Podcast

Racial and Ethnic Difference in South Africa and the USSR: An Interview with Hilary Lynd

Hilary Lynd

How did South Africans and Soviets think about how to manage difference — in their home contexts and in decades of conversation with one another? In this episode of the Matrix Podcast, Julia Sizek, Matrix Postdoctoral Scholar, interviews Hilary Lynd, a PhD Candidate in the UC Berkeley Department of History, about the changing relationship between South Africa and the USSR from the 1960s through the 1980s. Lynd discusses how anti-apartheid activists were initially inspired by a Soviet model for a multinational society before a surprising about-face toward the end of apartheid and the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Listen to the podcast below, or on Google Podcasts or Apple Podcasts.

An edited transcript of the interview is below.

Podcast Transcript

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Woman’s Voice: The Matrix Podcast is a production of Social Science Matrix, an interdisciplinary research center at the University of California, Berkeley.

Julia Sizek: Hello. And welcome to the Matrix Podcast. I’m Julia Sizek, your host. And today we’re recording across continents to talk with Hilary Lynd, a PhD candidate in history at UC Berkeley. Hilary’s work focuses on the former Soviet Union in South Africa, exploring the social history of ideas about race and ethnicity.

She has published articles on Blackness and Africanness in the Soviet Union as well as the land deal that secured Zulu nationalist participation in South Africa’s first democratic elections. Hilary’s dissertation project compares and connects the histories of difference in both places, centering the perspectives of Soviet and South African citizens who engaged each other as they moved back and forth. Hilary, thanks for coming on the podcast.

Hilary Lynd: Thanks for having me. It’s great to be here.

Sizek: So let’s jump into understand this relationship that you’re examining that is maybe not necessarily that well known between South Africa and the USSR during the second half of the 20th century. Can you tell us just a little bit about the broad scope of this relationship and also how you came to learn about it?

Lynd: Yeah. So we’ll start on the South African side of things. From 1948 to the early 1990s, South Africa was governed under a system called apartheid, which means separateness in Afrikaans. And apartheid in South Africa, as people may likely know, was the most brutally racist society of its time.

And one important thing that makes it different from racism in the US is that white people here where I am in South Africa were a small minority, around 20% of the population or less throughout that period. So to dominate a Black majority required a great deal of force.

And the picture shifts with different eras and organizations. But there’s always different forms of resistance. And my work focuses especially on one strand of antiapartheid resistance, which happens to be the strand that got involved with the Soviet Union.

So I look at the African National Congress, the ANC, as well as its ally, the South African Communist Party. And the ANC was banned in South Africa in 1960. And by 1963, most of the leadership, including Nelson Mandela, was arrested.

So what was left of the ANC pretty much went underground or abroad. And the ANC found itself in the situation of looking for help wherever they could find it, so in Tanzania and Zambia, Angola, also in Britain and Sweden in Europe, and then in the socialist countries of Eastern Europe.

So the question is why? Why did they end up in Eastern Europe. And the most important country in that sphere is the Soviet Union, which was the world’s first socialist state, and during the Cold War, one of the two superpowers.

So from this period in the early 1960s onwards, the Soviet Union became a particularly important sponsor for the ANC, which meant providing educational scholarships, military training, medicine, weapons, funds, and lots of different kinds of assistance.

Parts of this story have been told before and really shaped what I thought I was looking for going into the project. I thought I might tell a story about a lost socialist alternative in South Africa, which is frankly a pretty standard angle to take. But through fieldwork, combing through archives, personal collections, talking to people, interviewing people, what I found was something different and surprising and to me pretty interesting.

So the premise of the project is that we’re used to thinking of the Cold War as an ideological competition between the Soviet Union and the US. It’s communism versus capitalism. And I’m telling a different kind of story. And at the center of that is how national and ethnic and racial difference were organized.

So what I came to see is that South Africans and the ANC, they weren’t just looking at the Soviet Union as an example of a non capitalist economy. But they were also paying attention to how the Soviet multinational society worked and sometimes how it didn’t work, although that was often harder to see from the outside.

What I’ve come to understand is that it’s an underacknowledged part of the story of this relationship that when South Africans were trying to imagine what their country would look like after apartheid, one place that they drew inspiration was from Soviet policies for managing an incredibly diverse population.

Sizek: So what were those policies for managing ethnic difference in the Soviet Union? What were the operating models that these two different countries were using to understand ethnic difference and how to combine them into a single state?

Lynd: So both of these– both apartheid and Soviet nationalities policy were structured as ethnoterritorial federations. And all that means is that ethnicity and land were correlated. People were divided up and parceled into ethnic homelands where the idea was that ethnic elites would exercise a limited form of self government.

It’s a particular take on political legitimacy that says that self determination means being governed by people who are like you. So in the Soviet Union, Georgians should be governed by Georgians. And in South Africa, Zulus should be governed by Zulus. And those homelands existed in the hierarchical relationship to the center.

Sizek: So in these homelands where you have limited forms of self government among a group of ethnically similar people, how did the states imagine these homelands supporting the broader state project? So in the USSR, how did they imagine these groups coming together to support the broader socialist project?

Lynd: So this is one way that the two systems are quite different from each other, that in the Soviet Union, the premise was that by letting ethnic nationalism flourish in the presence, you would provide the conditions for it ultimately to become politically irrelevant and to disappear somewhere in a communist future where national divisions would no longer exist.

So the Soviet state was simultaneously pursuing a project of deepening ethnic identities and also trying to transcend them at the same time, which leads to all kinds of interesting contradictions and shifts throughout the Soviet period.

On the other side of things in South Africa, ethnic homelands only existed for Black Africans who were classified as inferior in the apartheid racial hierarchy. There were no homelands for other racial groups as seen by the apartheid state. So white, colored, and Indian South Africans didn’t exist under that kind of model.

And the point of homelands in South Africa was to ultimately strip black South Africans of citizenship and make them into foreigners who would no longer have rights in a South Africa that would become whiter and whiter.

And so the emphasis is really different in both places, that the Soviet Union has a contradictory and complicated commitment to mixing and merging, whereas apartheid means separateness. And the commitment here, particularly in cultural terms, certainly more than economic terms, is to keeping people as separate as possible.

Sizek: So it seems like the systems are quite different. And at the same time, the ANC, which, as you mentioned, was outlawed in South Africa and many of its members were exiled to different locations, including the Soviet Union, they are thinking that they should go to the Soviet Union for inspiration.

So what do they find inspiring about the Soviet model during this time when apartheid in South Africa is so challenging because it effectively creates this horrible hierarchy in which they’re trying to live?

Lynd: So one thing that’s really important about the timing of all of this is that apartheid comes into its own at precisely the same moment as decolonization across the African continent. And as that process was unfolding in the late 1950s and the early ’60s, there were a lot of visions for what decolonization might mean that involved some kind of federation that would include the colonizer and the colonized, particularly in French West Africa.

And those visions ultimately amounted to nothing. And the model across the African continent became partition into nation states. So the meaning of decolonization got narrowed down to this one outcome of independence for the colonized population.

And the ANC was always committed to something quite different in South Africa where the idea was that because of the particular history of colonialism and capitalism in South Africa, populations had become interdependent in a way that made them impossible to unscramble. And ultimately, a postapartheid future was going to include the colonizers and the colonized as part of a South African population.

There were very few models in the world at the time for trying something like that. And the Soviet Union was really one of the only places to look to for an example of a place that’s marked by legacies of empire, by the types of inequality and histories of conquest that have some similarities to what happened in South Africa. And yet the Soviet project was to try to dissolve those historical inequalities in a system that incorporated.

[THUNDER CLAP]

For example, affirmative action for previously colonized populations and developmental subsidies for parts of– for regions of the Soviet Union that had been excluded from the benefits of European modernity and a variety of policies promoting the cultures of peoples other than Russians who dominated the state.

And this package of policies that were aimed towards integration and undoing historical inequalities but in the context of one shared society is a really unusual model that I think, I think meant a lot to South Africans looking around for inspiration as to what kind of world they wanted to build after apartheid.

Sizek: I think that’s really fascinating because it points to the limits of models of multiethnic and multiracial states at this time that folks from South Africa feel like there are so few viable options for understanding how to undo the structures of apartheid.

How did these folks, the different ANC members and other people from South Africa, how did they interact with the Soviet state? Did they go to Russia? What are the practical day-to-day interactions between ANC members and Soviet officials looking like?

Lynd: So the answer is there’s a lot of different things. And South Africans came to the Soviet Union for quite a few different reasons starting in the early 1960s and continuing up until the late 1980s. So one category of people who went is students, someone like Sindiso Mfenyana, who went to University in Kyiv.

And they spent several years living in the Soviet Union. They learned Russian. And the idea was to develop technical expertise that they could ultimately bring home and put to use in whatever order was constructed after apartheid.

There were also soldiers, people like Chris Hani and Joe Modise, who came for military training. Some of them went to Moscow. Some of them went to Odessa. Some of them went to Crimea. They stayed for shorter periods of time. They either didn’t learn Russian or learned very little Russian. And they had much, much more limited exposure to their surroundings in the Soviet Union.

So there’s students. There’s soldiers. There’s also a kind of cohort of bright, young, elite intellectuals who came for advanced ideological training at a place called the Lenin School. And some of the Lenin School alumni ended up in very powerful positions in postapartheid South Africa. So among them are Thabo Mbeki, who became the president eventually, and someone like Essop Pahad, who was a very powerful figure in Mbeki’s presidency.

And then beyond these kinds of formal programs that had people in the Soviet Union for a longer time, top ANC leaders were passing through Moscow quite frequently for political consultations. Many of them came for medical treatment.

And there were a few that spent their last years in the Soviet Union. So famously, Moses Kotane and J.B. Marks were buried there, and, to my understanding, are the only Black Africans in the most prestigious cemetery in Moscow. You can go visit their graves.

Sizek: So one of the things that seems potentially obvious from a methodological point here is that you’re trying to track all of these people who are really traveling across multiple continents and who are, to some extent, elites but also somewhat, I guess, attending like normal institutions. So they might be attending this school. How did you track them down and find the traces of these people across all of these different institutions?

Lynd: The picture is different for those different groups. And I’ve tried to work with casting as broad of a methodological net as I can. So people who are still alive and people who are willing to speak, I’ve tried to interview. That runs into some problems because many of these people are still quite active in politics in South Africa and have reasons to be a little cautious about talking to an American researcher.

And there’s more and more crop of memoirs that have been useful for me, less in terms of establishing hard facts and more on the realm of perceptions and attitudes. And then I’ve worked extensively in archives both in Russia and in South Africa, which operate really, really differently in both contexts.

In South Africa, a lot of the most important archival collections end up at universities. And they’re quite open and easy to access. And you can take photographs and go home and read your PDFs later. And in Russia, there’s restrictions all over the place in terms of what you can see.

And then once you have a document in front of you, you’re not allowed to photograph it. So you end up transcribing everything that you might think is important. And then if later you have a question about what was there or what you didn’t write down, that’s just your bad luck. You can’t go back in and find it.

So I’ve worked also with– there’s different published sources related to institutional actors who were involved on the Soviet side. Yeah, my approach has been to rule out nothing as a way to try to access very complicated stories of people moving back and forth.

Sizek: Yeah, so you said that you use these sorts of memoirs and unconventional sources. What have those been able to show you about the relationship, both perceived and real between South African exiles and USSR ideals?

Lynd: So the traditional telling of the story relies or has relied a lot on writings by a small cohort of highly educated white South Africans who were involved. And I’ve always been a little cautious about that and wondered what other kinds of stories there were to tell. And so seeking out– let’s see.

Part of what that does is it replicates the inequality of the apartheid system itself where white people had much, much better access to education than Black Africans. That’s one of the principal ways that inequality worked. And that became part of the liberation movement, both in terms of how it functioned internally and especially in terms of how its story has been told.

So I tried to circumvent that in whatever ways I could. But that often means going outside of more formal and obvious sources and trying to pick up scraps of experience wherever I could. And that’s meant more interviews, to some degree memoirs, although it’s only been much more recently that more of the Black South Africans who were involved have been publishing memoirs that came out as a later cohort.

And then picking up whatever I could– whatever traces I could find in the Russian archives as well, which often point to types of questions and interactions and experiences that don’t show up in the memoirs of these highly educated white South Africans who have, in my view, had probably disproportionate influence on the way this story has been told.

Sizek: What were the some of the specific interactions that happened between sort of these Russian folks and South African people socially? Or, I guess, what were their interactions beyond these sorts of formal trainings or formal institutional settings that they were in? How did they get along socially? How did they envision themselves as being involved in a similar process at the microscale?

Lynd: So this is also an answer that really depends based on who you’re talking about because, for example, the elites when they went, they went on highly curated visits where they were set up to have really, really positive experiences. And most of them did and remember the Soviet Union as a really wonderful place where they were treated with utmost generosity.

Students who were there for longer, we can say that there’s archival traces that make it clear that students faced a great deal of racism in their immediate surroundings. I have found that in interviewing people, it’s something they’re very hesitant to talk about for the most part.

There’s a pretty strong commitment to keeping a positive image of the Soviet Union alive. And remembering the negative aspects comes as more of a challenge to a lot of people. But the story ultimately is mixed.

There are people who fell in love and got married and had children and they’re Soviet families came with them. There were people who made lifelong friends that they still visit. There are people who felt incredibly alienated by their surroundings.

It’s a very complicated patchwork of experiences. And there’s been a really strong desire, I think, from Western observers all the way back into the Cold War and the propaganda war to decide that the Soviet Union was one thing and that it was racist. And this is opening a whole other can of worms. But my interviewees have definitely taught me that there’s a more complicated picture than that.

Sizek: This raises a question about the relationship between ideas of the USSR and the project of the USSR, and then its reality specifically for the project of Soviet internationalism. So listeners might be familiar with how the Soviet state supported a lot of projects in what became known as the Second World, the Soviet world. How was the relationship with South Africa considered to be different from these other projects of Soviet internationalism?

Lynd: So there’s two main eras of socialist internationalism. The earliest one is in the ’20s and ’30s, run through the Communist International, the Comintern. And my work touches on that. But I’m mostly focused on the later era in the Cold War.

And for that era, there’s a huge explosion of Soviet interest in the third world in general and Africa in particular from the late 1950s, which is the era of African decolonization. And Ghana became independent in 1957.

And then most African countries had become independent by the mid-1960s. And in that first flush of optimism about the prospects for postcolonial countries, the Soviet Union got involved, particularly in the role of advising on economic strategy.

So they had a theory of noncapitalist development as a kind of path to prosperity for postcolonial societies. And their main types of involvement were developmental aid, technical assistance, university scholarships, things like that.

And that emphasis changed over time. So by the mid-1970s, basically development assistance wasn’t going very well. The noncapitalist road to development didn’t particularly look like it was going anywhere. And many of those leftist governments had been overthrown in coups.

And there’s no one document that you can point to prove this shift. But if you spend enough time in the archives, there’s– you can’t help but notice that there’s a change in emphasis away from economic development and towards especially arms, which also came with a geographical shift away from West Africa, Central Africa, East Africa and towards the south.

So South Africa, in particular, started out as a pretty minor priority for the Soviets. But by the ’70s– by the mid-1970s, supporting the antiapartheid struggle became a much more important selling point for Soviet foreign policy in the Global South.

And at that point, South Africa was still under white minority rule, which made it quite an exception. It’s a different kind of project and a different type of involvement to develop ties with a national liberation movement that is trying to overthrow a state as opposed to an independent government.

And my sense is that particularly– an important turning point in South African history is the Soweto uprising in June of 1976, which inaugurated a new era of popular revolt that more or less never stopped until apartheid was overthrown.

And particularly after that and after a renewed international outrage about the brutality of apartheid, the Soviet Union had quite a lot of reputational dividend that it could get from being a primary international supporter of the antiapartheid movement. And that became, I think, if anything, more important through the 1980s as a lot of the rest of Soviet foreign policy projects were not going so well.

Sizek: Yeah, so let’s talk a little bit about the 1980s because this is both a really pivotal time in South Africa in the lead up to the end of apartheid as well as in the USSR, which is slowly crumbling. What happens to the relationship as both of these state building projects, to a certain extent, are falling apart?

Lynd: This is initially what drew me into this project I stumbled across a set of primary sources from precisely this moment and found that something really strange had happened that I didn’t know and didn’t have the tools to understand at the time.

So in the late 1980s, it’s a moment when both societies were changing in big and really unpredictable ways. Gorbachev came to power in the Soviet Union and launched reform programs of glasnost, or openness, and perestroika restructuring.

And on the South African side, the White government spent the 1980s trying to reform on the one hand and repress on the other as a way to get out ahead of popular revolt. But it never really worked.

As both of these changes are happening internally within the societies, the relationship got turned completely topsy-turvy. The national party that was in power in South Africa had for a very long time had the Soviet Union as its main bogeyman, the obsessive incarnation of evil.

And the idea was that Moscow couldn’t wait to get its hands on South Africa and its mineral riches, and that the Soviet Union stood for everything that the apartheid government was against. So it was like godless and atheist and hated the family and definitely was opposed to white prosperity.

And given this background where the Soviet Union had been not only the bogeyman but also a governmental excuse for why political reforms were impossible. The premise was that if you gave Black South Africans political rights very quickly, South Africa would be manipulated and turned into a Soviet satellite state.

Given that background, what happened in the late 1980s is really weird, that the National Party went from hating the Soviet government to flirting with it in the late 1980s. And from about 1989 to ’90, there’s a real fascination and admiration that developed between the dying apartheid state on the one hand and the dying Soviet state on the other.

Sizek: It just seems very bizarre that this relationship developed. So can you explain what it looks like and how they became infatuated with each other and also how you could see this infatuation in the archives and in the oral histories you did?

Lynd: I think there are many dimensions and a lot of things that feed into this. But one of them is a growing consciousness within at least some parts of the National Party that the Soviet model for managing diversity through ethnic homelands had some weird parallels with what the apartheid project was trying to do.

And once that awareness dawned on people, that the Soviet Union wasn’t the same thing as Russia and actually had quite a diverse population and that diverse population was segmented off into these little territorial units where they were supposed to have limited self government, there were light bulbs that went off for a lot of National Party politicians and thinking, huh, that sounds maybe a little bit like what we’re trying to do.

And it became a kind of way of justifying the apartheid project as it was running out of all remaining justifications for its existence. There’s also a kind of– there’s quite a pragmatic element, as both of these governments were looking for friends and allies in a hostile world, coming out of an experience of being more or less pariah states and trying to shed that status.

But there’s a particularly close affinity between the national– between Afrikaner nationalists and Russians in particular. I think part of that is premised on what I’m calling frontier masculinity, which is a sense that Russians, unlike Westerners, knew what it was to be tough at the edges of civilization and to be brutal when the situation called for it. And there’s a kind of alcohol-fueled, deeply masculine bonding that I have heard a great deal about in interviews.

One of the most interesting interviews to shed light on this has been with Niel Barnard who was the head of the National Intelligence Service in South Africa at the time. Dr. Barnard, as he likes to be called, is best known for being the person who conducted secret negotiations with Nelson Mandela in prison in the late 1980s and brokering– to some degree, being part of brokering Mandela’s release in 1990.

But he also had this other project of wooing the Soviet Union and trying to break the tie between the ANC and their Soviet sponsors. And I think what started out for him as, again, quite a pragmatic foreign policy type of project turned into a very deep and powerful affinity that he didn’t know he was looking for and relates in quite stark terms.

So there are stories of– in July 1991, he went with his deputy to the Soviet Union. And they went to the circus and got drunk in the banya and sang Afrikaner nationalist ballads to their hosts. They went to Stalin’s dacha and took photographs in his bathtub. And there’s a general alcohol-soaked male bonding exercise that repeats itself over and over again in these stories.

Sizek: And so it seems like there’s a form of, I guess, a social relationship that forms between the Russians, and then Afrikaners who are going to Russia during this time based in a shared form of masculinity, and then also potentially feeling like they should be on top of a multiethnic hierarchy. How did they start implementing or think about this relationship between the USSR and South Africa at a policy level in addition to at the social level?

Lynd: So the kind of connections that I was just describing were very unpopular in some circles as they started to develop in 1989 and 1990 and particularly within the Communist Party and the conservative parts of the Communist Party that were loyal to the old way of doing things.

But ultimately, they were run out of power in 1991 after the attempted coup in August. And by the end of that year, the Soviet Union didn’t exist anymore. And so post-Soviet Russia under Boris Yeltsin is a completely different operating environment.

And in that space, support for the ANC was basically cut down to nil. And there was a really strong preference for working with the National Party white government. The Soviet Union and South Africa had broken off diplomatic relations in 1956, and from 1991, started working to establish them again, and by June of 1992 had embassies in either place again.

And there was a real expectation or hope that the payoff from all of this would come in economic terms to rescue– either side was hoping that the other one would rescue them from a dire economic situation with very, very unrealistic aspirations in both directions.

And ultimately, nothing really ever came of those hopes. There was a big deal with De Beers in 1990 that caused a lot of controversy. And then there’s some interesting stories of arms connections that began in the early 1990s and then actually continue.

They have complicated and maybe unsavory afterlives after 1994 until the postapartheid world. But those end up becoming the types of connections that result as opening of diplomatic relations and a real search for economic connections that ultimately didn’t really go anywhere.

Sizek: So it seems like rather than coming up with meaningful solutions or technical support, that everything just falls apart between them, by which I mean South Africans generally and the USSR at the end of apartheid and the Soviet Union.

What do you think we can learn from this crumbling relationship and this wild trajectory of the relationship, in which it starts out where the Soviet Union is supporting this radical exiled party, and then eventually they become buddy-buddy with the ruling apartheid regime.

Lynd: I would answer in different ways for both of the different contexts. And one thing that happened in post-Soviet Russia is there was a really strong appetite in the late 1980s to withdraw from Soviet entanglements and obligations all across the Global South.

And ultimately, one outcome of that withdrawal was a collapse in Russia’s status as a global power. And certainly beginning in the 1990s but we see it much, much stronger in the present day, there’s a lot of resentment and nostalgia about having lost that status and going from the Soviet Union being a place that was looked to by people all over the world with admiration and potentially fear, respect as a model as an enemy, any of the above.

But the Soviet Union was a really key player in international politics in a way that no longer described Russia’s position in the world in the 1990s. And I think that loss is felt pretty keenly, at least in some political circles in post-Soviet Russia.

On the South African side, it’s pretty common to cite the collapse of the Soviet Union as a closing of possibilities for some more socialist path in postapartheid South Africa. And the tragic coincidence of circumstances is that the ANC came to power at a time when its longtime sponsor no longer existed.

And the world was no longer divided into communist and capitalist blocs. But there was one game in town. And it was neoliberalism and the Washington Consensus and that kind of same old story. And so there’s definitely a sense– maybe was a sense in the South African left that the collapse of the Soviet Union cut short the potential to transform South Africa’s economic situation after apartheid.

Sizek: So as everything is falling apart between the fall of the USSR as well as the end of the apartheid regime, what happens to these ethnic homelands that the USSR and South Africa were talking about in the ’50s and ’60s?

So to put it simply, these places were moving in opposite directions. South Africa opted for integration. And the Soviet Union went towards disintegration. South Africa took 10 Black ethnic homelands and 4 white provinces and smashed them together into a unitary nonracial state.

And the Soviet Union decomposed into the Russian Federation and 14 basically ethnically defined sovereign states. So in South Africa, they threw out the idea of national independence. And in post-Soviet space, ethnonational independence is pretty much the defining political principle.

Sizek: Given that South Africa decides that they are going to try to create this multiethnic state and then Russia separates from the rest of the Soviet bloc into the different states, how do we think about these projects today that Russia has, for example, in the invasion of Ukraine with trying to create a new kind of multiethnic federation on the part of the Russian government?

