƐ ĂƐƐŝƐƚĂŶƚ ƉƌŽĨĞƐƐŽƌ ŽĨ ĂŶƚŚƌŽƉŽůͲ ŽŐLJ ĂŶĚ Ă DĞƌĐĂƚŽƌͲ/W &ĞůůŽǁ Ăƚ ƚŚĞ /ƐƚĂŶďƵů WŽůŝĐLJ ĞŶƚĞƌ͘ഩͻഩ ůŝƐĂ ^ŽůŽŵŽŶ ŝƐ ƉƌŽĨĞƐƐŽƌ Ăƚ ŽůƵŵďŝĂ hŶŝǀĞƌƐŝƚLJ͛Ɛ 'ƌĂĚƵĂƚĞ ^ĐŚŽŽů ŽĨ :ŽƵƌŶĂůŝƐŵ͕ ǁŚĞƌĞ ƐŚĞ ĚŝƌĞĐƚƐ ƚŚĞ D ƌƚƐ ĂŶĚ ƵůƚƵƌĞ ĐŽŶĐĞŶƚƌĂƟŽŶ͘ ŽǀĞƌ ĚĞƐŝŐŶ͗ DŝůĞŶĚĂ EĂŶ KŬ >ĞĞ ŽǀĞƌ ŝŵĂŐĞ͗ ĞƚĂŝů ŽĨ &ƌĞƵŶĚƐĐŚĂŌ ;ŝŶƐƚĂůůĂƟŽŶ͕ ϮϬϭϭͿ͘ ^ŝůǀŝŶĂ ĞƌͲDĞŐƵĞƌĚŝƚĐŚŝĂŶ͘ WŚŽƚŽ͗ sŝǀŝ ďĞůƐŽŶ͘

ŽůƵŵďŝĂ hŶŝǀĞƌƐŝƚLJ WƌĞƐƐഩͻഩEĞǁ zŽƌŬഩͻഩĐƵƉ͘ĐŽůƵŵďŝĂ͘ĞĚƵ

WZ/Ed /E d, h͘^͘ ͘