Lynd: What happened in the early 1990s seemed like natural and good solutions at the time. And part of what intrigues me about those parallel processes of decomposition and integration happening alongside each other is that 30 years later, they don’t look like as clean solutions as they did then. And the complicated legacies look different in either place.

But in post-Soviet space, the part of the challenge has been that for more or less all of the 14 independent states, with Russia as their neighbor, they all have in common a kind of anti-Russian orientation and a geopolitical position of either not wanting to antagonize or worrying about the consequences of antagonizing their Russian neighbor.

I don’t pretend to have a solution to that question. So in the last year since Putin’s invasion of Ukraine, there’s been a big push within the field towards what people are calling decolonization. And what they mean by decolonization tends to be doubling down on ethnonational independence.

And part of what I’m trying to do in my work is to excavate other alternatives and things that were tried in Soviet space. Ethnonational independence has had a long history of admirers in that part of the world. But also it’s a place that has been home to a lot of interesting experimentation with living together and trying to undo empire.

So within the field in some places, there’s been a real desire to look at Russia and see a history of empire and domination all the way down, that all Russia has ever done is to oppress the peoples of Eurasia.

And I’m interested in experimentation during the Soviet period that pointed to other ways of approaching the problem of living together and egalitarian ways and progressive ways of thinking about how a multinational society would be organized.

That is not Putin’s vision, obviously. And so there’s a lot of careful work to be done about sorting out difference and hierarchy and where power ultimately lies and what self determination means.

And I think it’s part of the thrust of my work to try to recognize That those things are really tricky and complicated, and that, for example, different parts of the Soviet Union were governed differently and had different attitudes towards ethnonational independence as the ultimate fate of the Union.

Sizek: Thank you so much for coming on the podcast and telling us more about this complex history of these multinational states.

Lynd: Thanks for having me.

Woman’s Voice: Thank you for listening. To learn more about Social Science Matrix, please visit matrix.berkeley.edu.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

 

Article

Mapping the Los Angeles Ethnoburbs: An Interview with Margaret Crawford

Margaret Crawford

In this interview, Aidan Lee, a PhD student in the UC Berkeley Department of History and a 2022-2023 Matrix Communications Scholar, interviewed Margaret Crawford (shown above), Director of Urban Design, Professor of Architecture and Urban Design in the UC Berkeley College of Environmental Design.

Professor Crawford holds degrees in architectural history, housing, and urban planning. Before coming to Berkeley, Crawford chaired the History, Theory, and Humanities Program at SCI-Arc in Los Angeles and, from 2000–2009, was professor of urban design and planning theory at the Harvard GSD, teaching history and design workshops and studios. Her scholarly work includes Building the Workingman’s Paradise: The History of American Company Towns, The Car and the City: The Automobile, the Built Environment and Daily Urban Life, and two editions of Everyday Urbanism, along with numerous articles and book chapters on immigrant spatial practices, shopping malls, public space, and other issues in the American built environment. In 2008, Doug Kelbaugh called Everyday Urbanism “one of the three leading paradigms today in urban design.” Since 2003, Crawford has been investigating the effects of rapid physical and social changes on villages in China’s Pearl River Delta. She recently co-edited Critical Texts in Chinese Urbanization, a four- volume collection of English-language studies of Chinese urban development. She is currently working on regional design projects in the Salinas Valley.

A defining feature of the state of California has been its diverse ethnic makeup. For many California residents, the images in this interview may appear to be mundane features of a daily commute or routine: 99 Ranch Market is a familiar landmark in many a Californian suburb, and Boba tea cafes have become mainstream. But by situating California’s ethnic suburbs in historical context, this interview seeks to bring to light the contingent factors that led to the rise (and characteristic shape) of the “ethnoburbs,” and why they are now permanent features of America’s built landscape.

This interview draws from Professor Crawford’s chapter, “The Fung Bros Rep the Ethnoburb,” in Van Damme et al eds. Creativity from Suburban Nowheres: Rethinking Cultural and Creative Practices(University of Toronto Press, 2023), as well as her recent presentation, “The Rise and Fall of the Mini-Mall,” given at the Society of Architectural Historians 76th Annual International Conference in Montreal, April 13, 2023.

(Please note that the interview was lightly edited).

99 Ranch Supermarket
99 Ranch Supermarket

Aidan Lee: The first image featured here depicts the Asian supermarket chain 99 Ranch, a staple institution of what you refer to as the “ethnoburb” in your research on Asian American communities in the San Gabriel Valley. Can you describe the “ethnoburb” and say more about the methods that inform your research?

I’m in the field of built environment studies, which encompasses the entire built environment in the world. It draws from architectural history and urban history, combining both. My particular approach involves reading the built environment and exploring significant issues through ordinary things. I examine how people live and adapt in their built environments, and what the built environments mean for their own daily practices. I examine completely ordinary aspects of everyday life, seemingly mundane issues that shape people’s lives in ordinary ways.

It’s great that you start off with this picture of the 99 Ranch supermarket, because that’s the kind of everyday environment that interests me. In fact, in my work on the San Gabriel Valley, the supermarket plays an important role. I feel that looking deeply at very ordinary places and practices can tell you a lot about much more serious and important issues. Towns with a 99 Ranch supermarket, for example, have in recent years functioned as hubs that attract Asian immigrants from neighboring communities that have traditionally been less diverse, suggesting that the establishment of ethnic retail centers is not just a symptom of broader demographic changes in the San Gabriel Valley, but also a catalyst for further change.

The largest ethnoburb in the US is in the San Gabriel Valley, which is east of downtown Los Angeles. There are around 11 suburban towns in the greater Los Angeles area that have Asian majorities, so this is a very new condition. These are not Chinatowns, which were created through a process of exclusion. Ethnoburbs are places that immigrants have voluntarily and very positively chosen to live in. For example, Fred Hsieh, a local real estate agent, started advertising Monterey Park as the “Chinese Beverly Hills” to buyers from Hong Kong and Taiwan, though it’s actually more middle-class than upper-class.

The ethnoburbs are mostly Californian; the only other state where you can really find something similar (but not identical, and on a smaller scale) is New Jersey. In the decades after World War II, geopolitical and economic issues drove a lot of immigration from Hong Kong and Taiwan to California. A particularly important factor in the rise of the Californian ethnoburbs was the 1965 Immigration Act, which opened the doors to many different groups of people who had not been coming before. The act privileged those with higher education, so you saw a lot of well-educated people, especially from Taiwan, immigrating to the US during this period. Many of them started to settle in Monterey Park and eventually crossed over to all other suburban towns nearby, creating these massive Asian suburbs.

Often in the literature, ethnoburbs are just referred to in a generic way – simply as “Chinese,” for example. But in fact, their populations show a broad range across the economic spectrum, from San Marino, the most expensive and wealthy town in the entire Los Angeles County, to El Monte, which is one of the poorest cities in the county. So it’s a very complex demographic, ethnic, and economic geography. And of course, none of these towns is 100 percent Asian. There are complicated mixtures with other ethnic groups. For example, in San Marino, you basically have Chinese and white. In El Monte, you have a lot of Latinos, Vietnamese, and Chinese, but very few white people. So every town has a unique mixture of different groups; it is not a unitary phenomenon, but actually quite complex.

Considering where many of these migrants come from (e.g., Taiwan, Hong Kong, southern China), it seems like a very urban population that is moving into the suburbs. Can you see unique patterns of urban life (including structures or local institutions) in these ethnoburbs?

No, I would say that this place remains resolutely suburban, and that almost all of these immigrants ended up living the car-oriented suburban lifestyle in single-family houses or small apartment buildings, shopping in strip malls. But while the suburban form is the same, the content is dramatically changed. The content of the mini malls is very Asian: for example, you will see a huge number of all kinds of Asian restaurants. On Valley Boulevard in San Gabriel, there are something like 300 restaurants. It has really become the center of Chinese food in the United States. Queens, New York might be a competitor, but most people would say that if you want really good Chinese food, Valley Boulevard is the place to go. It’s been featured in a lot of food magazines, because there is an incredible breadth of Asian food, but you can also find everything Asian there. So, if you move to the San Gabriel Valley and only speak Cantonese, you will not have any problems. But you’re still going to have to live a different lifestyle. I think that has been difficult for many, especially for the elderly population. People often move as multi-generational families, so the seniors have a hard time because they don’t drive. This is a very spread out, totally car-dependent society with very little public transportation. And so this is one of the issues that urban planners have to deal with. Recently city planners have proposed funding paratransit vans and similar solutions to allow seniors to have more mobility.

Map of the 626 Area Code, East of Los Angeles
The 626 Area Code, East of Los Angeles

This is a map of the 626 area code, the San Gabriel Valley (SGV). Your research explores depictions of everyday life in this area, especially through the work of the YouTube comedian-musician duo, the Fung Brothers.

There are a lot of differences among the first-generation immigrants. The earliest immigrants from Hong Kong and Taiwan, for example, don’t even speak the same dialect. And then when mainland Chinese started moving in, a whole other set of (social and political) conflicts emerged. But all that vanished in the second generation, which essentially became Asian American. There are a host of stereotypes about Asian American kids, according to which they are supposed to be very nerdy and studious, get good grades, be well behaved, and do what their parents want. In other words, kind of boring. And so that has been the predominant stereotype. But in reality (and as has been seen through the Fung Brothers’ work), there is an incredibly dynamic teenage and youth lifestyle in the SGV. For example, many kids go to different boba tea cafes in the evenings and on weekends. These cafes offer a variety of games and other activities, and people hang out there for hours. This kind of thing has become an identifier that young SGV natives like the Fung Bros recognize.

Another feature of SGV identity involves an overwhelming interest in Asian food. Given all the variety of Asian restaurants, I think we can say that they’re not these typical teenagers going to fast food restaurants like McDonald’s. They’re actually really indulging in Asian food. And part of the reason that there are so many Asian restaurants is because young people are patronizing them. Obviously, they get a lot of information and ideas about food from their parents, so that became one of the strongest markers of Asian American identity. The Fung Brothers encapsulated this new kind of SGV, 626 identity in their videos, and they became super popular, reaching a million YouTube subscribers very quickly. And so that helped to create a very distinctive Southern California, Asian American identity.

I also think the Fung Brothers understood the nuances of the built environment. In their video, they talk about these long boulevards that exist in Southern California, and how each one has a distinctive identity. They list the neighborhoods from south to north from the working-class areas to the most elite, and talk about the kind of different permutations of Asians in each of these places. I think this 3-minute video tells us a lot about what life in the San Gabriel Valley is like, and almost represents a kind of sociological analysis in its detailed breakdown of different regional populations.

One urban feature that appears frequently in the Fung Brothers’ music videos is the “mini mall.” Could you outline the history of the mini malls? What is the connection between the mini mall and the ethnoburb? Who first developed these spaces and what were they used for?

The interesting thing about the mini mall is that it also emerged at the confluence of two geopolitical issues. One was the 1970s gas crisis, which began when OPEC countries started boycotting any country that supported Israel in the Yom Kippur War. This was the beginning of the energy crisis, which we’re still dealing with today. The energy crisis, and the economic crisis that happened alongside it, led to a lot of gas stations going out of business, leaving empty gas station sites. Los Angeles has always been a car-centric city, so there were way more gas stations than in most places. Low-end developers noticed this condition, and they started buying up these corner sites. The lots were small, leading them to unwittingly create the typology of the mini mall, which is a simple L shaped corner, a one-story (sometimes two-story) shopping center with parking in front. They built them as cheaply as possible. There were no regulations or zoning issues because they were already commercial sites. After they started, oil companies contacted developers when they had lots to sell. So over the course of only 20 years, Los Angeles saw the development of 3000 mini malls.

Frank Lloyd Wright, Shopping Centers in Broadacre City, 1935-50
Frank Lloyd Wright, Shopping Centers in Broadacre City, 1935-50

What kinds of businesses moved into these mini malls? The 1965 Immigration Act opened doors for a lot of immigrants, and many of them came to Los Angeles. Los Angeles was the new Ellis Island, a major magnet for immigrants. A lot of immigrants had language problems. They didn’t have work histories in the U.S., so they became entrepreneurs, starting small businesses. In fact, even today, 50 percent of small businesses in Los Angeles are owned by people who were not born in this country. So there was a huge boom in immigrant businesses located in the cheap space of the mini mall. And a lot of developers worked with them to build their businesses and tried to better understand immigrants and their neighborhoods. They encouraged successful businesses to become chains and locate themselves in the other mini malls that they were building. The building of mini malls thus became a very immigrant-driven process. And in fact, I think everyone who lives in Los Angeles now knows that if you want a good ethnic restaurant, you will find it in a mini mall.

Tian Ho, Possible Configurations of Mini-malls
Tian Ho, Possible Configurations of Mini-malls

And did these real estate developers often come from a similar ethnic background as the mini mall small business owners?

Not at all. I think they just saw a good business opportunity. In Los Angeles during the 1970s, 1980s, and even 1990s, there was a lot of conflict about the city’s identity. David Rieff wrote a book titled Los Angeles: Capital of the Third World. The crisis was rooted in Los Angeles becoming a “majority minority” city. And I think that the speed with which these different ethnic groups began setting up their businesses in LA’s mini malls (with their non-English signage) really unsettled the traditional urban elites and older residents of these areas.

Mini-mall signs in various languages
Mini-mall signage reflected the diversity of surrounding communities

Was there any movement back, in the sense that too many malls were built and had to be converted back into gas stations? Or did mini malls become a permanent mark on the suburban landscape?

The number of gas stations has continued to decrease. Real estate developers favor the “highest and best use” for any site, so most of these properties could never go back to being gas stations, which bring less revenue and accommodate fewer businesses. But again, mini mall sites are small, and they’re still making money for the people who own them and the people who have stores there. So they are not being redeveloped as much as you might think. They’re still, I would say, successful.

Of course, there was pushback from local communities and planners from the very beginning, when mini malls were considered to be one of the most degraded kinds of buildings in the city. Urban planners, architects, and city officials all tried to stop them unsuccessfully through regulation. Finally, economic forces slowed down mini mall construction, although in the eastern San Gabriel Valley, which still qualifies as an “ethnoburb,” they are still being developed.

Can you say more about the critics of the mini malls? What were the kinds of architectural or planning standards that they subscribed to?

It’s interesting. The American Institute of Architects (AIA), a professional organization, was a major critic, although almost every mini mall development had an architect involved with it. In the 1980s and 1990s, even architecture critics for the LA Times argued that a number of mini malls were well-designed

From the beginning, there were many criticisms, but a major one was simply that these were cheap, low-end buildings. Critics talked about curb cuts (depressed curbs which allow for pedestrian and vehicle access), which were seen as visually offensive and potential causes of flooding. But certainly the gas stations had just as many, if not more, curb cuts. There was either too much parking or too little parking. Basically, though, the criticisms were aesthetic. Critics just thought mini malls were ugly, a crime ambiguously referred to as “visual blight,” which is obviously a subjective interpretation. Although, if you look back at what was there before, it’s hard to maintain that criticism because certainly gas stations were much more unsightly.

burning mini-malls in LA
A burning mini-mall during the 1992 Los Angeles riots

But also, around this time, there was a change in urban perceptions about Los Angeles, particularly after the 1992 social unrest. Many people wanted to reconceptualize Los Angeles to be more like other cities. Instead of thinking of the city as a car-dependent, sprawling place, they envisioned LA as a more urbane environment that had buildings coming right up to the sidewalk. Obviously, mini malls are the exact opposite of this ideal. One way the mini-mall exemplifies this is the empty corner, which goes against conventional urban design principles, which emphasize building up corners. The mini mall is also set back from the street by its parking lot. This destroys any possibility of creating a “street wall,” where the front of the building comes straight down to the sidewalk, as is typical in Manhattan and most European cities. Thus the mini-mall became a symbol of the car-centric city that needed to be eliminated.

Professional architects and planners did not like the malls, and neither did citizens. In 1989, roughly 10 percent of respondents to a quality-of-life poll conducted by the Los Angeles Times cited mini malls as their biggest pet peeve. I think this also had to do with the number of immigrant businesses in the San Gabriel Valley. As recently as 2013, the town of Monterey Park even attempted to ban retail signs that did not have an English translation, a throwback to 1980s city regulations that required English signage. Much of this had to do with the alarm that these massive demographic changes had created among prior residents, especially people who were involved in city governments in the greater LA region. The mini malls did not align with the image that they wanted for their city, but now this may have changed.

Today, there are a huge number of people who love mini malls and who celebrate Los Angeles’ extreme diversity. But that took a long time to achieve. There was a lot of struggle over the image of the city: was it going to be the capital of the Third World? Or was it going to be a much more traditional city? The city actually has since developed better public transportation, including a subway system and light rail; in some ways, it has actually become more like a “typical” or desirable city. At the same time, the diversity of its residents has become one of LA’s biggest assets.

“Visual blight” is also interesting because it is a global phenomenon. In East Asian cities like Taipei, there are similar debates about street signs, for example, which over the past couple of decades have become far more standardized and regulated. Some of your research has touched on East Asian built environments, specifically in southern China. Can we see similar concerns in urbanizing regions there, in terms of the aesthetic and functional criticisms of urban space?

Definitely. In Taipei, Hong Kong, and Guangzhou, for example, there is definitely a policing of the built environment away from the extremely lively visual assault that formerly characterized Asian cities. In Hong Kong, when you look at pictures from the 1960s, the signs protrude into the street. It’s an incredibly vivid and colorful environment. And now when you look, it’s much more controlled. This is the constant struggle of urban planners, who use planning restrictions and planning codes to control the city, because somehow visual blight is seen as, I believe, a symptom of political, cultural, and social confusion. There is an idea that if you have a coherent built environment, it means you have a coherent society, even though that is absolutely not true. In addition, the globalization of building types (such as shopping malls), development practices, and architectural design has produced a more generic urban landscape.

street signs in hong kong in the 1960s
1960s Hong Kong. Note the non-uniform signage hanging over the street.

But certainly, the debates over visual blight are really a struggle over taste, a struggle that is happening everywhere. Who determines taste? Often, the coherence of the European built environment has been the role model everywhere. And so, in almost every city, including the city I live in, Berkeley, there are planners who undertake streetscape projects where they convince store owners to paint their buildings a uniform gray, then place restrictions on the size of the signs. You see it everywhere because it is intended to create a “tasteful” or, let’s face it, upper middle-class environment.

Ultimately, the control over things like visual blight is really about people with power trying to exert control over urban space, but also constantly being threatened by new forms of urban vitality or informality that come up. In Singapore, for example, street vendors were relocated into hawker centers (these are contained, often indoor, spaces that facilitate better regulation). While the food is still great, the relocation is really a form of control, and obviously the impetus is rooted in images of what constitutes a “developed city” or a “developed country.” So, when mini mall critics saw non-English signage in LA, they thought it looked like the city was going “backwards,” or turning into the “capital of the Third World.” To some extent, this kind of urban cleansing is a perennial concern and a continuous process in urban planning as a discipline. I would argue that, in fact, this is the very history of urban planning.

1960s hong kong
1960s Hong Kong. Neon signage in both English and Chinese is largely considered an iconic feature of Hong Kong’s urban environment. In recent years, however, there has been an increase in the removal of signage due to new building regulations.

What are some of the emerging trends in the present-day ethnoburbs, whether broad demographic shifts or new urban planning policies? Are you noticing certain patterns that are emerging today that are really distinct from the pre-Covid years?

Physically, the San Gabriel Valley has been migrating East. And in a way, some of the issues and struggles that went on in the past are now going on in the eastern part of the San Gabriel Valley, in places like Diamond Bar and Hacienda Heights. Many new Chinese restaurants are located there, so it is becoming a new epicenter. There are a few interesting dynamics at work in this growing region. Typically, wealthier people will move to the eastern part of the San Gabriel Valley, which has larger houses on bigger lots. Urban historian James Zarsadiaz has written an excellent book on this topic called Resisting Change in Suburbia, in which he discusses how Asian immigrants, especially Chinese immigrants, have bought into very American frontier imagery when they buy houses there. Demographically speaking, there’s been an interesting phenomenon of Chinese immigrants moving into expansive suburban regions that are traditionally less diverse, and yet they are still able to make a short and easy trip to a neighboring town to shop at ethnic supermarkets like 99 Ranch.

The conclusion from my investigation of the San Gabriel Valley is that generally this demographic shift (the growth of the Asian population) has concluded in a peaceful way. After an initial period of strong resistance, currently there is very little social tension. I conducted interviews with white, Latino, and Asian residents, and found very few of the kinds of social struggles that you might expect. For example, going back to supermarkets, in San Gabriel, there are no American supermarkets anymore. There are only Asian supermarkets. Yet non-Asian residents I spoke to are not resentful about some sort of perceived loss. One of the reasons for this may be the car-centric nature of the San Gabriel Valley. If you don’t have a Ralphs or Vons supermarket near you, you can just drive five or ten minutes to the next town and find one. You are not confined to your immediate neighborhood.

A large mini-mall complex in the San Gabriel Valley
A large mini-mall complex in the San Gabriel Valley

This is true not only for groceries, but for other essential services. When I interviewed a white student here at Berkeley who was from the SGV, I learned that she commuted by car to La Cañada each day to go to school, a common experience for many young people in the Los Angeles area: high schools, both public and private, are located all over the region. That is also one way in which some people bypass the problem of overly competitive high schools (with predominantly Asian student bodies). In other regions, such as Fremont in the Bay Area, this situation has contributed to substantial white flight from otherwise very desirable neighborhoods, as Willow Lung-Amam has shown. (See chapter 2 in Lung-Amam’s book, Trespassers: Asian Americans and the Battle for Suburbia, for more detail on the school situation in Fremont.) Many families felt that their kids just could not compete academically with the students of Asian ethnic background in their neighborhood. To some extent, that phenomenon is visible at the University of California, which has a predominantly Asian undergraduate student body. Moving away, however, is not a viable option for many families, especially those that have been living in San Gabriel for multiple generations. so, in a way, driving solves the problem.

The idea of the San Gabriel Valley as a bounded space is thus simply not true. Many of my interviews involved stories of people driving elsewhere. When young people like the Fung Brothers move to their own place, where do they move? Downtown LA. So the idea of mobility is really something that allows what has been a rapid demographic shift to have settled down into a relatively painless process. Obviously, there’s still a lot of inequality here. But one of the questions I wanted to ask is: what happens when a minority group becomes the majority? And how does that play out economically, socially, and culturally?

One of the other major factors in recent decades has been mainland Chinese money, which has been responsible for much of the built environment of the San Gabriel Valley. But after COVID and certain political changes in China, I think that this investment has become much less prevalent. COVID obviously led to a substantial decline in immigration: it stopped visits back and forth between countries, and it stopped the “yo-yo” residence patterns (where people move regularly between China or Taiwan and California), which many families did consistently. Many people had to decide where to settle long-term. The age of massive Chinese real estate investment is ending;  clearly, it’s not a politically expedient thing to do anymore. Ultimately, what the result of this will be, nobody knows. What is clear, though, is that the San Gabriel Valley will stabilize as an Asian American environment.

Podcast

War, Diaspora, Bureaucracy: An Interview with Sherine Ebadi

Sherine Ibadi

How does international conflict shape immigration bureaucracy? Sherine Ebadi, a PhD Candidate in the UC Berkeley Department of Geography, researches the impact of Special Immigrant Visas (SIVs) and employment-based visa programs on Afghan nationals who worked with the U.S. military. For Ebadi, visa programs like the SIV are crucial lenses for understanding imperialism as well as social relations within the Afghan diaspora.

In this podcast interview, J.T. Jamieson, a recent PhD graduate from the UC Berkeley Department of History and a 2022-2023 Matrix Communications Scholar, spoke with Ebadi about the relationships between humanitarianism, foreign intervention, war, and immigration, as well as the lived experiences of Afghans navigating the SIV process, especially those in the diasporic community in Northern California.

An edited transcript of the interview is included below.

Podcast Transcript

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Woman’s Voice: The Matrix Podcast is a production of Social Science Matrix, an interdisciplinary research center at the University of California, Berkeley.

J.T. Jamieson: Hello, and welcome to the Matrix Podcast. I’m J. T. Jamieson, your host, coming to you from the Ethnic Studies Changemaker Studio, our recording partner on UC Berkeley’s campus.

Our guest today is Sherine Ebadi, a PhD candidate in the Geography Department at UC Berkeley. Her research focuses on the politics of US immigration bureaucracy during times of humanitarian conflict.

Her dissertation explores historical and contemporary usages of employment-based visas, such as the Special Immigrant Visa offered to Iraqi and Afghan translators and the role of contractual labor in precipitating refugee adjacent immigration categories. Sherine, thank you for joining us today.

Sherine Ebadi: Thank you so much for having me. I’m excited to talk with you about this.

Jamieson: So much of your work analyzes the bureaucracy behind the Special Immigrant Visa, or SIV, but what is it exactly, and what makes it unique in modern immigration bureaucracy?

Ebadi: So the SIV has a not very long history in contemporary and modern immigration history. It’s kind of been used as an exemption category, let’s say. So that’s how I would frame my answer and how I would like people to think about the SIV.

The very first time that the SIV came into being in existence was actually in 1965, and there was an Immigration and Nationality Act that put the SIV as a permanent employment-based visa category.

Of course, that’s not the very first time that the idea of something like an SIV existed. So it actually came out of a whole series of debates throughout the 1900s that were really about national origins quotas and who deserved and belonged to be a citizen in the United States.

So we can definitely talk more about that. But in a lot of ways, the history of the SIV supports a certain type of ethical consideration in the face of racial exclusions that really defined a lot of the US immigration history of the 1900s.

Jamieson: So it’s related to other categories, which have long histories of refugees or asylum seekers. How exactly does the category of the SIV relate to those other legal categories, and how have those categories maybe shaped the SIV over the course of the 20th century?

Ebadi: Yeah, I mean, it’s a very broad and catch-all category. So let’s start with that in terms of, yes, it does have a lot of similarity to refugee and asylum categories, but it’s also used for a host of other things, too, that are very much, like I said, employment-based.

In terms of what it’s been used for with the refugee side of things, it’s very interconnected with three types of visas, humanitarian parole, number one, refugee visas, number two, and asylum visas, number three.

So in the case of Afghans, a lot of people coming in first through humanitarian parole. What humanitarian parole means is that it’s a presidential power essentially to designate a category of people or person to be able to come into the United States for fear of persecution. That doesn’t require very much congressional oversight. And so that’s the big difference between a parole power versus a refugee versus asylum power.

Refugee and asylum, often used interchangeably, but they’re actually different things. So refugee means that somebody has been displaced from their country and they’re applying to the United States to come to live as a permanent resident in the United States for fear of persecution. However, they’re not yet in the United states.

And asylum means that the person is in the United States either in status or with no status, and they are applying for permanent residency. So those are three things that we see.

And the ways that Afghans have been able post-2001 to move to the United States would be from those three categories. But the path to long-term residency would be through the SIV and through the qualification of having worked with the US government, therefore qualifying for a Special Immigration Visa.

Jamieson: So this is really about the war on terror. So we’re talking a post-9/11 world, we’re talking US involvement in Iraq and in Afghanistan. How does the SIV, how does it come out of this conflict, and what exactly are people who are eligible for the SIV, what are they doing for the US military? Why does the US military depend on them?

Ebadi: Yeah, such an interesting question because we see so much in the news and in terms of broader awareness about, let’s say, like Afghan translators with the military and there’s been a ton of focus on these people.

There’s also a large Afghan diaspora that came before the war on terror. And so I think a good way to think about that question is let’s look at what the immigration pathways were for Afghans before the war on terror and what happened after the war on terror, and what are we seeing now. And that’s a good way that we can trace the politics of the immigration system and see how it interacts with conflicts.

So Afghans, let’s say, like the first major kind of cohort of Afghans to arrive in the US came throughout the 1980s and the 1990s. They came as mostly refugees. Most of them had fled to Pakistan, were living in Pakistan, in India, in Tajikistan surrounding areas, and then applied for visas to come to the United States.

So this was very much a Cold War kind of humanitarian policy of saying these people are fleeing communism because the Soviet Union invaded Kabul in 1979. And so those were the visas that were available to them, were actually refugee visas. It’s very clear in that instance that we’re saying Afghans are refugees.

Now post-2001, we no longer have the word refugee, at least in political discourse, attached to Afghans, despite us all knowing that fleeing persecution is a common thread in all of these cohorts of diaspora.

Post-2001, of course, there’s been a lot. A lot of people have said that the US doesn’t want to call Afghans refugees because it would invalidate the political project of the war on terror, making Afghanistan a safer place.

But I mean, that might be true in one regard. It’s also a little bit more complex than that because the geopolitics, the complications of area and also the lack of, quite frankly, knowledge of the US generally and the military more specifically of really subtle and internal dynamics that were required in order to conduct the war on terror were lacking.

And so in order to make that project possible, they needed 100% almost an entire military that was comprised of Afghans. And what’s also interesting in this case is that a lot of Afghans really supported the US interventions and really wanted the kinds of rights and type of democracy and peace that the war on terror provided.

So the SIV really recruited and created allies to the US cause both in an immigration sense and in an embodied sense.

Jamieson: There’s a lot of clearly complex layers here of thinking of the SIV as it relates to some kind of humanitarian project from the perspective of some Afghans, some kind of state building project, and from the perspective of the United States. a political military project.

So how in your project do you analyze the relationships between all these things of humanitarian interest, the interests of Afghans who are working for the US military or with the US military, and the political and military interests of the United States abroad?

Ebadi: Yeah, that’s a question that I’m really grappling with right now, and it’s a hard one to answer. Because as somebody– I’m of the Afghan diaspora myself, but I grew up here in the United States. There’s a lot of different opinions and stakes about what the US was doing, should be doing, and what their responsibility to Afghans are and were.

So when I think about humanitarianism, it’s a word that’s really hot and political. There’s been a ton of academia that has critiqued kind of humanitarianism, the kind of benevolent humanitarian group aid dynamic that can be very colonial esque in a certain way, trying to say that these certain types of values are universal and good for everybody, even though those values are from often like, let’s say, a Western standpoint.

And I see, appreciate, and agree for the most part with those critiques. At the same time, it’s easy to critique something when you are not living under extreme circumstances where you’re afraid for your life or you just basically want an education, where you’re scared for your family, where you– and these are the kinds of situations that Afghans really live in.

And it’s complicated to be in an academic kind of situation talking with interlocutors with this sort of critique of humanitarianism, when what I hear a lot from Afghans that have come to the US post-2001 is that they were actually supportive because they were able to get an education, unlike their mothers.

So I think part of what my research is also trying to do is look at, let’s say, like US imperialism, but from within. So it’s not to say that US imperialism is bad and so is humanitarianism. It’s more to say like, how do the people who are supposedly the benefactors of this actually feel about humanitarianism? And those views aren’t necessarily as critical as we might think they would be in an academic setting.

Jamieson: There’s been a lot of discussion about Afghan refugees or immigrants or recipients of the SIV, maybe more specifically during and after the US withdrawal from Afghanistan in 2021. So it seems there has been a lot of critique of the whole system by a lot of the media in the United States.

How do you feel that the immigration bureaucracy or the experience of recipients of the SIV, how do you feel like any of that has changed before the US withdrawal and after?

Ebadi: Yeah, yeah. I think before the US withdrawal in a big sense, I think– this is just speaking off of kind of anecdotal experience that I’ve had in research, but before the US withdrawal, there seemed to be a lot more kind of feelings of opposition towards the US occupation in Afghanistan.

Like, what are we doing there? Shouldn’t Afghans be able to govern and secure their own nation? These kinds of questions. Like, really a lot of thought about US empire and kind of long-term and new forms of warfare, just kind of endless occupation.

Now, post-2021, obviously images are so, so important in terms of forming political views and political opinion. And I think just like the images from 2021 were extremely powerful and really shifted the narrative a lot to, yeah, Afghans deserve to have independence from foreign occupation. And at the same time, like what is the ethical obligation towards Afghans, and did the US like do them justice in a certain way?

So I feel like it complicated the question from being the US is bad, the US is imperial, to, well, what’s a more nuanced way that we could think about the US obligation, especially given its history of intervention into that region? What is the US obligation towards Afghans and Afghan people?

And that’s really been articulated through the, let’s say, recipients of Special Immigrant Visas. But I do think that focus on Special Immigrant Visas at the very least has kind of represented that as a broader question for Afghanistan kind of writ large.

Jamieson: So you talked a bit about the perspective of Afghans themselves, about the US military project and also about the pathways that the SIV could offer. Can you expand on the motivations and attitudes of the people themselves, either as they seek to work with the American state or try to seek some kind of pathway to legal permanent residence in the United States?

What are their motivations and their desires, and how do they navigate all of this bureaucracy to try to get at these very basic fundamental needs that you’ve already discussed?

Ebadi: Yeah, so there are actually two different Afghan SIV programs. What’s interesting is that what’s mostly focused on– and even when I write out my work, I say this, is I work with Afghan SIVs who were translators with the US military.

So that’s actually only one very small part of who Afghan SIVs really are. That program is tiny. I think it’s only a couple 100 people, let’s say. I can look that up. The other part of the SIV program is way larger, thousands of people have come in on it, and it’s for people that have “contracted,” quote unquote, with the US military.

So most people, when they were working for the US military, it was just a job. It might be being a cashier at the cafeteria, it might be driving supplies from one base to another, it might be cleaning, it might be, I don’t know, any number of little tasks that goes in to the day-to-day operations of the US military.

So a lot of those jobs were just kind of a job of a functioning economy, if we can say a functioning, let’s say, Western kind of economy of military industrial complex.

It wasn’t necessarily a super political decision for most people, but it was a representation of access to a certain type of very formalized employment, whether or not it supported the US military. And like I said, a lot of people felt kind of neutral or even maybe pro in the then post Taliban areas, post Taliban era.

And so this was just like a basic sense of livelihood for most of these people. Where I would say the moral kind of complexities of it came in were with the small group of people who really worked translating.

And this has to do with the fact that they are both insiders to Afghan culture and outsiders to Afghan culture, and needing to mediate, especially in very rural areas, areas that have a very anti-US sentiment.

And those people had more of the job to fit themselves into lines politically about where they wanted to stand, why they were supporting certain things.

But again, that’s kind of the minority of who actually Afghan SIVs are. Most of them are just people that had jobs, that were able to make an income and have some kind of financial security through the US involvement.

Jamieson: So for either group, the majority of SIVs or the minority, where do they fit in in this longer history that you’ve already alluded to of the Afghan diaspora? Where do those diasporic communities form, and how does this influx of people under this different legal category, how do they fit in to this history?

Ebadi: Yeah, so it’s important to think about the context of the geopolitical context, I think, of moments when Afghans are migrating in huge numbers, the first context being in the Cold War. So you have to think about global communism versus the US and capitalism and democracy, let’s say.

A lot of Afghans that came throughout the 1980s, even though they came to the United states, were still very critical of the United states, very critical of the Soviet Union as well, very critical of these big ideas of geopolitical powers that kind of dominate their certain ideologies. So that was the historical context.

Afghanistan also was very involved in amidst certain postcolonial movements. You think about South Asia, and then Central Asia. So I think in Afghanistan before the Soviet invasion, there was a lot of sentiment of anti-imperialism, of independence.

And the country had also seen a long period of relative stability. And so there was really the formation of counter movements and the aspirations of what this country could be and how do we provide for people.

And there was a lot of movement and excitement in that, and then the Soviet Union invaded. And there’s still this kind of a long running joke of tensions between Afghans and Russians.

So that was the context in which they immigrated to the US. And these Afghans always thought that they would go back. They didn’t foresee the decades of war that we are seeing now.

And so a lot of them stayed politically active and they formed two diasporas, one in Northern California. Most famously people call Fremont, a suburb of San Francisco. It’s about half an hour to an hour away, depending on traffic, and they call it little Kabul. And that’s kind of one community.

The other community in the United States is in Northern Virginia. So in these– not that the Afghans don’t live in other places, but there have been huge, huge communities there.

And the Bay Area community is pretty interesting because it’s gotten this confluence of leftist type politics because of the area that the San Francisco Bay Area is in. And that’s been really kind of kept up and maintained in the Afghan diaspora, this kind of idea of critique and these things.

So the Afghan diaspora that’s coming now is a little bit different. However, there’s a lot of solidarity still. There’s a lot of cultural identification. One thing I can say is that Afghans have really retained language and culture despite having lived here for decades now.

And I think what I’ve seen is that there is a big feeling of, more than anything, solidarity and kind of acceptance into the community of SIVs, even though the politics of whether or not the US intervention in Afghanistan was a good thing or a bad thing might not completely align.

What you see is a lot of people that are coming into the United States now were maybe more in support of the US intervention in Afghanistan versus Afghans that have lived here for a couple of decades were more against it.

And despite that, there’s been a ton of show of support of helping these people integrate into new lives here. And that gives me a lot of hope for them to.

Jamieson: So how do you investigate these communities? I mean, it seems like the direction of your research is in part archival, but also like you’re doing fieldwork within these kind of communities and trying to figure out what the generational relationships are between immigrants, between the 1980s and now the 2020s.

How do you figure all this out? I mean, what forms does your research take or your fieldwork take? How do you build the source base for a project like this?

Ebadi: I have no idea. No. Well, I’m just fascinated by history. Like, I just have this mind that when I see something that doesn’t make sense, I just want to know, where does this come from? What did this seem like 10 years ago? And so that’s kind of where I go to with my mind.

And so when I was kind of thinking about the Special Immigrant Visa at first, I’m also very fascinated by apparent contradictions. Like, how is it that somebody can be an intermediary for this extremely violent encounter of militarism? How does someone reconcile that? Why do they do that?

And that desire to understand why and also how certain structural issues place people into positions where they have to make certain choices, so that was how I first pieced together this is why I’m interested in the Special Immigrant Visa. Then from there, I was like, when did this visa start, all of these things?

And so what I’ve done a lot of is look back into congressional archives and I’m really interested in the tiny little stories, the little thing that that president said or the statement and the research report that was commissioned by so-and-so senator that really swayed the vote on this to make this a certain type of category that became legible.

And so what I’ve done is really, like I said, look into archives. They mostly use like government and congressional archives. They look a lot into the dailies and the speeches and seeing what committees were meeting on what day, kind of based around a general framework of knowledge of major immigration reform laws.

So I’ve made a skeleton in a certain way. I know that national origins quotas were really important in the early 1900s. OK, well, from there, like, who was against it? Who was for it? Why? What was the headline of the news around that time?

So really trying to contextualize and in some ways understand the psychology behind the politics– not psychology. Maybe that’s not the right word, but the reason and the feeling and the sentiment and the motivation. And that really fascinates me.

And so there’s still this kind of human and embodied aspect of my archival work that’s not just let me read this legal document. And that’s what I really look for.

So it’s easier to obviously, hopefully to find the kind of embodied element when you’re talking with people. But I try to make those two things come into conversation.

Or even if I’m having conversations with interlocutors, I will say, did you know that this visa that you had, it was created at this time. What do you think about that? And so really kind of bringing participants into conversation so that I’m not coming into something as I’m the expert and I know X, Y, and Z things.

I think my work with people, I have to be honest, is greatly facilitated by the fact that I am part of the Afghan diaspora, too. And I mean, I’m proud to say it. No one comes into any sort of research with no bias, with no position. We all bring our full selves into the work that we do, even as much as we try and be impartial.

But that being said, this was a big reason why I did want to work with Afghan SIVs is because I felt kind of in a news outlet setting and all of these other types of ways that we’re finding out about Afghans is not actually in a more embodied and kind of culturally sensitive and knowledgeable way.

So I know a lot about the community. It’s kind of dynamics of what the kind of political tensions are through growing up in a very politically active Afghan family.

And I felt like it was my job as a PhD student to be able to do this work because I didn’t know someone else that could have that kind of rapport and trust and insight. It’s really hard to get the trust of an Afghan.

Jamieson: So I mean, it’s fascinating how you approach your scholarship here between high politics and embodied history and fieldwork within communities.

When you’re working within these communities– I mean, so you say that there are times where you sort of discuss immigration bureaucracy or some kind of broader history of immigration policy.

Do you get the sense that people are interested in learning about that and that they think of themselves as part of some bigger story of US policy, part of some bigger story a diaspora?

Do you get the sense that any of the people you interview or speak with view themselves in the way that you as a scholar, but at the same time kind of an insider in these communities are also trying to understand them?

Ebadi: Such a good question. Yeah, I think that it kind of falls into these lines that we talked about just a little bit ago, where I think a lot of the diaspora that has been here for a decade or more, two decades, three decades even, is able to integrate this political approach and critique and positioning of this is what I’m here to do, this is why I’m here to do it. I’m doing it for this reason.

The people who I work with who are more recently resettled or resettling, as might be expected, are much less invested in that critique and much more focused on just trying to get family to come here, trying to get permanent status.

Another really important and sad thing is that we’ve had so much focus on the Special Immigrant Visa program. But of the people that were evacuated in August 2021, most of them have not been able to adjust to permanent resident status.

So they were granted in on humanitarian parole, and they might have documents that could show that they contracted with the military or they might not because of the circumstances in which they left.

And a lot of times, they might have worked with a contractor of a contractor of the US. I mean, there was so much disarray as might be expected in a huge military complex, such as what happened in Afghanistan. So these people don’t necessarily have the documentation to be able to prove that they qualify for an SIV status.

And so a humanitarian parole visa is good for two years. And after that two years, if you don’t adjust to either a refugee status or an asylum status or some other kind of status, you are no longer legally allowed to be in the United States.

And so there’s a huge crisis that’s going on right now alongside the crisis of what happens to my friends and family that are still there of, wow, OK, my parole status ends August of this year.

So it’s timely to be talking about this now. It’s not just the anniversary of the US withdrawal from Afghanistan. It’s also a time when thousands of Afghans don’t know if they will be able to stay in this country or not and trying to. create narratives of asylum, of saying, I’m scared of going back because of this or because of that and trying to convince these immigration officers of that instead of using the SIV.

So the SIV isn’t even being used, and yet here we have all the news outlets still like, oh, the Special Immigrant and people that we left behind and this and that. And it’s like, that’s not even the visa that we’re talking about now.

So people in that sense are interested, but more in the self-preservation of like, well, how could I get an SIV? But at the same time, they are so knowledgeable about the nitty-gritty of how our immigration system works.

And I think the privilege of not having to have your life depend on that can allow one to have a step back in the kind of broader view versus these people need to figure this out now, and then we’ll see. Even though they’re super excited and interested to talk about it, it’s just a different orientation towards it.

Jamieson: So for a lot of these people who are on humanitarian parole and who are kind of being left out of these broader public discourses of the SIV and Afghan resettlement, what kind of resources do they have to help them navigate these kinds of crises? What tools do they have as they try to figure all of this out in clearly what is a very anxious, hectic period right now?

Ebadi: Very little. When you’re on humanitarian parole, you are given certain, let’s say, public benefits that are also afforded to refugees. That means housing stipends, that means food stamps.

And so needless to say, these people don’t have much in the way of their own resources. They are having to pay out of pocket for immigration proceedings, for the applications that they’re submitting.

Another thing that’s been huge is some of the first refugee– legislation started, let’s say, like around the 1950s, maybe just a little before, and then really started to solidify around the 1980s.

And since then, unsurprisingly, funding for refugees and refugee adjacent services has just gone down and down and down and down and down. Whereas there used to be, I believe, two years of support for people who were recently resettling, now it’s gone down to just a few months.

So they have very little. And there’s also been a lot of privatized housing in terms of supporting immigrants. So let’s say the government– actually, if you look at immigration websites at the US government and look at the Office of Refugee Resettlement, you can see that they are actually saying, hey, we’re recruiting private sponsors.

Meaning the private sponsors could be a community, could be a person, but that puts down money and says that we will host and support this refugee until they’re resettled, they have a job, et cetera.

So a lot of that isn’t even happening through, let’s say, like federal channels. And state channels obviously vary. A lot of them are honestly– and especially in terms of adjusting for status, like hiring an immigration lawyer is completely out of reach for these people.

So a lot will look towards non-profit organizations, community service organizations. There are resettlement organizations. So a lot of people are basically piecemealing this together because if you can imagine, many don’t speak English and they’re having to craft an asylum narrative and do this whole, I mean, complicated thing that I barely understand in English and submit all of this.

So they really are relying on these just like informal kind of networks of being able to find some sort of a community organization that happens to help Afghans, which obviously vary in quality.

And it’s– wait, what was your original question? I wanted to talk a little bit also just about the difference between different ways that this could turn out because this is also a political issue where there needs to be a program.

And it’s been proposed that there be a program that humanitarian parolees are granted pretty much guaranteed borrowing background checks and things like that, but permanent status.

And that has been a bill that’s been proposed, has not been passed, but it’s totally possible to do rather than making Afghans go through this long, very bureaucratic legal process that’s totally uncertain.

And we know that this is possible because we’ve seen it done in the case, for example, of Ukraine and for Ukrainian refugees. And so looking at that model, I think a lot of us that are advocates for the humanitarian crisis in Afghanistan would hope to see some kind of a program that’s similar paths for Afghans.

There’s this really great immigration advocacy organization called Project ANAR. Anar means pomegranate in Farsi. And they’ve done some research and compiled some data.

And so what they’re saying is that comparing the Afghan and Ukraine parole programs– so this is between July 1, 2021 and MAY 1, 2022, the Afghan humanitarian parole applications have received over 66,000 applications, and 123 of those have been approved. And nearly $20 million has been collected in fees from those applications.

In comparison, the Uniting for Ukraine Program has received 88,000 applications for humanitarian parole, and 68,000 of those have been approved and no fees have been collected from that program.

So that’s not to say Afghans have all the solidarity with Ukrainians. Afghans know what this is like. We’ve been through this history over and over again. And what we hope is to also have some sort of a program that recognizes and acknowledges Afghans, especially those Afghans who are here, who have had connections to supporting the US military.

Jamieson: Well, Sherine, thank you for sharing all of this about your work. It’s fascinating work and it’s clearly extremely timely and pressing and significant. So all I can say is thank you. Thank you for sharing your work.

Ebadi: Thank you so much. This was really fun to talk about.

Jamieson: Great.

Woman’s Voice: Thank you for listening. To learn more about Social Science Matrix, please visit matrix.berkeley.edu.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Podcast

Voter Turnout in the United States: An Interview with Emily Rong Zhang

Emily Rong Zhang

In this episode of the Matrix Podcast, Jennie Barker, a PhD Candidate in the Charles and Louise Travers Department of Political Science at UC Berkeley — and a Matrix Communications Scholar — spoke with Emily Rong Zhang, Assistant Professor at UC Berkeley Law School, about her research on voter turnout in the United States. 

Voter turnout has been a hot topic in the news. Turnout soared to highs not seen in decades during the 2020 presidential elections and in the 2018 and 2022 midterm elections. Yet at the same time, there has been a new wave of restrictions on voting, including voter ID laws that have been introduced in a number of states. This has led to alarm that these laws could significantly suppress voter turnout. 

Emily Rong Zhang holds a PhD in Political Science and a JD from Stanford University and was a Skadden Fellow at the ACLU Voting Rights Project. She has also litigated voting rights challenges in Ohio, Kansas, and New York. We asked her to help us think through the different factors influencing voter turnout and how we should understand this concept today.

Podcast Transcript

[UPBEAT MUSIC]

Woman’s Voice: The Matrix Podcast is a production of Social Science Matrix, an interdisciplinary Research Center at the University of California, Berkeley.

Jennie Barker: Hello and welcome to The Matrix Podcast. I’m Jennie Barker, your host coming to you from the Ethnic Studies Changemaker Studio, our recording partner on UC Berkeley’s campus. Our topic today is on voter turnout in the United States. Voter turnout has been a hot topic in the news.

Voter turnout has soared to highs not seen in decades in the 2020 presidential elections and in the 2018 and 2022 midterm elections. Yet at the same time, there has been a new wave of restrictions on voting, including voter ID laws that have been introduced across a number of states. And this has led to alarm that these laws would significantly suppress voter turnout.

To help us think through the different impacts on voter turnout and how we should understand this concept today, we have Emily Rong Zhang, an Assistant Professor at UC Berkeley Law School. She holds a PhD in political science and a JD from Stanford University and was a Skadden fellow at the ACLU Voting Rights Project. She has also litigated voting rights challenges in Ohio, Kansas, and New York. So welcome Emily, and thank you to coming to the podcast.

Emily Rong Zhang: Thanks so much for having me. It’s a delight to be here.

Barker: So to get started today, let’s talk a bit about why voter turnout has become such a focus for social science and legal research in recent years. So we’ve seen a number of states implement more restrictive voting laws and we’ve also seen social scientists and lawyers become really interested in this topic for their research and in their litigation. So help us understand why this is happening?

Zhang: Yeah. So for political science, there’s always been an interest in voter turnout. That’s kind of the dependent variable of interest, whether people vote or not. But historically, that interest has been much more at the personal level explaining differences in why person A votes and person B doesn’t and looking at the effects that various socioeconomic factors have had, for instance, age, other demographic features, education, and the like.

But the recent concern and the focus on election laws in particular has been driven by legal changes. The central piece of the Voting Rights Act is the preclearance regime which subjected certain localities to the regime. These localities were chosen based on historical rates of racial discrimination in voting. And if you were one of these locations that had historical racial discrimination in voting, you would have to subject changes in your voting laws to the Department of Justice in DC for preclearance before they can be implemented.

That prevented a lot of the kind of state laws that we’re currently worried about from being implemented. But because the Supreme Court decided in 2013 [in Shelby County v. Holder] that the way we put localities under preclearance was invalid, it basically nullified preclearance. After preclearance went away, folks were very concerned about what would happen to various localities and the kind of laws they choose to implement, voter ID laws being only one among many other possibilities. The other ones include things like changing polling locations without a lot of prior notice or other things like removing early voting opportunities, removing opportunities to vote and register to vote on the same day, and the like.

Barker: So in your work and in your recently published paper, you focused specifically on voter ID laws. So you examine the effects of voter ID laws on voter turnout. So can you tell us a little bit about why you’ve examined voter ID laws specifically? And how people have thought about voter ID laws and why they might affect voter turnout?

Zhang: Yeah. So voter ID laws actually predate the removal of preclearance. You can think of them as kind of the OG voter suppression law. It gained notoriety way before 2013. It was very controversial in the passage of the Help America Vote Act.

But so the point is that it’s been around for a long time and there’s a very large academic literature assessing its effects. And I think it’s maybe more accurate to characterize my paper as a paper about the studies of voter ID. And basically, the studies find that these laws have had no effect on voter turnout, which is a surprising finding from everyone’s perspective.

Surprising finding from the perspectives of the researchers who did these studies in the first place. And of course, a surprising finding to those of us who may be concerned about the costs that voting laws can impose on voting. And that’s sort of what prompted the paper.

Barker: And I think in this paper you look at the, I would say, standard approaches to studying voter suppression or studying vote suppression in the social sciences. And your research takes a different approach to understanding this topic. So explain a little bit about what the standard approaches to understanding vote suppression are and how does your research differ from those?

Zhang: Yeah. At the very heart of most of the social science studies, they’re trying to estimate the number of marginal voters. That is, the number of people who would have voted but for the law. And that I characterize as counting the kind of number of votes suppressed. But I don’t think that captures the entire picture of what might be going on as a result of one of these laws.

And let me tell you about two sets of people I’m worried about. The first set of people I’m worried about are folks who still vote under the law but experience more cost to voting as a result of the law. That is, their votes are not lost as a result of the law even if the cost of voting and their burdens of voting have increased.

You might think of these as sort of especially resilient voters, voters who are willing to stand in line, who are willing to go get the underlying documentation, and the like. Obviously, calculating the number of votes lost doesn’t begin to capture the kind of costs that they’ve incurred.

There’s a second group of folks that I’m even more worried about and these are people who wouldn’t have voted even if the law had not been in place. And the reason I’m worried about these folks is that I think the law may still be playing quite an important role in preventing them from voting. That is, if these laws need to go away in order for these people to vote even if they otherwise wouldn’t have, I think it may be still playing quite an important and deleterious role in preventing people from voting in this other sort of sense that isn’t captured by the conventional marginal votes approach.

Barker: So the distinction I think that you make in your work is that there’s a difference between focusing on vote suppression and then voter suppression. So what is this concept of voter suppression and how does it differ– I mean, you’ve talked about this a little bit already. But thinking about why these other groups of people who you’re worried about, why they kind of get missed when people are only focusing on the broader vote?

Zhang: Yeah. And I think what it reflects is a kind of difference in your perspective and what you care about. I can see why if you’re a political campaign, certainly if you’re working on behalf of a candidate, what you’re interested in is what votes am I going to lose for my candidate given the imposition of the law.

I think the perspective I’m advocating for is a much more of a, let’s assess what the voting landscape looks like for voters and think about the role that these laws play for individuals, especially those who are not historically– are folks who are not have historically participated in very high rates.

They already face an immense amount of obstacles, we know this from various other parts of the literature. And for voting laws to play an additional role in preventing them from voting I think is something that’s really worth worrying about. And so I think it’s a matter of asking the question from all perspectives as opposed to only from the aggregate how has this affected our results perspective to how has this affected the consumer, ground level experience of voting perspective.

Barker: And I mean, I think it also to me seems like when we’re in the social science literature taking a very narrow view on what democracy is. It’s like the people turning out to vote, exercising their opinions, but not so much thinking about the broader experience of what it means to have barriers when you are trying to vote or to have maybe unequal access in exercising your voice in the country. So I think that that’s also a really interesting distinction that you’re getting out with your work.

Zhang: I appreciate that. You put that better than I would have put myself.

Barker: [CHUCKLES] Well, I’m glad that I could try. I’m also in political science so I am steeped in a lot of these questions. And I think something that in your paper that you discussed is that there has been of surprising, if worrying development that now you’re seeing state and federal courts. So you’re seeing justices who are also beginning to focus on just the numbers, just the vote. Sort of the vote suppression rather than voter suppression.

And as someone who’s always thinking about how can social scientists bridge the gap to the policy world, I think actually you might be seeing the perhaps negative side effects of this. And so why do you think that this focus on vote suppression has transcended from social science studies who are really interested in studying causal effects to now you’re seeing even justices engaging in citing this research, thinking about this in their opinions? So why do you think you’ve seen this focus in recent years?

Zhang: My concern with courts– I have two primary concern about courts and the way they engage with social science evidence with the general view that there’s a lot of interest from the judiciary of what’s going on in the social sciences, which I think is very beneficial. But then there are these two traps that I think that the judiciary can fall into when consuming social science evidence.

The first is there are some facile, I would say, inferences that can often be made by judges that are social science-y but not terribly rigorous. So let me give you the prime example is, judges are always interested in what happens to voter turnout after the voter suppression law in question has been put into effect.

And that is a very incorrect inference to make. There are lots of other causal reasons that may cause turnout to go up or down, the competitiveness of the race the amount of money in the election, and the like. Comparing the before and after is just a very bad idea for all sorts of reasons that you’re very well familiar with from your social science research background. And that’s something that judges are sometimes to do in their armchair social science mode. I think it’s motivated by a good instinct, which is to understand what effect the law has been having in the real world but it’s doing it by asking these questions that are not terribly rigorous.

The second thing I’m worried about with courts is that they’re not terribly good at interpreting the results of studies. And this is especially true in the context of voter ID laws. Now the literature has found no effect. But that is not a null effect that’s very well estimated. So it is still consistent with, for instance, I think in the best study that I cite in the paper, it’s still consistent with almost a negative 2% to 2% increase in voter turnout. And simply reading the headline findings of the paper finding null effect is not actually going to peel back that particular precision issue and lead to necessarily the right inferences by courts.

And so I think those issues specifically are the ones that I’d really worry about as we begin to see more thirst for social science evidence from the courts, is to make sure that they’re interpreting that evidence in the right way and relying on it for the right things.

Barker: I mean and I think another– or a consequence of this, and this is the title of your paper, which I really like, which is “Questioning The Questions.” I think it seems– or I mean, maybe this is not a correct interpretation. But it seems that maybe justices are also not asking these bigger questions that you have brought up already and that you’re concerned with in your work, which is instead of being like, well, are these laws affecting turnout, thinking about why are these laws happening.

What are they actually– what is the purpose behind these laws and actually interrogating that, which I would imagine we’d hope that the judiciary is interested in those questions as well. So I don’t know if you’ve seen in your work the maybe neglect or maybe not as careful study of these questions.

Zhang: No, you’re absolutely right. So conventionally, the legal analysis in assessing voter restrictions is a balancing test. It asks what burdens does this law impose on voters and what is the reason for the state in imposing this particular restriction. Because we do lots of things in election administration that impose lots of costs on voters that we accept because it’s for a good reason.

Voter registration is the biggest one. We require voters to register to vote in advance of voting because it ensures that only eligible folks are participating. It allows for the state to ensure that they’re not disenfranchised if the state has a disenfranchisement law and the like.

What’s interesting is that there’s been such a strong interrogation of the social science evidence on the part of the balancing test asking whether there are burdens on voters and much, much less on questioning the state’s rationale. And with voter ID laws in particular, I think that it’s a real shame because in-person voter fraud, which is the type of voter fraud that voter ID laws prevent, that is showing up to a polling location and claiming to be someone else, that’s the type of fraud it’s meant to address and the incidence of that is just exceedingly rare. So you might ask why the court doesn’t spend more time in interrogating the empirical evidence behind that. And I think that would be a very fair question. [CHUCKLES]

Barker: So so far we’ve sort of talked a little bit about or I would say talked a lot maybe about how studies and how courts tend to focus on how various policies, as you said just now, affect registered voters and not these states’ rationale or even thinking about these populations that you mentioned being really worried about or the non-voting eligible citizens. So people who could vote but don’t or people who do vote but really have to spend numerous hours making sure that they can exercise that right in terms of getting to the polling location, making sure they have all the documentation. All of these different barriers that they have to overcome.

And I know in some of your forthcoming work that you’ve been working on now, you focus specifically on voting turnout and voter turnout among system-impacted individuals. So people who have been impacted by the incarceration system in some way. So I’d like to talk a little bit about who these individuals are and why voting rates are still so low for them despite we’ve seen a spate of laws–

Even in California we’re seeing a law talked about right now that are restoring voting rights. So even of people who are currently in prison, I think that’s what’s happening in California. But in other states you’ve seen people who have felony convictions have their voting rights restored but even still, they’re voting– as you’ve documented, their voting rates are still pretty low. So why are there still– I think this connects a little bit as well with these barriers that people face that we might not see from a lot of the social science research that we have now.

Zhang: Yeah. No, felon disenfranchisement laws have been around a very, very long time. And it’s one of the remaining vestiges of Jim Crow Laws in the South. And they’ve been tremendously durable. And I’m thinking back to my days working with voting rights attorneys. If you chatted with them and asked them if there was one thing you could do to change the voting landscape in the country what would it be, and it would be– I think the answer– sorry. And the answer would be let’s get rid of the felon disenfranchisement laws because they disenfranchise large numbers of individuals just based on their bare application.

There has been tremendous amount of reform in this area, as you had– that you had suggested, especially in some of the toughest states. So Virginia, Florida, and a couple of others used to have lifetime disenfranchisement. You commit a crime and you lose your right to vote forever. And for a long time, it was thought that there was nothing much that anyone could do about it until we got a real landslide of reforms coming from all different sources in Virginia.

The governor used his pardon power to pardon everyone with a particular history. In Florida, a ballot initiative was passed and the like, while you also got other reforms in other states making more individuals with convictions eligible to vote. In California, there was the proposition which passed giving the right to vote to folks on parole.

So there’s a whole spate of laws that are changing. And the legal landscape is rapidly shifting. And yet, even in states that have relatively liberal and liberal here I mean purely descriptively, liberal felon disenfranchisement laws, we know that participation rates are really low. And so the question is, will these reforms actually have any impact if folks don’t know about it, if it wouldn’t have any– if it wouldn’t have made a difference.

That is, if in California you had the right to vote following a criminal conviction but you didn’t vote anyway, why would we expect the change, for instance, in Florida to have any effect there, right? And so understanding more the experiences that system-impacted folks have with the election system seems vitally important in understanding the effect that these legal changes are going to have.

Barker: Yeah. It seems like very critical work to be doing. So in your research and I know you’ve done some focus groups and interviews, what have you found that some of these system-impacted individuals, how have they described their experience? If they have voted or if they haven’t?

Zhang: Yeah, the big thing that I’m walking away with from what we’ve done, and this is a joint project with Dr. Naomi Sugie at UC Irvine, and a fantastic set of graduate students at UCI, and one at Stanford, the thing that I’ve taken away from the project is we think of election law typically in a federalism way. We always talk about election law federalism because election administration and laws are determined at the state level.

And when we think about felon disenfranchisement laws, we always think about the varieties. You’ve got some really strict states like the Floridas, and the Iowas, and the Virginias. And then you’ve got the more liberal states where even voting from prison, for instance or voting from jail is a part of the reform movement.

But my sense from the interview and the focus group data suggest to me that there is much less federalism going on in the lived experiences of folks than the laws would suggest. That there is actually a felon disenfranchisement law and the contours of that law are unspecified, very unclear, blurry to most folks at the retail level.

And so what you get are instances where people in California will point to the example of Crystal Mason in Texas who was prosecuted for having voted with a conviction. She was ineligible to vote under Texas’s felon disenfranchisement statute. And that would have no implication for a Californian. But a Californian hears that and thinks, well, if she can’t vote then I can’t.

And that’s been a big realization of mine having thought of this stuff in relatively formalistic terms and what is the law in Texas and what is the law in California. And thinking much more there’s some amorphous force that people refer to and have some experience with. And that’s what they go by. Not by what the letter of the particular statute in the state is.

Barker: Yeah, I mean, I found that story that you told so impactful because like you said, I mean it seems that the way that a lot of researchers approach this is just focusing on the states and what’s happening. And [CHUCKLES] in social science, we’re always thinking about the unit of analysis. And we have our unit of analysis and we’re not really thinking about what’s going on outside of that.

And so in this experience, what has been the role of media coverage, right? Because I even I remember this story about the woman in Texas. And I think like hearing about– so you can hear about it in the news. And then why that isn’t counteracted by actual information saying, no, this isn’t actually what’s going on in the state in which you live? So why is there this sort of, I don’t know, gap? Or why is media filling in a lot of the space where you don’t see actual information that could help people?

Zhang: Yeah, that’s a great point. And I think it goes to there’s a huge information vacuum for this particular population. For some folks who’ve never voted before and for folks who are a part of the criminal legal system from a young age, there was no time between when they became eligible to vote and at the point of re-entry.

So a lack of a prior history with voting and any base level of knowledge, plus the lack of official sources to obtain this information. So this isn’t a part of what you’re told by anyone, typically in the process of re-entry. And even if you are told that, that information is coming to you at the time when you need it the very least. You are worried about making ends meet at that time.

The other piece of it I think is extreme risk aversion in this population even about doing the wrong thing. Voting illegally with a criminal record is a fear that is very palpable for folks who have spent time in the criminal legal system. And I think all of these forces combine to create an inclination to disbelieve that you’re eligible to vote when you actually are eligible to vote.

Barker: A bright spot that you discuss in the paper is that these individuals can, in fact, be brought successfully into the electorate. So can you speak a bit about what has helped these individuals access their right to vote?

Zhang: So the literature is very clear on this. If you tell people they are eligible to vote, some of them will vote. And it suggests that the problem people face is really one of misinformation. But that if you correct that misinformation, there are real gains to be had.

What we don’t know beyond that is who is the best messenger for the information. We are still working on best ways to convey that information in terms of timing, the quality of message, and the like. But there’s clearly a lot we can do on that front.

The other frontier, I think in this area of work is what motivates people. Whether there’s anything in particular about being system impacted that may be particularly motivational for folks to participate. And that’s a very active area of work that our team and I’m sure others are working on.

Barker: And I think one of the groups or one of the types of groups that you’ve cited or that you worked with in this research are these community organizations. So what role can they play in helping overcome this very vast information gap that people are facing?

Zhang: I mean, at the very baseline level, something you mentioned already or referenced earlier is we know a ton about people who are registered to vote and regularly vote. And the reason is they are in a database provided by the state that in many states you can obtain through public information requests and that campaigns regularly do. That’s why you and I get text messages, emails, mailers, and the like because we’re known to participate.

And we’re typically the population that campaigns and other political actors are trying to move. We know much, much less about the population of folks who don’t and have not historically participated at higher rates. And there is a way in which the high quality of information available for registered voters has further prevented work to be done about folks who have not historically participated just because it is infinitely harder to know about their situation.

And there are many, many reasons to work with community organizations. But at the baseline level, we’re actually getting to hear from people you wouldn’t otherwise get to hear from. And that’s I think enormously important because it allows research to shed light on something that we don’t know that much about already.

Of course, there are other lots of incredible things the organization has done. We’re partnering with the Alliance for Safety and Justice. And they’re a tremendous community organization that provides all sorts of wraparound services for folks in re-entry and just come with a tremendous amount of expertise about the particular barriers folks face and the like. And yeah, we’ve just learned a tremendous amount from working with them.

Barker: Hearing you in that response, it’s really made me think a little bit about like, I’m currently a grad student. I totally know all of the trade-offs and finding you’re encouraged to do very innovative research but then you have limited time. You’ve got to have the data. And I wonder if in this sort of experience, like you said, you have this high quality data on people who do vote.

And I can see why people would want to. They’re like, well, it’s there. We can really– we can really mobilize this. And I can see also the start up costs of getting to these other populations like you have with reaching out to the community organizations that I can see why– I can understand at least. I mean, it’s not a great thing. But I can understand why there has been this tremendous focus on the information that we– high quality information that we do have.

But what are some of the– what are some of the ways that the information, I mean, besides finding out that the way people are thinking about disenfranchisement is very much like, I heard that this is happening to people who I relate to, even if they’re outside of the state? What are other benefits or really surprises that you’ve had from doing this research where you’ve been trying to bring or trying to establish or find information about people who aren’t otherwise normally– their stories don’t really make it into a lot of the research that we have?

Barker: Well, the first thing I’m always surprised by is the number of people who we talk to who learned something about the state’s felon disenfranchisement regime. There is almost always someone who says, oh, I didn’t know that, which reaffirms the kind of misinformation landscape that people are typically in.

The other thing that I’ve spent some time thinking about more recently is what is the mental transition people make as they go from a non-voter to a voter. What is the mental process that someone goes through.

And it’s interesting hearing the way people talk about this. So something that’s occurred to me in going through the data is people seem– in order to become a voter, people seem to see themselves as a constituent. They say something about how– it’s hard to– sorry, this is such early work.

But I was very struck by one person who said, I never voted before. I didn’t participate. But there are maggots coming out of the shower head in the prison. Someone has to be responsible for this. Who is that person and what role can I play in holding this person to account for this thing that’s happening to me.

And I think there is something that happens to people that causes that transformation at some point and that’s what motivates them to vote. And for me as someone who studies voting, trying to put my finger on that transformation has been a really interesting, fun part of the project. And as you can tell, I don’t have the way of describing it yet. But I do think there is something that occurs that puts it on people to see the role that they as an individual can play. And that’s what matters.

Barker: Yeah, that’s super interesting. And I’m excited to see what you come up with. And I’m hearing our discussion today, it seems like a challenge in the field that you’re in is bridging the gap between focusing on the voter turnout. And there’s these campaigns that are really interested in this. There’s social scientists. There’s judges, as we’ve said, that are interested in this.

But also thinking about this question that you’ve just so eloquently discussed, which is how to bring new voters into the electorate. How to actually figure out why people make this transition. Why do they see themselves as having the ability to hold someone to account. So how do scholars, practitioners, or how can they bridge the gap between these two problems that seem to be talking past each other?

Zhang: Yeah, that’s such a good question and a question that so many people face beyond the world that we’re in with poli sci, and law, and policy. I’m still very much– for all of the fancy ways of learning we now have in the world, ChatGPT being only one of many changes, I still think talking to people is one of the best ways of learning about things that you don’t know as much about than someone else does and kind of facilitating that dialogue.

But I don’t mean to put this as an individual responsibility issue. I think that there are structural ways that academic and other institutions can implement to facilitate that dialogue. It shouldn’t be on individuals to seek out others. There should be institutional and structural incentives for that kind of dialogue to occur.

But I will say, that is also not without its challenges. People come to these conversations with their backgrounds, their trainings, with their particular way of seeing the world. If you’re a social scientist, you’re coming in– you’re looking for causal effects. That’s what you’re trained to do. I mean, we’re all trained to do our thing. If you’re a lawyer, you’re trained to bring a lawsuit. And it can be hard to get people to break out of their mold, whatever that might be.

And I think the trickier question is not just in setting up structures for interactions, but finding ways to make those interactions really meaningful and fruitful for people. I think it’s an ongoing struggle, ongoing problem to solve.

Barker: In your experience working with these community organizations, I know this is still early [CHUCKLES] but are there communities, I don’t know if that means counties, cities, states, where you’re seeing maybe this sort of dialogue happening in more successfully than in other places? Where you’re seeing maybe election administrators, lawyers really take a broader view of– and academics, I’ve got to put us in there. [CHUCKLES]

Where they’re really trying to, as you said, seek out these opportunities or seek out broader perspectives that might be missing? Are there places where you turn and say like, OK, here, you’re really seeing people who may not have ever voted before entering the electorate? Or is this something that’s still maybe not– maybe there’s still a lot of room for improvement? [CHUCKLES]

Zhang: I think much of that work has been on the convenience of voting side. For all of the gloom and doom about how hard it is to vote in certain parts of the country, that’s been paired with a phenomenon where it’s never been easier to vote in other places. And that work is maybe not as driven by work to bring people into the electorate.

Part of it is that it’s really, really hard and apart from election day registration and some other measures, we just don’t really know what’s good at doing that. But for making voting easier for folks who are already in the habit of participating, there has been a huge amount of reform on that, whether it’s vote by mail or other regimes.

So there is a ton that’s happening on the reform side as well that is evidence based. Although I think typically, social scientists don’t get involved until something gets implemented and then they’re in the position of evaluating it. I will give you another example, ranked choice voting has been very prominent in recent years. And there’s going to be a large cohort of social scientists interested in the effects that these regimes will have.

Zhang: And I mean here, just with the COVID-19 experience or with voting by mail, I think there’s maybe the realm of opportunity that we couldn’t imagine maybe 5-10 ago has been opened in some places. So that’s really interesting. I think underlying a lot of our discussion today, I wanted to think a little bit more about maybe the broader impacts of these restrictive voting laws or in the case that we’ve just talked about, these more reform-minded provisions that you’ve seen.

So we know, for example, that a lot of these– including voter ID laws, that they may introduce additional burdens, right? So there’s this research thinking about– or at least your research is thinking about this. And we know also that felony disenfranchisement, as your research also shows, can have long lasting effects on access, right?

But I wonder if there– or how you think about the other ways that these restrictive voting laws can impact elections? So one of the things I’m really interested in is confidence. So confidence in election results and confidence in institutions. And how do you think or how have you seen or maybe speculate, I don’t know. How these voter ID laws or how these more reform-minded provisions like implement new opportunities for people with felonies to vote, how do you think that this is shaping people’s perception of how confident should I feel in these results?

Zhang: No, that’s an extremely important question and we know very, very little about it. There is the very important question of if some folks are less confident in the results of the election because we don’t have voter ID laws, who are these people and how does that interact with the countervailing potential that confidence is increased among other populations.

For voter ID laws, voter confidence was very much the reason that the court credited for implementing these laws, apart from the in-person voter fraud concern, which we had already talked about as being not a particularly strong reason for implementing these laws.

But the court relied on its empirical assumption that these laws boost voter confidence. And there is some evidence on this question but not much [see here, here, and here]. And the evidence suggests that there isn’t. That is, people who are more confident– or sorry people who disagree with voter ID laws, I think, are no less confident or more confident. Actually, I can’t remember exactly what it found. But there is very little evidence on this question. And that’s research that is extremely important.

And there are concerns. For instance, vote by mail is the other big one. Whether vote by mail reduces confidence in the legitimacy of the result and that’s obviously a huge concern. And we just don’t know that much about it. And the question is, even if there are people whose confidence are reduced, what is the extent and the like.

Barker: So I think in hearing your response there, another layer to this is that even in– at least in what you’ve found in your research on felony disenfranchisement and franchisement that people are not just hearing about what’s going on in their states, right? Or people are not just hearing about what’s happening maybe even in their county. They’re hearing about the whole landscape. And so I think that’s another kind of complication.

Even in my experiences, people who are living in California, they’re thinking about because the vote– because there are these voter ID laws in, say, Georgia, how is that– I think that there’s even– in this sort of research, thinking about how people are even hearing about this information. And I think you’re getting at that. But I think it’s just another component and I don’t know if in your research on voter ID laws if this has also been something that you’ve seen, or heard, or are thinking about.

Zhang: No, it’s a nice connection though. I think that does lead me to think– in the voter ID literature, everyone is moving towards looking within states, North Carolina, Wisconsin, and the like, and looking at, for instance, leveraging the difference between people who don’t have ID and detecting various effects.

And that leads me to think– what I’m learning about the felon disenfranchisement world leads me to think that the state discrete way of thinking about these laws may not apply in the voter ID context as well. That is, do we expect people without ID, who currently don’t have it, to really be asking detailed questions about the particular voter ID regime in their state or do we expect them just to have the view that, oh, people like us aren’t allowed to vote.

That obviously hasn’t been empirically tested yet but that is certainly a suspicion that I now have knowing what I know about the way individuals with convictions approach felon disenfranchisement laws. Although, of course, there are lots of reasons to believe that wouldn’t be the case. So that’s why I think the testing would really tell us a lot.

Barker: Well, hopefully [CHUCKLES] you can help contribute to this. So we’re approaching the end of our time here. But I wanted to turn a little bit to your experience as a scholar. So this podcast is With The Matrix, which is an organization that’s intended to support this crossdisciplinary research across the social sciences.

And your research is very much doing this because you have a background as a political scientist, you’re also a practicing lawyer. You draw on both of these traditions. And you also examine where they’re speaking together and where they’re also speaking past each other.

So I wonder if you could talk a little bit in your own experience of the challenges and the benefits of doing this kind of work that’s really kind of bridging, different disciplines, different traditions, different methods, different understanding of what causes– just so many different sort of approaches that we have that I can imagine probably differ from me and your background as a lawyer.

Zhang: Yeah. So my view on this, as with almost my view on everything, is that there are costs and benefits on both sides. I think the benefits are a little easier to highlight in an interview like this because we talk about our topic, my topic, and you can see how it all fits in.

I can be a little more explicit in thinking about the costs actually. And there is no free lunch. I don’t have any more hours in my day than you do. And so investing in two different sets of skills means a couple of possible– well, a few possible outcomes. You can invest mostly in doing one well and the other poorly. Or you can do both poorly.

[LAUGHTER]

So I think for that cost to make sense, one has to be working on something where it makes sense to take on those costs because the benefits ultimately outweigh it. And in many ways, I was very lucky. I happened upon election law despite having very little background in it. But it fit in both my professional, and personal, and temperamental ways that it worked out.

But I don’t want to downplay the amount of time it takes to hone one’s skills in any particular area. And having to do that in two fields entails certain sacrifices. On the other hand, of course, it comes with immense benefits.

And the final thing I’ll say about what I like about having done both these things is I really do feel like I have a sense of how the world works in a way that I think I would not have gotten if I’d only honed my skills in one area. That is, I feel like I both have a theoretically driven and a factually accurate view of how things happen that I found just personally and professionally somewhat satisfying. [CHUCKLES] And that I think is– yeah.

Barker: Well, I mean I think from our discussion, I think there are ways that you have been able to look at both the legal research and the social science research and say actually, are we missing something really important. And I think for this case of being able to vote in our democracy, I mean that’s such a critical question. So I’m glad that you’re doing that.

Zhang: Thanks so much. I really appreciate it.

Barker: So thank you for joining us today, and for your time, and for this very wide-ranging discussion on voter turnout, but also on just voting rights in general, and how we can think about our democracy, and who should be– or who can participate. And who isn’t participating and who should be able to participate.

So we are so lucky here, I mean, at the Matrix to have had this discussion, but also I think UC Berkeley is very lucky to have you thinking about these questions that are, as I said, so important to our democracy. So thanks again.

Zhang: Thanks so much, Jennie. Thanks so much for doing this.

[UPBEAT MUSIC]

Woman’s Voice: Thank you for listening. To learn more about Social Science Matrix, please visit matrix.berkeley.edu.

Article

Private Firms and WTO Dispute Escalation: An Interview with Ryan Brutger

Ryan Brutger

On this episode of the Matrix Podcast, Daniel Lobo, a PhD student in the UC Berkeley Department of Sociology and a 2022-2023 Matrix Communications Scholar, interviewed Ryan Brutger, Associate Professor of Political Science at UC Berkeley.

Professor Brutger obtained his PhD in politics at Princeton University and was previously an assistant professor at the University of Pennsylvania. He is broadly interested in international relations and foreign policy. His research spans international political economy, international law, international security and political psychology, examining the domestic politics of international negotiations and cooperation.

Lobo spoke with Professor Brutger about his new article, Litigation for Sale: Private Firms and WTO Dispute Escalation, which presents a theory of lobbying by firms for trade liberalization, not through political contributions, but instead through contributions to the litigation process at the World Trade Organization. “In this ‘litigation for sale’ model, firms signal information about the strength and value of potential cases, and the government selects cases based on firms’ signals,” Brutger wrote in the paper’s abstract. “Firms play a key role in monitoring and seeking enforcement of international trade law, which increases a state’s ability to pursue the removal of trade barriers and helps explain the high success rate for WTO complainants. The theory’s implications are consistent with interviews with trade experts and are tested against competing theories of direct political lobbying through an analysis of WTO dispute initiation.”

A transcript of the interview is included below.

 

Podcast Transcript

Woman’s Voice: The Matrix Podcast is a production of Social Science Matrix, an interdisciplinary research center at the University of California Berkeley.

Daniel Lobo: Hello and welcome to the Matrix Podcast. I’m Daniel Lobo, your host coming to you from the Ethnic Studies Changemaker studio, our recording partner on UC Berkeley’s campus. Our guest today is Professor Ryan Brutger, Associate Professor of Political Science at the University of California, Berkeley.

Ryan obtained his PhD in politics at Princeton University and was previously an assistant professor at the University of Pennsylvania. He is broadly interested in international relations and foreign policy, his research spans international political economy, international law, international security, and political psychology, examining the domestic politics of international negotiations and cooperation. Thanks for being here, Ryan.

Ryan Brutger: Thanks so much for having me.

Daniel Lobo: So we’re here to discuss your recent publication entitled, “Litigation for Sale, Private Firms and WTO Dispute Escalation.” Before we dig into this piece, I’d like to situate your work for our listeners. As a scholar of international relations and foreign policy, your research examines how domestic politics shapes and is shaped by international negotiations and cooperation. What do you see as the most exciting developments in this field? What contributions do you see your work making?

Ryan Brutger: I think there’s a lot of exciting work being done in these areas. So I’ll just focus on two that I’m particularly interested in. One of those is thinking about how the public’s, the mass public in different countries think about or choose not to think about international relations and foreign policy. And so some of my work contributes to this realm but there’s lots of other great work being done. And I think this is really important at this point in time because we’ve seen that more and more people are questioning the value of globalization of trade, immigration et cetera.

And so I think understanding how individuals react to news about international relations, about trading for example, about immigration is very important. And so some of my work in this area has really focused on how do we build domestic coalitions of support for international cooperation. And I’ve looked at this in security bargaining, in international political economy, so thinking about how do we get support for trade agreements.

I’m also extending some of this to look at support for international climate cooperation, I think one of the most pressing issues facing the world today. And so I think this is an area where lots of people are doing great work and I’m hopeful that my work is one small part contributing to a better understanding in this realm. And then the second area that I think really has made leaps and bounds forward in recent decades is work being done in international political economy that focuses on the role of private firms in shaping foreign policies.

And in particular I think there’s great work being done by the likes of Professor In Song Kim, Professor Ian Osgood, and others that are really looking at how different types of firms can play critical roles in helping shape a wide range of policies, especially when it comes to trade.

And this is an area that the paper that we’ll discuss today I think contributes to. Because I look at the role of private firms in both monitoring and seeking enforcement of international trade law and looking at how there’s variation across these firms because not all firms are going to benefit the same, some might be challenged by increased globalization while others benefit. And so diving into that I think has been really important for understanding the consequences of globalization but also some of the causes of the foreign policies that help facilitate globalization.

Daniel Lobo: Fascinating. Now I love the focus on the firms as an actor in this story. And so I’m excited to dig into this theory that you’ve constructed in this paper. So in your forthcoming article on the dispute litigation process at the World Trade Organization, the WTO, you advance a theory of how private firms lobby for trade liberalization through contributions to the litigation process. So you’ve touched on this a little bit but if you could expand on why the focus on firms in this story.

Ryan Brutger: So I think focusing on the firms is both really important but also just very sensible and logical because if we think about who’s engaging in trade by and large that’s firms and these are typically private firms, of course, there are some exceptions in different countries where there might be state owned enterprises and such. But in general, private firms are the actors who benefit from engaging in trade, they’re the ones who if they face a trade barrier, it’s their profits that are going to be harmed, it might be their workers who suffer.

And so thinking about the perspective of these firms is critical when assessing how they engage and are affected by international law. In addition to that, when we think about international trade law, I argue that firms are uniquely situated to play an important role in monitoring international trade law and seeking enforcement of those laws. And in part, this is because there’s what I call an information asymmetry between the firms and their governments.

And so as I already mentioned, firms are the actors who are most directly affected when they face a trade barrier. So they’re likely to be the first to know when a new trade barrier has arised that is affecting their flow of goods or potentially limiting their trade in services. And this means they’re going to essentially be able to help the government identify these trade barriers because there’s so many policies that are being put in place around the world that might affect trade that governments don’t have the capacity to monitor all of these different changes.

And so they rely on firms to bring them this information and to help them learn about trade barriers. And so that’s part of the reason why I think it’s really important to focus on firms, both because they’re the actors most directly affected but then they also have this informational advantage and can really play an important role in sounding the alarm especially when they’re facing significant trade barriers.

Daniel Lobo: Absolutely. Now after reading this paper, I definitely agree that firms are uniquely positioned in this story of trade dispute litigation. And so digging into this a little bit more specifically, you argue that the private firms monitor WTO compliance and motivate states to seek enforcement of treaty obligations by contributing resources to support the litigation. And as you said, by signaling information regarding the legal strength and the value of potential cases.

And as you note in your paper, this results in a few effects one of which being a greater probability of the complainant country winning the case. What do you see as the main implications of these findings?

Ryan Brutger: So I think these findings have a number of different implications. And I can break these down into maybe four implications that are important to focus on. So number one, if we think about the role of firms in being able to identify and then help governments pursue specific disputes, this means that the firms actually get to shape what types of trade barriers are challenged at the WTO and where we’re most likely to see enforcement.

So in the paper, I then develop both through formalization but also just thinking about collective action problems in general, a theory where we can think about which types of firms are most likely to pursue disputes at the WTO. And I argue that they’ll do so, firms want to challenge barriers that cause a high level of harm to them, that’s very straightforward. But the firms also face a collective action problem.

And so I model this and show that firms that are larger are much more likely to be able to overcome that collective action problem and they’re most likely to not face collective action problems when trade barriers specifically affect a very narrow product line or a narrow maybe even just a single firm or a small set of firms. And so this means you’re most likely to have firms pressuring the government to bring cases on product specific disputes as opposed to trade barriers that affect lots and lots of different products.

And this has a really big effect if you think about it because if the government was able to bring cases that affect lots of different products that might provide a larger public good and it might help increase trade or reduce costs to goods and services for the entire population. But if we think about firms being able to coordinate their activities or overcome collective action problems when they face these narrow product specific barriers, it means we’re much more likely to have disputes that only affect a very small number of products or a single firm.

And so it almost becomes like you’re moving towards private benefits in these disputes. And so that has a big implication for whose voices are represented at the WTO and the types of trade barriers that are challenged. Now we can think about this on another dimension though and that’s which countries are likely to have cases brought? Because part of what the theory also outlines is that governments face what I call a bureaucratic constraint, you can think of this as a budget constraint.

They only have so much money and so especially when we come to the agencies responsible for trade, they tend to focus on negotiating new trade agreements as opposed to enforcing the old ones. And so lots of times they may not be able to allocate resources to fight for their rights being protected by enforcing trade barriers. But firms can step in and contribute their own resources to do so, and this can play an important role in that more disputes can be brought because it brings more resources to the table.

This case, when we think about disputes that’s disputes to open up trade to get back to the agreements that were reached say in the Uruguay Round or other portions of the GATT and WTO negotiations. Importantly, this is likely to have the largest effect where that bureaucratic constraint or the budget constraint is binding and so you can think about countries that don’t have as many resources. So think of lower income countries, they might not from the government side of it have the resources to effectively bring a case to the WTO.

But if a firm, particularly a large firm in their country is affected, that firm could choose to contribute its own resources potentially even hiring private attorneys who have specialized knowledge and thus allow them to have their dispute brought to the WTO. Now importantly, only governments get to bring the dispute to the WTO, but this means you can increase the representation of low income countries and that again, has an effect on whose voices are represented at the WTO.

Now you did mention earlier that the probability of winning a dispute also goes up. And that’s because if we look at this through the formal theory in the paper, it actually shows that there’s essentially a screening mechanism that takes place where firms are only going to contribute to these disputes if they believe there’s a high probability of being won and that’s conditional on some other factors. But essentially it means that only the strongest legal claims are likely to be brought to the WTO.

And so that’s why you end up having this very high percentage of complainants winning their disputes at the WTO, which we can think about that as being potentially relatively efficient. By contrast, we have another type of international law which often comes forward in investment disputes. So we have investor state dispute settlement where investors can directly sue other states.

But without this screening mechanism in play there it turns out lots of cases that are essentially frivolous get brought. And so the complainants lose a lot but that takes up a lot of resources, it takes up government time, and so we don’t see that taking place as much at the WTO.

Finally, what I would say is that there’s also a way in which private firms by hiring specialized attorneys can really help increase the quality of the argumentation and I conducted a number of interviews with elites from around the world and from the WTO secretariat. And they emphasized that especially for countries that don’t participate in WTO disputes that often, this makes a huge difference in improving the quality of their argumentation and the probability that they’re going to win as well.

And so substantively, the role of firms can really help countries advocate for themselves and I think that effect plays out the most in the low income countries that typically don’t bring very many disputes to the WTO.

Daniel Lobo: Fascinating. And a clear justification for the focus on firms, I do want to pick up on this last point you made because this is a unique feature of the paper that you conducted these in-depth interviews with trade experts from around the world to understand dispute escalation patterns at the WTO. I’m curious what was this process like for you? Can you discuss the value of inductive research approaches and political science and in the social sciences more broadly?

Ryan Brutger: Oh, that’s a good question or set of questions. Doing these interviews is probably the most fun part of this entire project. I love getting to talk to the people who have worked on these cases from a wide range of perspectives. In total I ended up interviewing 38 individuals who had engaged in WTO disputes in a wide range of capacities.

Some were in-house counsel for private firms that were trying to make sure that their interests were represented, others were officials working in trade bureaucracies from around the world. I also interviewed private attorneys who worked at major law firms, and as I said before, also the folks at the WTO. And so this really provided a wide range of perspectives that one was just fascinating to learn about and the specific cases that come up.

And secondly, realizing that even in very different environments, we saw some of the same patterns over and over. So you asked about the value of inductive reasoning in political science and the social sciences and I think it has a very important place. So I was lucky enough shortly after I graduated college to end up working in Washington, DC and working in the realm that allowed me to be privy to lots of these disputes and participating in international disputes working on the legal side of them.

And so I essentially got to observe a number of different cases playing out and seeing these patterns and that’s actually what inspired the project in the big picture. So I was able to combine what I learned from these specific cases and then engage in the formalizing of a much broader theory and that led to new implications coming out of the model specifically thinking about the collective action problems and things.

And so I was able to triangulate I think from the bottom up using the inductive approach but then also deductively using the bigger theory to think of additional implications that could be tested and examined both through qualitative interviews and in the quantitative work in the paper. And I think what this really did is also gave me a much better sense of the importance of firms in different situations.

So there are occasionally disputes that go to the WTO where firms don’t play a massive role in lobbying. They’re relatively rare, some of these came up in the early intellectual property rights cases that the United States was bringing in part because they wanted to establish a precedent at the WTO.

But by and large firms do play a really important role and one example of that I learned about when I was interviewing an official who was familiar with a case that arose between Mexico and Costa Rica was that Costa Rica had put in place new regulations on pesticides that could be used on avocados and not just pesticides but the health and safety standards. Mexico was arguing that these were being applied in a discriminatory manner.

But at first it was actually just a consortium of avocado producers who had this complaint and this concern and they brought this concern to their government. And the government initially said this isn’t a case, every country has different health and safety standards. We have similar health and safety standards, it didn’t meet the basic initial level of confidence to even move forward with the case.

What happened then is that this collective of avocado producers actually brought in assistants, began preparing some of the arguments to the case and changed the government’s mind. So this is where the private actors played this pivotal role, they then ended up bringing that dispute to the WTO because the government did realize, hey, the firms are right. There is a case to be made here and the panel ended up ruling in their favor.

And so hearing these stories and really understanding when government officials changed their mind, so in the absence of firms if we hadn’t theorized their involvement, I would have never done these interviews and we might just have assumed that the government always knew there was a case to be had here. But in truth, if firms weren’t engaging that dispute would have likely never been brought.

And so I think engaging in these interviews really highlighted the importance of firms and that was true regardless of whether I was interviewing folks who had the firms perspective or the government’s perspective. For example, one of the international trade officials I interviewed, I can share with you just a little quote from him because this one actually caught me by surprise and he said, “There are two main reasons the government can’t manage the facts, in this case, of a dispute and the first that they just don’t have the facts.

Typically the data of what type of violation has taken place is proprietary. You need to have access to proprietary data so you rely on private businesses to bring the data forward.” Second, the costs and resources to put the facts together and process the dispute. Take the European Commission, they can’t afford to put someone on fact-finding for a case full time. They don’t have those positions and can’t assign someone to do it because there’s no place in the budget for it.

Getting quotes like that and realizing that even government officials who work on these cases know their limitations and know their reliance and where they emphasize like this quote that they need this private proprietary information, really I think helps us understand what happens at the World Trade Organization and especially at a time when the organization is in crisis, when the dispute settlement mechanism has been essentially brought to a halt due to disagreements over the appellate body appointment process.

I think it’s critical that we know how the institution actually works, whose voices are represented in the institution so that we can take those facts into consideration when thinking about also how to reform the system and potentially improve it. And so that’s why I think this type of research is so critical in not only recognizing how international law has worked, but also building the foundation so that we might think about how it can work better in the future.

Daniel Lobo: Fascinating. And I love that quote that you raised and it makes me think how else would you get access to this data on capacity constraints or budgetary constraints without talking directly to the actors involved. So I do think it’s an excellent case in point of the value of an inductive approach.

And so I want to circle back to some of the effects that you mentioned earlier, particularly picking up on this concept of firms bringing additional resources that in ways in which the state might be constrained. Your theory of informal firm lobbying in WTO dispute litigation, challenges conventional wisdom and the literature on compliance with international trade law.

You argue that the ability of firms to help countries overcome resource constraints can level the playing field between developed and developing countries as you said on the one hand, and also enhance the influence of large multinational corporations on the other. So I’m curious, do you see this arrangement as net positive? Are there concerns of private influence in this process?

Ryan Brutger: That’s a great question. I see this process as having mixed effects that can be both concerning and also reassuring. And so I can’t give you a simple yes or no answer on whether this is net positive or not because on one hand, I think it’s critical that we do seek to monitor and enforce international law and help bring countries back into compliance when they’ve deviated.

And so having firms assist governments in that process really makes sense to the extent that firms are the actors most directly affected. And this I think also works in a way that does provide benefits. I mentioned the avocado case and even if we’re worried that it’s a large collective that might have undue influence, they also have lots and lots of workers whose jobs are protected or maintained in part because their interests are represented in these disputes.

On the other hand, when we recognize that the types of trade barriers that are more likely to be challenged with private firms wielding this influence are relatively narrow and closer to providing private goods as opposed to public goods that’s certainly concerning. And so I think there’s benefits in that more countries can have their cases heard that the cases that are heard tend to be important and strong cases.

So we’re not seeing a lot of what we might call misuse of the dispute settlement mechanism because they don’t push for cases when they’re low value or when they think that there’s not a very good chance of winning, of course, there’s going to be occasional exceptions to each of these. But then I think we could also think about what this does to international law in the long run. If large firms, particularly multinational firms are best positions to have their interests represented, we know that actually shapes the progress of international law.

Now technically at the WTO, the law is the law and the rulings don’t change that. But in practice we see interpretation playing out, we see whose voices are represented and that has an effect in the long run. And so I think it can be concerning and so we might want to having recognized that this is taking place, think about this in the reform process.

Now there are efforts already underway to address some of the discrepancies or disparities in WTO law. And so there is an advisory center that helps low income countries prepare cases but that still requires that they know that there’s a trade barrier that they want to dispute in the first place. And so if they lack that information that still creates a problem.

And so I think there’s a real tension between wanting to see international law upheld and also having large corporations wielding much more influence than other companies. That said, large corporations also employ more people but it doesn’t necessarily connect directly to thinking about the public good. These are certainly firms working for their private interest, trying to have those interests represented and indeed that might help their employees, that might help sustain jobs but those benefits are certainly being limited given the nature of the cases that are being brought.

Daniel Lobo: It’s fascinating. It’s a complex arrangement, it’s almost like the idealism of having the state be the one most in charge of this process of providing traded public goods versus the very pragmatic realistic view that firms are on the front lines of these trade disputes and have the resources to signal the strength of these cases to collect the information required to make compelling arguments. Yeah, that’s fascinating.

Ryan Brutger: And on this point, I will say, through my interviews officials noted those officials working for the government that they really do have the public interest at heart. I mean the European Commission officials emphasized this repeatedly, they want to bring cases that provide broad benefits to society. USTR here in the United States emphasizes similar concerns, but then they run up against as you say these very pragmatic concerns of what information do they need to bring cases? What resources do they have to bring cases?

And so there’s a tension between the two and that’s why I think recognizing the role of firms also helps us understand, again, where the actual disputes are playing out and whose interests are represented versus the ideal approach of what the government might want to bring if they had all the information and all the resources.

Daniel Lobo: This conversation has been fascinating. I’m sure our listeners are very interested in digging into this piece more carefully. Can you let us know where they can read this?

Ryan Brutger: So this is being published, it’s forthcoming in the American Political Science Review. They’re also welcome to visit my website for a preprint version of it as well.

Daniel Lobo: Great. And I guess my last question here for you, can you talk about how this research project fits into your broader research agenda? What else do you have coming down the pike and what are you most excited about?

Ryan Brutger: So this fits into my broader research agenda of thinking about how domestic factors interact with international law and cooperation and vice versa. There’s probably too many things on my agenda to talk about all of them, but I will say one project that I’m particularly excited about that relates to some of the points we’ve been talking about today is a project that I’m working on with Professor Amy Pond. And together we’re looking at support for antitrust policies also known as competition policies, both at the domestic level but also international cooperation on this.

And the reason I say this relates is because we are concerned about the increasing concentration of industries, the fact that fewer and fewer companies are making up a larger portion of international trade, a larger portion of the production line, et cetera. And so that has implications for how they wield that economic power, it has implications for again whose voices are represented in democracies and in government.

And so we’re looking at antitrust policy as a tool to potentially curb some of the influence that firms may have or at least ensuring that we have free and fair competition so that they can’t use their size to say bully out other competitors and things like that. And so that’s leading to a number of papers that Pond and I are working on together.

And I think it’s a very exciting line of work but one that I hope more political scientists will also take up and start thinking very seriously about the importance of antitrust and competition policy, especially as large companies, you can think of many of our tech companies not only control in many cases, the flow of information but also have so much private data, et cetera. So I think there’s a lot to be done in this space moving forward.

Daniel Lobo: Excellent. Another timely and important topic to be thinking about. So thank you for your work, and again, thank you for joining us today for the Matrix Podcast. Ryan, it’s been a pleasure.

Ryan Brutger: Thanks so much for inviting me, Daniel.

Woman’s Voice: Thank you for listening. To learn more about Social Science Matrix, please visit matrix.berkeley.edu.

 

Article

How Student-Athlete Activism Shaped the University: An Interview with Cameron Black

Cameron Black

In the wake of the Varsity Blues scandal and the NCAA’s changes in amateurism rules, the role of student-athletes at universities seems to be changing. This is only one new twist in a long-running question about the role of student-athletes at universities, according to Cameron Black, Assistant Professor of History at the City College of New York School of Labor and Urban Studies. Black, who completed his PhD in history at UC Berkeley in May 2023, studies the history of student-athlete protest movements in the 1960s through the lens of labor and management and the history of capital. In his research, Black has found that student-athletes were conceptualized, managed, and disciplined as labor. Through showing how student-athletes resisted the encroachment of management into their personal and professional lives, Black demonstrates how race, labor, and culture came together at universities in the 1960s. 

In this interview with Julia Sizek, Black discussed his research and its relevance to today’s university — and to our understanding of UC Berkeley’s radical past. 

Sports don’t take place in a vacuum, as your research clearly shows. How was student-athlete activism – and particularly Black student-athlete activism – linked to Black radicalism in the late 1960s?

Though sport does not take place in a vacuum, many historical and contemporary actors believe it should! Throughout the 20th century, athletic departments carved out a separate regulatory space, which I call “negative space,” that insulated them from university regulations for students, labor protections for workers, and even constitutional protections for American citizens. In this light, it makes sense why some commentators argue that sport should take place in a vacuum. In this space, coaches and athletic directors possessed extreme authority over student-athletes and held autocratic powers to enforce their policies — powers so immense that university presidents and chancellors felt they could not interfere in most department affairs — while remaining unaccountable to legal protections and social or cultural advancements.

During the late 1960s and early 1970s, Black student-athletes often protested as part of both the Civil Rights Movement and the Black Power/Radicalism Movement. Similar to Civil Rights activists, Black athletes demanded full integration and representation within academic and athletic institutions. For instance, Black athletes at Berkeley, led by Bob Smith and John McGaffie Smith, argued that Black athletes deserved academic advising equal to that given to their white counterparts. At Syracuse University, Black athletes demanded the freedom to determine their own major; Clarence McGill, a Black student-athlete at Syracuse, recalled that, in order to take classes that he wanted to take, he had to cross out classes that the coaching staff had recommended for him. Student-athletes at both Syracuse and Berkeley also protested against playing segregated schools in the early 1960s, and argued for integrating student housing at their own institutions.

However, Black student-athletes straddled the line between the Civil Rights and Black Power Movements, chronologically and ideologically. While many Civil Rights protestors pushed for integration, the Black Power Movement pushed beyond integration as a core component. To student-athletes who were influenced by the Black Power Movement, athletic departments did not simply oppress them by preventing integration and equitable treatment within their teams. Athletic departments prevented equitable outcomes because their hierarchical structures, fueled by racism, did not allow for Black people to influence policy decisions and denied their ability to express individualism as Black people. To remedy these injustices, Black student-athletes argued for hiring more Black people within and outside athletic departments, including more Black coaches, doctors, and administrators. They also protested for departments to allow unregulated cultural expression. For instance, a central pillar of protestors at Oregon State revolved around their ability to wear the hair, including facial hair, of their choice. Finally, they argued that Black student-athletes within the athletic department, and Black people in the broader university apparatus, should have more control over decisions made by the athletic department, including recruitment, hiring of staff members, and even coaches.

Black student-athletes’ financial demands also fit with national efforts to secure equitable pay for Black workers. Student-athletes at both Syracuse and Berkeley argued for more pay for jobs they worked, and for more equitable working conditions within the athletic department. At Berkeley, student-athletes clamored for scholarships, and, if the department could not provide full scholarships, they demanded more favorable jobs on campus as well as jobs for their wives, if they were married. At Syracuse, student-athletes wanted to be more aligned with students: instead of working a job at the athletic department, they wanted full scholarships like their fellow students received.

What drew you to research these protests, and which archives did you draw upon to research them?

I found many of these protests accidentally! Initially, I was working on a project that looked at how NBA athletes were disciplined and managed under the aegis of racial capitalism. While researching that topic, I stumbled across a small article that reported a protest by student-athletes at Berkeley in 1968. I found it perplexing and fascinating. In the history of Berkeley student activism, I had not heard of student-athlete protests. When I followed up on this particular vein, I discovered why: many Berkeley student protesters thought that the university should manage student-athletes more harshly than regular students. This was a regular occurrence in each of my case studies. When I looked further back, I discovered that, in the late 19th and into the 20th century, many coaches, employers, and social theorists argued that student-athletes needed to be treated not as students, but as labor. They argued that this would make student-athletes into better workers once they graduated.

I used a plethora of source material from archives at Syracuse, UC Berkeley, the University of Wyoming, and Oregon State University — including reports from the offices of the chancellors or presidents, legal briefs, oral histories from the student-athletes themselves, and newspaper articles from student newspapers— to demonstrate how athletic departments across the country, supported by their universities, viewed student-athletes as labor. Though some historians and journalists wrote about student-athlete protests at Wyoming and Syracuse, they did not really talk about how the structure of the university impacted how student-athletes were managed or disciplined. As a result, I wanted my study to deconstruct the institutions involved in these protest movements while unearthing and preserving the voices of student-athlete protest movements. Reports to the chancellors or presidents were particularly interesting because these records simultaneously demonstrated the power of athletic departments to maintain themselves as separate entities, unbeholden to university leaders, as well as universities’ desire to comply with the departments’ demands to manage student-athletes as they saw fit.

At the University of Wyoming, I focused on court records and administrative sources because, out of all my sampled universities, it was the only case where student-athletes took legal action against the university. The legal briefs submitted by the university to the Circuit Court demonstrated that the athletic department, the upper echelon of the university administration — including the president, the Board of Trustees, and even the governor of the state — all thought student-athletes did not, and perhaps more importantly, should not have the same constitutional protections that students did.

At Syracuse, I focused on oral histories from the student-athletes themselves, alongside administrative documents from the university’s archives. The highlight from the archives was a complaint from Black student-athlete protestors to the local Human Rights Commission branch in Syracuse. After numerous complaints to the coaching staff about racist abuse, a lack of jobs, and the complete absence of Black coaches (there weren’t any Black coaches on Syracuse’s staff), the athletes protested at a practice in the spring of 1970. During this protest, they filed their complaint to the Human Rights Commission arguing that the athletic department and the head coach had violated their constitutional rights and human rights. After an investigation, the commission ruled that the athletes’ complaints were valid, and that the football team, in particular head coach Ben Schwartzwalder, should be held accountable for their actions.

At Berkeley, the Office of the President engaged in a spirited debate with the athletic department about how to pay student-athletes, whether scholarships were ethical, and how much authority an athletics department should possess. And at Oregon State, the most notable archival document was a charter of incorporation filed by the athletic department in the late 1920s. This charter helped create a separate space for the athletic department, in which it managed and disciplined student-athletes through a process that was parallel to (but separate from) the university’s broader regulatory processes.

While we often consider student-athletes as labor through the sports that they play, your research underscores how athletes were laboring both on and off the field. How did universities reach into the lives of athletes beyond their time participating in sports? 

This is a bit interesting. In the early 20th century, many coaches and philosophers of sport, most prominently Walter Camp, who was the first person to note that the audience should understand the rules of the game they were watching in order to better understand the moral lessons of sport, argued that coaches needed to have extraordinary amounts of power over student-athletes’ lives off the field to properly train them. In particular, Camp, also known as the father of American football, argued that coaches should control even what student-athletes ate and when they ate, what jobs they worked, which classes they could take, and how they could spend their leisure time. His training manuals, which contained numerous tables and charts delineating how student-athletes should train, eat, and work, were instrumental to how coaching became institutionalized and professionalized at the college and professional levels.

Under the guise of properly preparing athletes for the workforce, universities borrowed tactics that employers had used to manage laborers during the 19th and early 20th centuries. The three most important continuities in my mind were how universities systematically underpaid student-athletes to fund other departments, how they prevented student-athletes from transferring to other universities or profiting off work outside of the university, and how athletic departments could claim immense amounts of authority over athletes’ personal lives because coaches were athletes’ “moral stewards.”

From the late-19th century to the mid-20th century, universities paid student-athletes for jobs provided by the athletic department to help subsidize their admission. This was standard practice, and universities systematically underpaid their student-athletes to help fund either the athletic department, or other departments in the university. For instance, Oregon State’s football and basketball teams saved both the university’s student newspaper, The Barometer, and the College of Arts and Sciences from bankruptcy during the Great Depression in part by paying the players on the basketball team a measly $290 for an entire semester. In an investigation into the athletic department’s payment practices in the 1950s, a Berkeley administrator noted that, in a comparison of Berkeley’s and UCLA’s work programs, 45 athletes at UCLA had received a sum that, when divided among them, would amount to $346.94 each as compensation for caring for UCLA’s athletic fields and other areas on campus over the nine-month school year. This work cost UCLA “the equivalent of eight men working full time,”  and was a price that, in his opinion, would destabilize athletics at the UC system because it paid athletes too much money. The administrator recommended a pay reduction to UC President Sproul, and UCLA complied, at least temporarily. Employing student-athletes at various places throughout the university saved universities a lot of money in labor costs. In conjunction, student-athletes could not work on campus outside of their work contracts, nor could they work for corporations outside of the university unless their wages were severely regulated. They were, in many ways, leased employees to the university where they signed. Thus, when student-athlete protestors argued for academic scholarships, they directly pushed against earlier forms of cash payments, which undervalued their contributions to the university and to the athletic department and categorized them as a form of hybrid labor.

Universities treated student-athletes like labor in many other ways that transcended payment. Most prominently, universities employed transfer rules, which mirrored non-compete clauses from the late-19th century, to restrict student-athletes from moving to other universities. Non-compete clauses were specific legal instruments implemented to prevent skilled workers from competing with master craftsmen who trained them, and they applied to a localized geographic area, like a county. The jurisdiction of transfer policies for student-athletes far exceeded non-compete clauses’ jurisdiction. Transfer rules applied across the United States, and in order to transfer, student-athletes required their coaches’ consent. By passing these policies, universities, conferences, and the fledgling NCAA strengthened their hold over student-athlete transfers, who were called athletic “tramps.” This appellation was an intentional reference to the word’s common meaning: in the late-19th century, a growing class of wandering male laborers became known as tramps. Tramps were considered a socio-economic threat to Victorian ideals about work ethic, and many coaches argued that student-athletes who moved away from their home universities posed a similar threat to Victorian ideals.

Universities also provided athletic directors and coaches with enormous latitude pertaining to on-field and off-field matters like housing, student-athlete wages, and disciplinary policies. Thus, by the 1960s, coaches had long established the power to interfere in the lives of student-athletes off the field. For instance, in one particularly dramatic and saddening instance at the University of Wyoming, an assistant coach ordered a Black player to break up with his girlfriend (who was white) or else he would lose his scholarship. The coach did not want any trouble from alumni or conservative groups because of an interracial relationship, and the player complied because he did not want to lose his scholarship.

How did coaches and athletic directors think about the relationship between themselves and the athletes, and how did it relate to the academic mission of the university? 

Coaches’ ideas about the relationship between themselves and the academic mission of the university remained rather consistent throughout the 20th century. Universities from the late-19th into the mid-20th century argued that sport helped reinforce values that would prove useful to the new industrial economy.

In the early-20th century, coaches argued to university presidents that they were best suited to teach athletes and the audiences that watched them how to adapt to the massive shifts that industrialization caused in the labor market. John Heisman’s statement “You play until the whistle blows” eerily mirrors a training pamphlet by the Industrial Harvester Corporation in 1913, which commanded their labor force to spend their time according to the company’s audible signals. The pamphlet depicts such compliance in the first person: “I hear the Whistle. I must hurry. I hear the five-minute whistle. It is time to go to the shop.… The Starting Whistle Blows. I eat my lunch. It is forbidden to eat until then.… I work until the whistle blows to quit.” Student-athletes, coaches argued, needed to learn how to maintain self-discipline and focus, work on a team, obey authority figures, and handle the loss of autonomy in the newly industrial workplace. These values, in the minds of coaches, athletic directors, and many administrators, were essential to a university’s academic mission because they provided forms of training that a traditional classroom could not provide. For instance, timed drills, in the mind of coaches, simulated multiple different types of workplaces; whistles simulated new forms of surveillance and evaluation of work, and the position of the coach itself would mirror that of a manager or foreman.

By the 1960s, the use of language about industrialization had faded, but its impact on the ideology of athletics hadn’t changed much. Instead of industrialization, many coaches argued that sport was a necessary bulwark against growing radicalization throughout the 1960s and 1970s, something that they felt should be an essential piece of a university’s mission. Thus, coaches argued that they should be able to prevent student-athletes from joining clubs that they wanted to join (in particular Black Student Unions, but also other clubs like fraternities were excluded as well), keep them from attending or participating in protests, or restrict the hair styles that they could wear. These actions were all framed as part of fulfilling the university’s mission to protect its students.

Part of your research involves understanding how the university changed during the mid-20th century, and how that impacted not only student-athletes, but students in general. How were the goals of the university changing during this era, and how were the students enrolled in these institutions changing? 

Universities changed rapidly from the late 1940s to the 1960s. From the mid-19th to the early-20th century, universities were less draconian than many spaces in American society, but they were still quite authoritarian. They exerted this power over students because universities adopted a motto of in loco parentis (in place of the parent). This was a traditional responsibility established in the 19th century in which universities took legal and social responsibility for students in the place of their parents, giving universities an enormous amount of power over students’ academic and political lives on campus. From the mid-19th century, universities and other schools possessed numerous ways to exert authority over students. Universities had the power to prevent different sexes from living together, control when students could enter and leave dormitories, and, in some cases, physically discipline students. These are just a few examples of how universities could insert themselves into the lives of students on campus.

The in loco parentis arrangement came under immense strain in the late 1950s, and even greater strain in the 1960s. Across the country, universities were integrating and serving Black, Latino/a, and, particularly at universities in the western United States, Asian students. As a result of the G.I Bill, universities saw a massive increase in veterans who had served in World War II; many administrators found it improper to manage these students under in loco parentis after they had fought in the war. These two integrative forces pushed universities to loosen restrictions placed upon students’ political, academic, and social lives. After the 1960s, students could express socio-political views more freely, restrictive policies like dress codes were largely removed, and undergraduates and graduate students alike were provided with more transparency regarding their grades. As a result, students began to freely express political activism, often at odds with official university positions. Though the Free Speech Movement at Berkeley was the most famous and recognizable student-protest movement, it certainly was not the only one: students upended the status quo throughout the country, and questioned the legality of in loco parentis, as well as the university’s active participation in the United States’ military industrial complex, and they engaged in broader social questions like integration and the Black Power Movement.

In this context, college sport, particularly college coaches, were seen as a conservative bulwark against rapidly encroaching liberalism. The autocratic policies that coaches espoused were actively transformed into a proxy for conservative arguments against liberalism, and athletics’ separation from broader university accountability structures needed to be maintained. Coaches were well aware of how rapidly the university was changing at the time; Ben Schwartzwalder, the head coach at Syracuse University, actively lambasted the liberal tide, and argued that sport was a last haven for students to learn hard-worn American values like obedience, sacrifice, and hard work. At Berkeley, athletic director Pete Newel argued that student radicalism intrinsically damaged the university, and that college sport was a salve for this particular form of unrest. Thus, when coaches and administrators argued that student-athletes could not be managed within this rapidly liberalizing environment, as the lessons about work ethic, citizenship, and masculinity would be swept aside, they were taken very seriously by university chancellors, presidents, and other administrators.

One of the protests that you studied was at Berkeley, where a student refused to cut his Afro hairstyle to be in accordance with his team’s policy. How and why was this seen as a political act at the time? 

This is a really interesting case! On January 19th, 1968, head basketball coach Rene Herrerias suspended Bob Presley for, in his words, lateness to practice. Herrerias argued that Presley needed to be more disciplined to continue playing for the team, notably telling the press that Presley’s suspension was “in the best interest of the player.” But two days later, Herrerias reinstated Presley, stipulating that reinstatement would be for “the best interest of the player.” Therefore, in a two-day period, Herrerias attempted to argue that suspending Presley for the season was beneficial for him, and revoking the suspension was also good for him. On closer examination, it seemed that Herrerias’ problem was with his Afro. As Newell recalled in an oral history, “Herrerias suspended Presley for two reasons: his hairstyle and his lateness to practice. He (Presley) had the Afro and wouldn’t cut it…. Rene’s point was ‘He was always testing me, he’s always doing this, and late for practice….’”

Black hairstyles rapidly became a socio-cultural and political demarcation line for Black students at universities, particularly for Black women. Historians and cultural theorists have argued that aesthetics, like hair, were vital to the construction of Black identity, and contributed to white anxiety about Black people. During the 19th and 20th centuries, cartoons, children’s stories, and advertising often depicted African Americans as beady-eyed and thick-lipped, with wild unkempt hair. White designers often portrayed the hair of the Black subjects as symbols of their supposed disillusionment with modernity, simplicity, or savagery.

By the 1960s and 1970s, the socio-cultural construction of Black hair had fundamentally shifted with the introduction of the Afro. Perhaps most critically, many Black Power philosophers argued that natural Black hair, in particular Afros, symbolized their revolutionary struggle against white oppression, global capitalism, and imperialism.  Finding inspiration in the global struggle of the African Diaspora, activists in the Black Power Movement argued that Black people across the country should eschew European aesthetics; Afros signified defiance against the system and association with the movement, while straight or short hair represented conformity with systems of oppression. Black student-athletes at Berkeley grappled with this intellectual tradition and its larger implications, to the chagrin of the coaching staff.

A case that you studied at the University of Wyoming highlights how the obligations of student-athletes to the university were seen in contradiction to their free speech rights to protest. How were their rights as student-athletes adjudicated in relation to the university? 

Their rights as citizens and students were subsumed by their status as representatives of the university. This was not a normal constitutional arrangement for students. This arrangement worked for universities because student-athletes were encapsulated in a space outside of the law that had been legitimized by legal decisions made throughout the 20th century.

These Wyoming student-athletes, nicknamed the Black 14, were part of a broader movement of college athletes in the western U.S. who decided to bring attention to injustice by protesting when their teams played Brigham Young University, which is owned and operated by the Church of Latter Day Saints (LDS). Until the late 1970s, the LDS Church prevented African Americans from becoming priests or entering into their socio-religious life; in particular, the LDS religious doctrine viewed Black Americans as spiritually inferior. These policies extended into BYU’s socio-religious life. To protest LDS and BYU’s treatment of African Americans, Black students competing for university teams across the West wore black armbands when playing BYU. Black football players at Wyoming had a particularly salient reason to protest. One of their own, Ted Williams, wanted to join the Mormon church. As a result, the 14 Black players approached Lloyd Eaton, their head coach, to ask his permission to wear Black armbands when they played against BYU that season.

Protesting for any reason violated Eaton’s rules for the football team. Though the athletes attempted to meet with Eaton to discuss how they could properly protest, Eaton did not attempt to listen to the athletes’ request; he dismissed the student-athletes unilaterally, without any type of hearing. After their dismissal, the 14 Black football players, led by Joe Williams, appealed to the university administration. They argued that Eaton violated their rights as students and U.S. citizens; in a radical step, some of the players told the university that if Eaton wasn’t fired, they’d never play for the university again. After meeting with the players, the Board of Directors ruled that Eaton was within his right to remove the players from the team. As a result, Joe Williams filed suit in Wyoming District Court, and later appealed the case with the Wyoming Court of Appeals. Their appeal fell on deaf ears, however: none of the Black 14 ever played for the University of Wyoming again.

It certainly appeared as if the athletes’ case had merits. Coach Eaton’s rule that prevented protest for any reason was constitutionally suspect; it violated student-athletes’ First Amendment right to protest prima facie. Eaton’s rule forced the student-athletes on the team to approach him individually, preventing any type of group meeting, which also violated the First Amendment’s freedom of assembly. Finally, the decision conflicted with the University of Wyoming’s disciplinary policies for students. Usually, dismissed students were granted an automatic disciplinary hearing if they were expelled, and students could not be expelled for simply suggesting a protest against a community or organization. However, both the District and Circuit Courts ruled that, as a public university, the University of Wyoming could dismiss the protesting athletes because their protest would have created a First Amendment conflict between student-athletes’ free speech rights and spectator’s freedom of religion. Therefore, the Mormon audience’s public freedom of religion superseded the student-athlete’s freedom of speech and expression in a private setting.

Yet, based on the testimony of the protesting athletes, and a close reading of case law established during the 20th century, I argue that the justices did not rule on the facts at hand. Rather, they imagined a constitutional conflict between the First Amendment rights of Mormon spectators and First Amendment rights of student-athletes, and their final decision stripped the Black athletes’ constitutional protections. I argue that  the justices imagined that the protest occurred in a public setting, in front of Mormon spectators, rather than in the private setting where it actually happened. By reimagining the location, they could create a conflict between First Amendment protections, rather than evaluate how Eaton’s actions violated student-athletes’ First Amendment protections that had been established in various previous decisions, including  Tinker v. De Moines, Pickering v. Board of Education and Cox v. Louisiana. Thus, the judges reframed Eaton’s actions not as suppressing protest, but rather as attempts to protect the spectators’ First Amendment right of religion. As a result, the justices argued that the department was justified to use extraordinary power to prevent this violation of religious freedom from occurring.

Today, the question of freedom of speech is more relevant than ever, especially considering contemporary movements by athletes and teams to support Black Lives Matter (in the case of the WNBA), or to brand playing fields and uniforms with social justice messages (in the case of the NFL). What do you think your research can help us understand about the broader history of social justice and sports? 

I think my research reinforces the fact that sports, politics, and debates over labor are not separate, and that artificially separating them can perpetuate inequities. Though we might think of sports as a form of escapism, its ability to provide an escape is a political and socio-cultural construction with some pretty important stakes. My research also looks at how different power structures, in this case universities, framed sports as apolitical to delegitimize arguments about social justice. Coaches used a variety of strategies, from immediate dismissal to delegitimizing local government rulings, to prevent student-athlete protesters’ demands from being fully realized. Often, coaches and athletic directors argued that they used their power for the student-athlete’s own good, arguments that are often used to delegitimize activism by younger people.

To return to the question of student-athletes as laborers, the NCAA dramatically changed their rules on amateurism in 2021 when they allowed student-athletes to profit from their own likeness. How do you think this fits into a broader history of student-athletes as laborers? 

I think it’s a really interesting and much-needed initial push in the broader history of student-athletes as laborers. In some ways, the new rules did fundamentally transform the socio-cultural and legal status of student-athletes at all levels. The changes, which allow student-athletes to be paid and loosened restrictions on whom student-athletes can work for, are really important changes that benefit student-athletes.

However, I think that these rule changes also are taking place in a context that mirrors industrial capitalism because both universities and athletic conferences operate with a startling lack of regulatory oversight. We can’t separate these changes from NCAA deregulation at the conference level. Universities shift conferences with growing regularity, and coaches are moving despite massive buyout clauses that aim to prevent them from doing so. Perhaps the most poignant example in recent weeks was how the PAC 12 conference nearly disintegrated in a 72-hour timeframe. The lack of regulations and broader protections can potentially allow for greater exploitation of student-athletes. Student-athletes can be recruited and offered image and likeness agreements at younger ages, which drives a sense of professionalization among athletes who have not entered college. Additionally, female athletes, who were generally excluded from the capital/labor nexus in the 20th century, are increasingly a part of these agreements, but with much lower pay and benefits than male athletes. These new rules have further transformed student-athletes into laborers, but I don’t think we have really thought about the short- and long-term ramifications; simply paying student-athletes does not end the inequities they experience.

Article

Untimely Sacrifices: An Interview with Daena Funahashi

Daena Funahashi

For most people, Finland is not the first place that comes to mind when imagining a nation dealing with an epidemic of occupational burnout. American media frequently portrays the country as a near-utopia, with strong social welfare systems and communitarian values. In the World Happiness Report published by the UN, Finland took the number one spot for the sixth year in a row.

In 2006 and 2007, Daena Funahashi, Assistant Professor in the UC Berkeley Department of Anthropology, conducted ethnographic work in Finnish rehabilitation programs for occupational burnout. Experts at the Finnish Institute of Occupational Health (FIOH) see occupational burnout as arising out of a shift in people’s orientation to work that negatively impacts stress coping mechanisms. Rehabilitation programs, sponsored by the Finnish government, allow victims of burnout to take multi-week breaks from work in order to engage in a series of recreational and psychological therapies.

Untimely Sacrifices Book CoverIn her newly published book, Untimely Sacrifices: Work and Death in Finland (Cornell University Press 2023) Funahashi brings classic anthropological scholarship on exchange and sacrifice to bear on contemporary concerns of state welfare, capitalism, and labor’s attrition. Turning to Finland in the early 2000s, when health experts identified occupational burnout as a symptom of Finland’s new economy, Untimely Sacrifices asks what moves individuals to give their time and energy to the point of pathological – and sometimes lethal – levels of stress. 

For this interview, Nataliya Nedzhvetskaya, a Matrix Communications Scholar, asked Professor Funahashi to give readers an overview of her new book. [Responses have been edited.]

How did you get started researching this topic?

Specifically, burnout became a hot topic in Finland in the late 1990s and the early 2000s, both as a new crisis of this new economy, but also as an untimely response to contemporary challenges of the workplace that needed to be diagnosed, prevented, and managed. I became interested in what escapes from this managerial perspective, in the stories – or silences – surrounding burnout and its attendant regimes of excess, sociality, and sacrifice.

The centers themselves were interesting to explore. They had a diverse variety of experts involved. Psychologists definitely played a prominent role but so did physical and occupational therapists. There was a lot of craftwork and an emphasis on making aspirations visible by creating vision boards. There were activities that promoted how to say no and lots of relaxation therapies. A day in the forest. A day of silence. Meditation exercises. Mindfulness exercises. 

Why did you choose Finland as your research site?

Nordic welfare has often been explored via a utopian lens. I wanted to explore further to see what collective regimes of labor do to our ideas about what we owe to others – and how we interact with them. Finland caught my attention because when I was looking for a place to base my project in 2006-2007, the country was in the process of making a collective effort to re-calibrate the responsibility of citizen-workers to the state. 

The economic crisis of the late 1990s really hit Finland hard, as it lost the USSR as its main trading partner. It came at a bad time because Finland had been trying to join the European Union, as well as European Economic and Monetary Union, for a long time. When the economic crisis happened, it was imperative for Finland to get out of the recession quickly. The focus then, was on being “timely,” as in knowing how to act in the here and now not just as Finns, but as “Europeans” – a title with, in the context of the EU, a distinct orientation towards competitiveness. 

As you see in the title of my book, timeliness –being timely – knowing how to be, knowing how to  spend and save your time and energy under the exigencies of the present – became imperative. That’s when “burning out” became a national issue. Burnout came to mark those individuals who were not “timely,” individuals who were not expending themselves in ways that made sense in the workplace today, in a competitive market economy. In the book, I make the point that while Finnish health experts understood burnout as an effect of advanced capitalism, I see the condition instead as a disorder that inaugurates the rules of the economic present rather than as an effect of it. Burnout is not an unintended side effect of advanced capitalism but is part of the nature of work under advanced capitalism. Workers must be timely in order to transact in the market and receive the highest return on their labor. 

When the new economy came into being, it laid out “common sense” for workers. Those who didn’t adapt to the new economy had burnout, and were “sick” workers who needed rehabilitation. This explanation, used by psychologists and economists, tries to make burnout into a coherent medical condition that can be fixed. Rather than making sense of burnout and trying to cure it, I instead use burnout as an entry point to understand the “common sense” assumptions that came with the new economy.

You use this term “martyr worker” throughout your book. Why do you use this term and how do you understand it?

Absolutely. Martyr workers, in short, are workers who fail to make their sacrifice “count” in the self-interested, economic sense. If advanced capitalism is about economic rationalism, doing something because you feel like you should or because you dare not do it, is irrational, right? It doesn’t make any economic sense. Burnout gains currency as the disorder associated with “martyr workers” in Finland, because the presumption is that those experiencing burnout are driven by ideology – the ideology of welfare and of an older work ethic that is defunct in the present. 

The provocation that I’m making in the book is that, contrary to the supposed healthiness and timeliness of expending yourself based on a reasoned calculation of what time and energy you should save or spend, the individuals who attended rehabilitation programs for burnout highlighted instead the very illegibility of sociality, how the self-evident aspects of social exchange can’t be put into words. It was not what you can enumerate and put down like, “Okay, I did this. So I should be getting this back,” this tit-for-tat mentality of exchange, that moved them. It was not that which drove them to work. They revealed to me that there was something beyond what they could name that pushed them to give. In trying to track down what moved them, they found themselves unable to claim their actions as their own. This is what I found that was so different from the discourse of “self-management” that was prevalent in these rehabilitation programs. And, this is where I believe turning to anthropological scholarship on the voluntary and involuntary nature of gift exchange could broaden our understanding of the animus behind work.

We have spoken so much about the Finnish context and things that are in some ways unique, and in some ways not unique, to Finland. What do you think generalizes to other parts of the world, or to other advanced capitalist societies?

Happiness has become part of what counts toward productivity now. Rather than disciplining bodies to work harder and longer hours, we’ve now turned to the management of affect, of happiness. Being healthy is no longer enough; you have to be happy, vibrant, enthusiastic, and empowered. These are all affective words. Under advanced capitalism, what makes us “burn,” what sets us on fire, becomes the very thing that we must bring under calculative control. The demand to be happy affects post-industrial societies everywhere. It’s not enough that you are interviewed and have all the skills. You have to be extra-vibrant, chirpy,  a go-getter. You’ve got to bring that X-factor.

That X-factor leads to conditions like burnout because you have to commit affectively. It’s an experiential commitment. It’s giving your all. How could you not go into overdrive and go into excess? And worse, it’s no longer an external being, an entity saying “You have to do this. You have to do that.” You have to self-start. So you become your worst enemy.

 You’re asked to do two different things. You’re supposed to keep yourself in equilibrium but you’re also supposed to give your all.

Exactly. And if you burn out, you’re a spendthrift. Why couldn’t you save time or spend time in a more managed way? You’re wayward in your self-management. You don’t know yourself. You’ve overcommitted.

It strikes me that a lot of the burden here has moved from society to the individual. Individuals are increasingly tasked with knowing and communicating their own limits within a stressful work environment. Turning burnout into an individual medical condition and treating it as such stops us from considering the social conditions that create it more critically.A lot of countries all over the world are really interested in burnout and are starting to medicalize it, similar to Finland. What do you think the outcome of that will be?

In one rehabilitation program I studied, there were so many different experts involved. They have the psychologist, the social worker, the nutritionist, and the activities leader, because you have to be happy. You must have fun [laughs] – you must. So happiness becomes part of the productive economic process. It’s harnessed into the very mechanisms of capital. But then it’s not happiness anymore though, is it?  

If you only think about well-being in terms of utility and productivity, you are thinking about humanity as a tool of capital. Happiness as a means to an end. If you say that happiness is a resource, you are instrumentalizing affect. That very enigmatic, human, singular condition that gives meaning to life is twisted and perverted for the sake of capital.

Together with this attention to stress and stress-related conditions like burnout, I see a rise in the clinical discourse of “self-management.” For instance, in Finland, rehabilitation for burnout was based on an “empowerment paradigm” that promoted self-awareness. Becoming self-aware was to be a pathway for clients to recognize their untimeliness and to re-conceptualize their personal and professional goals within the limits of the present. While you may not see Finland’s rehabilitative program take root in the US, for instance, we still do share a lot in terms of the growth in “happiness” and “mindfulness” industries all built on the power of the self to control itself. 

How do you think your findings will shake up preconceived notions about stress and stress management?

Remember that my point here is that my interlocutors were those who were convinced that what they felt no longer made sense – what they took as the givens of social reciprocity at work no longer took on the self-evidence they once did. That’s why my focus has been on speechlessness and what focusing on that space of absence allows. In rehabilitation programs, psychologists focus on questions like, why did you do work the way you did? Why did you volunteer to help so much? Why did you do that? And what are your limits? It is as if there is this coherent you-as-a-resource that you can map out. You have the resource of your energy and time that people could translate into some kind of spreadsheet.

What was really interesting ethnographically for me was how people fell speechless exactly at those moments, when asked, “why did you do it?” Not just “why do you do it,” but, “why do you continuously do it?” The seriality of their supposed senseless, energetic waste. That’s the aspect that psychologists would call an illness. It’s ill. It’s sick to be repetitively doing something knowing that it will hurt you, that you are going to burn out from it.

You can’t stop yourself.

Exactly. Like some kind of compulsion to the point where your fire burns out. For me, as an anthropologist, witnessing these individuals in the setting of these rehabilitation centers, I saw it not as an illness but as this space of silence opening up a new question about sociality. I saw it as some kind of negativity at play in the way we engage socially.

That’s why I focused on the question of the name. What is it to confer a diagnosis? What is it to name something as an illness in a way that gives you a handle on that issue? It gives you a technique, a method, a center. And it’s productive, at least in terms of the state and the economy. The state throws money at it, you make use of all these rehabilitation centers, you populate those centers, you give jobs to experts, and you give birth to more expertise. Now you have experts on burnout. It’s very productive!

But I’m saying that such a framing doesn’t really touch upon that space where those who burn out  fall speechless. A psychologist might say, “Hey, you should be doing this. You need to empower yourself. Do this. Do that.” As an anthropologist, I would say “No, we need to learn from these moments.”

This is a testament to what I witnessed. This book is really trying to give significance to these moments where we actually question why we do things. These seem to be simple and fundamental questions, almost silly questions. But I think those are the questions that touch upon philosophical, anthropological examinations of what drives us. Who authors our actions?

Based on what you find in the book, how might we rethink this public health orientation towards occupational burnout?

Rather than think about rehabilitation, we might rehabilitate work. If the problem is that these syndromes – stress and overwork and suicidal ideation – emerge because of shifts in economic policy or shifts in workplace demand, then maybe it is not the people who must be rehabilitated. Maybe we should learn from those who fall speechless, who fall “sick.” I learned from working with them the unreason of reason that tells us how we are to find happiness in an undoubtedly unreasonable world. 

 

 

Alumni

Gender and Political Gatekeepers: A Visual Interview with Melanie Phillips

Melanie Phillips

How do we understand the barriers that women face in becoming political candidates? Melanie L. Phillips, who completed her PhD in the Charles and Louise Travers Political Science Department at Berkeley in 2022 and is currently a Lecturer in the Political Science Department and a Research and Evaluation Associate at School-to-School International, suggests that the problem is more complex than adding more women candidates or increasing the number of women in political power. 

Phillips examines the biases of the “selectorate,” the party gatekeepers who pick each party’s candidate for the general election. Her research analyzes the gendered ways that candidates are judged based on such factors as their family and wealth. Her work shows how women’s political representation in African countries is shaped by the intersection between the rules governing candidate selection and the norms associated with gendered family roles.  

For this Matrix Visual Interview, Julia Sizek, Matrix content curator and postdoctoral scholar, asked Phillips about her research, for which she used a novel dataset from the election process in Zambia between 2015-2019. 

Your research on women’s access to political office focuses on Zambia. What are some of the key issues that you research, and why did you decide to focus your research on Zambia? 

National Assembly Building, Lusaka, 2017. Image by Melanie Phillips.
National Assembly Building, Lusaka, 2017. Image by Melanie Phillips.

I decided to focus my research on women and their experience with candidate selection in Zambia because of an interview I had conducted during a prior research trip with Honorable Josephine Limata, a member of the Zambian Parliament.

In 2015, Limata managed to win the parliamentary seat in Luampa constituency, in Western Province, as an independent candidate — an incredibly difficult feat in Zambia, which has seen the dominance of a two-party majority system since the beginning of multi-party democracy in 1991. Despite clearly being a strong candidate who had the support of the voters, she was not selected as the candidate by either the Patriotic Front (PF), the incumbent party, or the United Party for National Development (UPND), the opposition party.

Her problem was Zambia’s candidate selection process. In order to become a candidate for Member of Parliament in Zambia, aspirants (individuals who want to become politicians) must be selected by a political party. This process of selection is called “candidate selection,” and the individuals in charge of evaluating the aspirants are the “selectorate.” 

When asked about the puzzle between her clear electability and both PF’s and UPND’s decision not to support her candidacy, she stated that “the majority of political parties don’t adopt [select] women. We are undermined by men…. There are plenty of women who stand, but, the way they are chosen, men are the majority who get adopted [selected].” 

Women in Zambia face an array of barriers when attempting to stand for political office, such as gender-based gaps in financial resources, education, household responsibilities, and autonomy. The barrier highlighted most often is financial resources (or lack thereof). Financial resources are key to any successful election campaign, especially in developing countries, and are necessary to mobilize political support. Candidates must often finance and orchestrate their campaigns, and have to mobilize massive amounts of personal support and financial resources to hold popular rallies and travel across the electoral district where they are campaigning. As scholar Dominika Koter showed through her research in in Benin, elections are incredibly expensive due in large part to voters’ expectations that candidates will provide goods such as food, petrol, or cash during their campaign — and Eric Kramon’s research in Kenya from 2016 highlighted how political parties seldom cover the costs of political campaigns.  

My research, however, adds nuance to understanding these barriers. I contend that to truly understand the gendered nature in which party gatekeepers scrutinize women, and how women’s treatment differs from that of men, we must consider how the family unit shapes women’s lives differently in Zambia and around the world. One of the most notable benefits of political families is the collection of resources across generations, as studied by Gary Solon (1992), but women do not benefit equally due to inequalities in inheritance laws and social norms. In my research, I analyze how the perception of access to resources is a major factor in party gatekeepers’ decisions. Women and their ability to compete in elections are heavily moderated by the support and resources of their families.

Drawing on a survey experiment with 1,339 party gatekeepers in Zambia, I show that family backgrounds are one of the strongest predictors of candidate selection for both men and women; they are also the most gendered. I find that women are differentially evaluated. Men are rewarded during candidate selection for being the heads of traditional households. Women, on the other hand, are more likely to be rewarded when their families have histories of demonstrated partisan loyalty, which refers to the level of dedication and loyalty an individual has to a particular political party. I also show that the gender of party selectorates does not substantively change how candidates are evaluated: women selectorates show no gender preference for women aspirants, and like men, punish women candidates who deviate from cultural expectations. However, I demonstrate that an individual selectorate’s level of sexist beliefs does condition how they view more masculine candidate attributes. Selectorates with higher levels of sexism favor men and those with lower levels favor women. Contrary to expectation, women selectorates have higher levels than men of ambivalent sexism, which is a measure that includes both hostile and benevolent forms of sexism.

How did you measure how selectorates examine potential candidates for office? What were your research methods, and what did you do during your fieldwork?

My dissertation is rooted in a mixed-methods approach that combines extensive qualitative fieldwork with survey and experimental techniques. Methodologically, it presents a valuable contribution of new data sources. These include candidate recommendation reports written during candidate selection; survey experiments conducted with over 1,300 party members across Zambia; and qualitative evidence from over 90 interviews with candidates, party members, members of parliament, and women’s groups in Zambia. I collected this data in Zambia between 2015 and 2019. 

One of the key contributions of this research is the unique sample I leverage in order to understand the recommendations of gatekeepers, based on the in-person survey I conducted with 1,339 party gatekeepers in both the PF and UPND.  Experimentally, the survey used a vignette design, which presents a description of a candidate profile with randomized changes to the description. Each participant was given a randomized profile of a hypothetical candidate that included their name, gender, family status, financial capacity, party endorsement, and organizational capacity (defined as their ability to mobilize and the strength of their networks). These hypothetical candidate recommendations were based on actual recommendations that I had collected during my field work. Participants of the survey were very familiar with this task, as each level of the party structure writes and submits these kinds of recommendations to the province and the national executive committee after interviewing candidates during the candidate selection period. 

Following the vignette experiment, the surveys asked participants a range of questions to gauge their political experience, candidate preferences, measures of ambivalent sexism, and financial expectations during the multiple phases of candidate selection. 

One of your key arguments hinges on the idea that a woman candidate will be judged based on her role in her family, and that the relationship between her family and the political party that she hopes to represent can also determine whether she’ll be selected. What are some of the aspects of family life that are relevant to party selectorates?

Theoretical Argument Model
Figure 1: Theoretical Argument Model

As Diana O’Brien showed in her research looking at political systems across 11 different countries, political parties are typically built through networks dominated by men that are unreceptive to outsiders — in this case, women who are not connected to those networks. As a result, as Olle Folke et al have showed, women often need to leverage their families’ political connections to get the name recognition, support, and resources necessary to compete electorally. This is especially the case in countries where citizens prioritize traditional family roles, as illustrated by the research of Alexander Baturo and co-authors. Meanwhile, work from Linda Richter has demonstrated that women who do have politically relevant family connections are more likely to access political positions and opportunities that are closed off to the majority of women.

Parties and the selectorate also use those familial ties as a heuristic for a candidate’s qualifications. Political families provide access to formal and informal advantages such as financial and educational resources or personal connections and positive reputations. And as Timothy Besley and co-authors have shown, party gatekeepers infer the qualities of a candidate based on the success of their family as a whole, assuming that qualifications like resources, education, and training will be similar among those within the family. Olle Folke’s work  has demonstrated how these family connections matter more to women, who are at an inherent disadvantage, and show that women can make up for gender-based disadvantages by having dynastic family ties during candidate selection.

In my research, I explain how the family attributes of candidates shape how the selectorate perceives their strengths and weaknesses. To study gendered effects in candidate selection.I specifically distinguish between a family status mechanism (for which I use marital status as a proxy) and a loyalty mechanism, a measure of a candidate’s family political ties.

Family status, or more broadly the composition of one’s family situation, plays a significant role in how political party members evaluate candidates. Through my analysis of the marital status of candidates, I found that members of the selectorate hold a double standard when evaluating candidates based on their family structure. Whereas men benefit from certain family dynamics (for example, when looking at pay gaps, married men are typically paid the most), women are punished for deviating from traditional expectations. Similar mechanisms have been documented by Amanda Clayton and co-authors based on research they conducted in Malawi. This double standard, I argue, is consequential in candidate evaluations. I expect that women are less likely to be rewarded for conforming to normative family expectations than men, while also being penalized more harshly for deviating from them. 

I found a contrasting result when studying the loyalty mechanism, which measures a family’s history of political commitments. Women benefit from a form of benign chauvinism that depicts them as more loyal and devoted than men. Women are perceived to be more loyal, and scholars Zetterberg (2021) and Thames and Rybalko (2010) have found that women are more likely to remain loyal within pre-established family networks, such as those based on political partisanship. This expectation leads party members to believe that women will be less likely than men to defect from their political party. In this respect, party gatekeepers are more likely to reward women for having a family history of partisan loyalty.

Walk us through the results highlighted in Figure 2 (below). What does this reveal about the different ways that men and women are judged by party selectorates? 

Average Marginal Interaction Effects- Gendered Differences. 
Figure 2: Average marginal interaction effects – gendered differences.

Core to my work is the claim that men and women are evaluated differently for the same family-based attributes. Following the analytical approach seen in Teele et al. 2017 and Clayton et al. 2019, I calculate the gender gap: the difference between the treatment of men and women, controlling for other remaining attributes, such as income and experience in politics. Positive coefficients show that an attribute has a gender gap in favor of women, and negative coefficients show a gender gap that favors men.

The results presented in this figure support my claim that party selectorates reward women candidates more than men for familial political loyalty. While both men and women are rewarded for individual invested loyalty, women receive a 4% bonus compared to  men for having a family that is loyal and that has previously mobilized in elections, for example through campaigning, holding rallies, or donating.

The results show that party selectorates reward men for demonstrating traditional family status while punishing women who deviate from the norm. Selectorates disproportionately reward men for being married with two kids, which results in a 3% bonus for candidates who are men compared to women. Additionally, women are penalized severely for being divorced, which results in a 4% bonus for men.  

While this study finds notable gendered effects, it also highlights some null effects where we might expect to find gendered differences. For example, while men are often more likely to be political brokers and dominate local traditional authorities, the selectorate rewards men and women equally for having local connections. 

Individual and family financial attributes also appear to have no gendered effects: they increase and decrease both men’s and women’s evaluations indistinguishably. Still, even though I found a null effect here, women face greater obstacles in obtaining financial independence and/or success in many countries. In research from 2008, Doss,Grown, and Deere showed that women in Latin America and Africa have significantly less access to and ownership of land than do men, and women are also less likely to own or inherit productive forms of livestock. Inequalities in access to financial resources are clear across Zambia. Women and men across numerous interviews highlighted that the role of head of household, and the control of family resources, was specifically restricted to men. So even though women and men may be judged similarly for comparable financial resources, it is often more difficult for women to obtain them.

What needs to be considered here is that the attributes selectorates do evaluate differently for men and women tend to develop or change. One’s family and political history are not an individual choice, nor can a political history be established quickly if an individual decides to enter politics. Therefore, women candidates, regardless of whether they recognize that they have a political advantage, are limited in their ability to act on it: it simply exists as an attribute that is evaluated when they seek office. Further, in new democracies where traditional norms prevail in an individual’s family dynamic, and whether they remain “not divorced,” is often out of a woman’s control. What this tells us is that the number of women in office will not change by focusing on candidate training and increasing the supply of women candidates alone. We must also look toward training the selectorate to eliminate the gendered differences in evaluation practices.

The gender makeup of a selecting committee is often used as a proxy for the committee’s willingness to select a woman candidate. However, in your research, you find that this is not a good means to predict whether a committee will select a woman candidate. What did you find?

Many scholars have suggested that the key to decreasing bias against women during the candidate selection process is to include women in party leadership. But I found that women are not immune from gendered biases. My research finds that an individual’s level of internalized sexist beliefs, measured through ambivalent sexism, determines how gatekeepers evaluate gendered attributes.

To investigate this, I used a modified version of the ambivalent sexism index, which (as described by Peter Glick and Susan T. Fisk) “measures hostile sexism (HS), sexist antipathy toward women, and benevolent sexism (BS), subjectively favorable, yet patronizing, beliefs about women.” I found that an individual’s level of sexist beliefs conditions how they view candidate attributes such as financial resources. Party gatekeepers with higher levels of ambivalent sexism reward men for gendered attributes, whereas those with lower levels reward women.

Average marginal interaction effects
Figure 3: Average marginal interaction effects

Advocates often recommend that more women should be included in decision-making bodies, arguing that this would decrease biases against women candidates. However, my study suggests that adding more women is not enough: women are not immune to gender biases and have their own embedded biases. Women gatekeepers punish women candidates more severely, and do not appear to reward women for demonstrating family political loyalty. Furthermore, when looking at the degree to which individuals hold sexist beliefs, I find that women score significantly higher on the ambivalent sexism measure than men in the sample. Therefore, the solution to decreasing biases against women may not be as simple as increasing the number of women on selection committees. Instead, we should train gatekeepers on unbiased evaluation techniques and strategies to root out implicit gender biases that ultimately affect the institutionalization of democracies around the world.

How might these findings about the role of the family in candidate selection be applied to other contexts, for example, in considering local or municipal elections elsewhere in Africa or in places like the United States?

While the theory presented in my dissertation is rooted in qualitative fieldwork and tested empirically with data from Zambia, the argument is broadly generalizable. It is not necessarily that the findings discussed in this dissertation are unique to Africa or even to newer democracies. However, the strength of these effects is likely moderated by a country’s level of political institutionalization, the strength of their traditional gender norms, and the level of inclusivity and transparency in their candidate selection mechanisms.

The effects outlined in my work are likely stronger in areas with weaker levels of political institutionalization, where rules, processes, and expectations governing political bodies both formally and informally have not been established. Women, in these contexts, must engage with a higher degree of uncertainty when entering the nomination stage. Additionally, the lack of transparency that often comes with lower levels of political institutionalization likely makes room for gender to have a larger effect on evaluation and selection decisions.

Women in electoral democracies throughout the world must compete within societies that have strict gender roles that establish gender norms and expectations. In turn, these norms and expectations influence how party gatekeepers measure a woman’s political qualifications and competitiveness. Additionally, in some form, gender-based socioeconomic inequalities exist in all electoral democracies. These disparities make women’s ability to meet the qualifications necessary to compete for political office more difficult. Moreover, in countries where gender schema and people’s expected adherence to them are stronger, women are more likely to face barriers in evaluations when vying for political office. 

Lastly, in countries where voters are directly in control of candidate selection through primaries, the role of party gatekeepers will be diminished. Nevertheless, voters will continue to evaluate women within and against these gendered expectations, and political parties will still play a role in how candidates navigate this reality.

 

Article

Language Revitalization in Oakland: A Visual Interview with Tessa Scott

Tessa Scott

Mam, a Mayan language spoken both in the highlands of Guatemala as well as in diaspora communities in Mexico and the US, is rapidly becoming one of the most widely spoken Indigenous languages in the San Francisco East Bay region. Mam-speaking migrants are part of a broader trend of Central American migrants in the United States, but they face unique challenges when they move to the US because they often don’t speak Spanish or English. How can linguists support Indigenous language speakers in the United States, and what does starting Indigenous language revitalization programs look like on the ground? 

We talked with Tessa Scott, a Postdoctoral Fellow in the Future of Higher Education program at the University of California, Berkeley. She received her PhD in linguistics from UC Berkeley Department of Linguistics in Spring 2023 with a Designated Emphasis in Indigenous Language Revitalization. We spoke with Scott about her work on researching and teaching Mam. Her work spans both formal linguistic theory in syntax and morphology as well as language and cultural learning programs, and she has worked in partnership with native speakers and activists.

Mam has become one of the top ten most commonly spoken languages spoken in U.S. immigration courts. In the East Bay, Oakland Unified School District reports that 1,130 students in their district speak Mam at home. But while their numbers have been increasing, Mam speakers often face challenges receiving services in the U.S. What are some of the challenges that Mam speakers face when they move here? 

Many Mam speakers who arrive speak no English, and many times not enough Spanish to communicate clearly or fully understand what they are being told. This is a huge challenge, as without language, they struggle to find transportation to the next city, housing, a job, education, as well as legal help that they have the right to access. 

There are three main challenges that Mam speakers face with respect to getting the language services they need. The first is the lack of acknowledgement that a person needs an interpreter to begin with. Indigenous people are often lumped together as a single group with other migrants from Mexico and Central America, and they are often assumed to identify as Latinx and be native Spanish speakers, which are both often not the case. Sometimes Indigenous Guatemalans coming to the US speak very limited Spanish or they are scared and simply say “sí ” (yes) to most questions to avoid potential violence or harm. 

The second challenge lies in finding interpreters who speak Mam. A 2019 article in the New Yorker reported that “Mam was the ninth most common language used in immigration courts, more common than French.” There are far more people needing Mam interpreters than there are Mam interpreters, and most interpreting is done over the phone. The last problem with interpreting is that many times the client and the interpreter speak Mam, but they come from different places. While this may not seem like a big issue, significant differences in the language can be present from one town to another, and this can have enormous consequences when interpreting.

Mam is known as a linguistically diverse language, with many dialects, making it difficult to teach in language classes. How did you approach this when you worked with Mam speakers to teach classes at Laney College, and how did you approach these challenges when putting together your teaching guides? 

Mam is considered to be the most internally diverse Mayan language, according to Nora England (1990, 2017), and has thus been of interest to linguists studying variation. Two dialect surveys were published around the same time in the 1980s — Godfrey and Collins 1987 and Cojti and England 1986 (an unpublished manuscript) — and together these two works established three major dialect regions of Mam: Northern, Southern, and Western. These are shown in Figure 1, which shows a map of Western Guatemala divided into the three dialect regions. 

A map showing the dialect regions in Guatemala
Figure 1: Mam dialect regions (Scott 2023, pg 12, adapted from England 1983, pg 8)

Most recently, in a 2019 paper, Megan Simon argued for a reclassification of Mam varieties on the basis of phonetic distance research (how similar or distinct words sound). Her re-grouping mostly targets the dialect from the town of Todos Santos, Guatemala as distinct from the rest of the Northern Mam varieties, which she renames the Seleguá group. This is important because Todos Santos is very close in distance to San Juan Atitán, and large numbers of speakers from both towns live in Oakland, as well as countless other cities in the US. Although these Guatemalan towns are close to each other geographically, the varieties of Mam spoken within them are very different. 

For us, this variation was something important to consider in our teaching. Both of our native Mam speaking teachers, Henry Sales (former teacher) and Silvia Lucrecia Carrillo Godínez, are from San Juan Atitán. This variety of Mam has some unique characteristics but can largely be understood by speakers from the Seleguá region. Our materials are based on this San Juan Atitán variety of Mam. We always make it clear that we are teaching San Juan Atitán (SJA) Mam, and that if someone is also interacting with speakers of Todos Santos Mam, we encourage them to be curious about the differences, and see it as an opportunity to learn more, thinking of their language learning as additive. While this may slow down the learning process slightly, it is worth it on many levels.

The materials used for our Mam language and culture classes are different from the Mam materials published by the Ministry of Education in Guatemala and the Academia de Lenguas Mayas de Guatemala (ALMG), which are based on a “standardized” Mam that was created for purposes of writing and gaining acknowledgment by the government. So if students want to supplement our course with these materials, or even a course in Guatemala, they should be aware that they will find differences. 

How is SJA Mam different from “standardized” Mam? 

To answer this question, we first need to understand how the grammatical structure of Mam (as a whole) is different from that of English. Let’s start with the order of words. In English, subjects come first in the sentence, followed by verbs, which are followed by nouns. This is illustrated in Figure 2 for the sentence “Silvia saw a bird” in English. 

a structured graph showing the sentence "sylvia saw a bird" as "subject verb object"
Figure 2: English sentence

Mam sentences take on a different word order. In Mam, verbs come first, followed by subjects, followed by objects. This is illustrated in Figure 3 for the same sentence, “Silvia saw a bird,” which in Mam is Ma til Silvia jun ch’it.

chart showing "silvia saw a bird" in Mam, which is ordered verb, subject, object
Figure 3: Mam sentence

The difference between standard Mam and San Juan Atitán Mam is in the treatment of pronouns. In standard Mam, when the object is a pronoun (like “me,” for example), it sneaks in and appears in between the two words that make up the verb in Mam. This is shown in Figure 4 for the sentence “Silvia saw me.” In Standard Mam, this is written as Ma chin til Silvia. This grammatical phenomenon is similar to pronoun objects in Spanish: Silvia me vió. 

a breakdown of "silvia saw me" in standard Mam - Ma Chin Til - pronoun object in the verb, and silvia as the subject
Figure 4: Standard Mam

In San Juan Atitán Mam, pronoun objects do not need to sneak into the verb. Instead, pronoun objects often stay at the right edge of the sentence, just like the object ch’it “bird” in Figure 2. The San Juan Atitán version of “Silvia saw me,” which is Ma til Silvia qini, is shown in Figure 5. 

a breakdown of the sentence in San Juan Atitán Mam - verb, subject, pronoun object
Figure 5: San Juan Atitán Mam

This difference between the two varieties of Mam has major consequences for current understandings of the structure of Mam and other Mayan languages. Virtually all Mayan languages employ the grammar in Figure 4, and the deviation from this structure in San Juan Atitán Mam is the basis of the theoretical syntactic and morphological analyses in my dissertation

While you’re trained as a formal linguist, you also taught Mam classes in the SJA dialect. How did the program to teach Mam classes get started, and what were the goals? 

In Fall 2017, I met Henry Sales, who was the Mam language consultant for our graduate-level field methods class in the Department of Linguistics. The goals of this class are to document and analyze the structure of the language through the methodology of conducting structured and focused interviews, called “elicitation” in the field of linguistics, as well as collecting stories and narratives, often called “texts.” (A KQED article about Henry Sales teaching Mam can be found here.)

We students all quickly got to know Sales and realized how enthusiastic and intuitive he was about Mam, his native language. We recorded word lists and started to figure out the phoneme inventory of Mam, as well as a few other grammar topics. 

During this time, I developed an excitement about studying Mam, partly due to its rich morphology and syntax and its phonology that was challenging to learn, and partly due to Sales’s energy and passion about Mam. In Fall 2018, Sales was inspired by the Nauatl program at Laney College and began talking with Professor Arturo Dávila Sanchez about the possibility of starting Mam classes at Laney. By Spring 2019, Sales invited me to join his Saturday Mam lessons on Laney’s campus, and I joined enthusiastically. 

During this first semester, we met once a week at the Latinx Center on Laney College’s campus, though we eventually upgraded to a medium-sized classroom. The initial audience was small but passionate about learning Mam. Our first students were a few teachers and volunteers in the Oakland community who found themselves in frequent contact with Mam speakers. They wanted to learn Mam as a second (or third) language to connect more deeply with their students and clients and thus were dedicated to learning the language. 

Our initial goals were to equip those students with the basics of Mam – for example, how to greet, how to count, and how to talk about food. This would allow them to show the Mam people in their communities that they care and that the Mam speakers not only have the right to be here, but are joyfully welcomed.

As someone primarily trained in formal linguistics, being a part of these language and culture classes was exciting because I was able to bring my different perspectives on the language to our students. The sounds of Mam and the sentence-level grammar of Mam are so different from English that it can be hard to understand even the simplest of phrases. It was very rewarding to be able to use my research on the structure of Mam to help students learn the language.

Students in a Mam language class at Laney College
Mam language and culture classes, Fall 2020. Photo by Tessa Scott

Your group has been working to provide Mam classes in Oakland and online. Who takes these Mam classes, and what are their goals in learning the language?

Since those first sessions, our class has grown and developed significantly. Many students have returned semester after semester, and this has pushed us to split the class into beginner and intermediate levels, with the latter often splitting into intermediate and advanced learners. Our Mam curriculum has been approved to be used for  an official three-level language and culture course at Laney College. Upon completion of the courses, students will receive a certificate of Mam language and culture proficiency. These classes have not yet been offered at Laney, so in the meantime, we have offered the classes online free to anyone who wants to learn Mam. While these online classes are not currently being offered, they may be offered again in the future; updates and all materials can be found at our website: mamclass.com. In the meantime, a new Mam Workshop ran during the summer of 2023 through the UC Berkeley Center for Latin American and Caribbean Studies (CLACS).

One of the things that makes our class unique is our students and their reasons for taking the class. Most of our students are learning Mam as a second or third language. A large majority of our students are lawyers with Mam clients, teachers with Mam students, and healthcare workers with Mam patients. We also have many students with Mam and Mayan heritage who want to reconnect with the language and their knowledge of their ancestors.

One of our students, an elementary school teacher in Washington, encourages her students to speak Mam in the classroom, whether for counting, prayers, or telling stories. Before she took our class, her students tried to teach her words and phrases, but the teacher found it extremely difficult to identify the sounds she was hearing, let alone recreate them or know how to write them. One of the outcomes of taking our class is that now she can more easily hear differences in sounds that we don’t have in English and have a sense of how to pronounce and write them. 

An unexpected positive outcome of moving our classes online is that we were no longer limited to only teaching students who live in the San Francisco Bay Area. Students from all across North America and Mexico have taken our Mam classes. Since 2020, students residing in 20 different U.S. states have registered for our classes. This incredible fact reflects the increasing presence of Mam communities across the U.S., and that these communities are spread out across the country, and not confined to one state or region. 

During the pandemic, you’ve had to switch to Zoom teaching in Mam. What have been some of the challenges in switching to the online format from an in-person format? 

screen shot of a Mam class delivered over Zoom
A screenshot from the online Mam class.

One of the incredible upsides of the COVID-19 pandemic, and thus moving our classes online, was the ability to reach more students. Additionally, we were able to expand our teaching team to include Silvia Lucrecia Carrillo Godinez, a native Mam speaker living in San Juan Atitan, Guatemala. Having her perspective on the language and culture in San Juan Atitan, her training in Mam literacy, her perspective on cultural topics, and her lived experiences and knowledge about life as an Indigenous Mam woman was extremely influential to our classes. In addition, her energy, patience, and passion became fundamental to our joyful class environment. In 2022, we also officially welcomed Cristina Méndez, UC Berkeley PhD student in Education, to our teaching team. She has taken our classes for many years and has become an invaluable partner in this project. 

Teaching online does have some challenges, however. For example, it is harder to have one-on-one time with students, practicing pronouncing hard words,  answering their questions about Mam grammar, or simply observing their use of Mam. On Zoom, our options are to go around one-by-one or split into breakout rooms. While this can be seen as a challenge, it has also fostered a sense of community by making sure that everyone has the chance to be heard. As a solution to this, our extensive Quizlet library has many decks with audio so that students can practice on their own with native speaker voices. 

The other challenge lies in teaching land-based language and Indigenous ways of being. For example, the directions that sometimes get translated to “north, south, east, west” exist in a very different way in Mam. Instead of being centered on the poles of the earth (“absolute” directions), the words in Mam are centered around a mountain located nearby the speaker (see Figure 6). Teaching this by standing on a mountain is much easier and better reflects the true nature of these words than simply relying on translations and images. 

a map showing west, south, east, and north as depicted over the city of Oakland
Figure 5: From Mam class materials, “Oakland map”

 

a diagram showing a mountain as used for directions
Figure 6: From Watanabe (1983): “mountain diagram”

 

How has the program worked with Mam speakers in Guatemala, and what has that brought to your work in the United States?

The Mam language and culture class meets in San Juan Atitán, Guatemala in June 2022. Photo by Tessa Scott.
The Mam language and culture class meets in San Juan Atitán, Guatemala in June 2022. Photo by Tessa Scott.

In June 2022, we invited our students to join us in traveling to San Juan Atitán, Guatemala to continue learning not only how to speak Mam, but also about the Mam way of life in the Guatemalan context. During the course of the month of June, around 16 students from seven states in the US, as well as parts of Mexico, traveled to San Juan Atitán. 

The main event during our visit was the cultural festival. At this festival, groups were invited from numerous Mam towns to perform traditional songs, dances, and cultural enactments, an act of celebrating diverse traditions and uniting as Indigenous Maya people. The students in our class participated in the festival by giving speeches about the importance of continuing to speak and embody Mam language and culture, as well as highlighting their language abilities by performing short, scripted conversations about why they personally are learning Mam and what they had experienced on their trip so far. (A video of the entire festival can be found here, with our group’s presentation beginning at 3:57:30).

In addition to the festival, while our group was in San Juan Atitán, we held classroom language classes, learned to make Mam food, went on hikes, spent some time learning how to weave, and additionally made connections with other Indigenous peoples from across Guatemala and Mexico, including Nahua, Ñuu Savi, K’iche’, and Kaqchikel. 

This trip to Guatemala, and the opportunity for our students to not only learn Mam on its ancestral land, but also connect with individuals and groups, has strengthened many students’ commitment to learning Mam, and strengthened their individual connections to families, teachers, and other networks in Guatemala. 

Teaching these classes has also allowed you an opportunity to analyze how linguists conceptualize language acquisition. What have you learned from teaching these courses?

San Juan Atitán, Guatemala. Photo by Silvia Lucrecia Carrillo Godínez
San Juan Atitán, Guatemala. Photo by Silvia Lucrecia Carrillo Godínez

The main thing I have learned is the inseparability of learning language and learning the epistemology, land, cultural practices, spiritual beliefs, and history of the people who speak the language. Learning to speak Mam is impossible if it is attempted through translation of non-Indigenous phrases, speaking styles, and ideologies from English or Spanish. It is also impossible to simply study the language alone, removed from culture, traditions, beliefs, and customs. 

I also learned that when students have a deep and meaningful reason in their life to learn a language, they can be extremely dedicated and successful in learning that language, even if it is a very difficult language to learn. Our classes have not yet offered course credit, certificate, monetary benefits, or even grades. Some of our students decided to take our class to reconnect with their heritage and to speak the language of their ancestors, who were robbed of the opportunity to freely pass on their language.

I learned from watching these incredible students that, when the reason for learning is so meaningful, students can overcome any challenge they face in learning, whether staying up for classes between 9-10:30pm for students on the East Coast, or trying to produce voiceless bilabial implosives, a type of whispered sound with no vocal vibration that is made with two lips and requires sucking air in, and not pushing air out. 

I learned that these meaningful reasons were diverse and did not follow a formula. Some students work in the legal field, and they deal every day with the language challenges that Mam immigrants in the US face. By taking our Mam classes, they make the statement that overcoming such a language challenge includes them taking a step toward their clients, and that it is not the sole responsibility of Mam immigrants to learn the widely used Spanish and English. We have a duty to learn Mam, too. 

Some students are teachers themselves, working with youth who question daily whether to wear their traditional traje to school, whether to speak Mam, whether to learn traditional dances and music, or whether to learn traditional prayers in Mam. Some students are healthcare professionals, working with patients who have the right to receive healthcare that they understand in their native language. Some students work for non-profit organizations providing various types of aid to immigrants. Some students are researchers in linguistics, education, anthropology, environmental studies, and psychology. Some students simply want to better communicate with their Mam-speaking friends and neighbors. 

Each semester, our students do a final project. Each semester, I am blown away by what they create. In the past, students have developed presentations about their families, translated children’s books and poetry, written original stories and poetry, and created videos about a day in their life or a trip to the zoo with Mam-speaking middle school students narrating their experience and observations, and created presentations about Mam-speaking individuals whom they interviewed. (Examples of final projects can be found on the class website.)

The creativity and heart revealed in these projects were undoubtedly impressive and inspiring, and also illustrative of the use of technology to not only learn and study Mam, but to create art and use Mam as a medium of self-expression. These projects embody the students’ commitment to learning not only the Mam language, but Mam ways of being. 

 

 

Alumni Interview

How Medical Expertise Shapes Gender-Affirming Health Care: An Interview with Tara Gonsalves

Tara Gonsalves

Increasingly, trans people are seeking out gender-affirming health care, whether counseling, hormone therapy, or surgery. Such care often requires expensive treatments under a health care system that is still figuring out how to respond. How do insurance processes determine who has access to care and under what conditions?

Tara Gonsalves, a recent PhD graduate of UC Berkeley and Assistant Professor of Sociology at Northwestern University, studies how social categories like “transgender” are contested and transformed over time, and the consequences of these transformations. Using quantitative and qualitative tools, she has three primary streams of research: how the term transgender has become an umbrella category for understanding gender variance, how medical experts produce new racialized understandings of gender through surgery and insurance, and how LGBT organizations worldwide emerge and integrate into advocacy networks.

For this interview, Social Science Matrix Content Curator Julia Sizek interviewed Gonsalves about the challenges of the categories of sex, gender, and transgender, and how the term transgender has become an umbrella category for understanding gender variance.

How has the category of trans come to represent gender nonconforming people today? 

There are many different ways of thinking about this question. First, we might think about why this is happening. International human rights groups are tasked with making coherent claims at the global level, so they need a global category. Given the enormous violence that people who are gender and sexually variant face around the world, this seems like a crucial task. And the category that is increasingly being used to articulate diverse forms of gender variance is one that has been used in the United States and Western Europe for some time – “Transgender.” And yet, gender variance takes on different forms, however, from hijra and bakla  (gender variant groups in South and Southeast Asia) to travesti and muxes (gender variant groups in Latin America). Gender variance takes on different forms in different parts of the world, resulting in diverse configurations of gender, sexual desire, and the sexed body. Some of my research looks at how the category “transgender” is coming to articulate these multiple modes of understanding gender variance and its relationship to sex and sexuality.

Answering this question is further complicated by the fact that the groups described by “transgender” are defined not only through gender identity, but also through diverse gender and sexual practices that are not heterosexual or that do not conform to conventional configurations of sex, gender, and sexual desire, as encapsulated by Judith Butler’s metaphor of the heterosexual matrix. While the term bakla is now often interpreted by scholars and activists in the United States as a Filipino version of “transgender,” for instance, the term can encapsulate both gender variant expression and non-normative sex practices. My work is part of a growing body of work in Transgender Studies that looks at the complicated relationship between postcoloniality, representation, and gender and sexuality. (Other scholars working in this space include Aren Aizura, Aniruddha Dutta and Raina Roy, and Christoph Hanssmann). 

In the United States, medical organizations and LGBT rights organizations converged around a three-part definition of transgender, especially in the early 2000s: a gender identity (1) that is different from the sex assigned at birth, (2) that is ontologically distinct from sexual orientation, and (3) that presumes a gender binary. In recent years, this definition is increasingly being contested by trans and gender-nonconforming theorists and activists, though it is still widely used in reports and government documents. My transnational research examines how this category, which comes from a particular place and time, is coming to represent gender variance globally.

When we introduce studies of the social construction of gender in undergraduate courses, we often begin with reproductive organs as a proxy for femininity and masculinity, tracing how early psychology studies influenced our understanding of gender during the mid-20th century. What were those understandings of gender? 

Medical understandings of gender and its relationship to sex have changed rather dramatically over the past half century. 

Sex has historically been defined based on external genitalia and secondary sex characteristics. Gender, which emerged as a social concept distinct from “sex” in the mid-20th century, was primarily understood to derive from external genitalia and secondary sex characteristics (such as breasts). Femininity derived from the female sexed body, and masculinity derived from a male sexed body. Again, this is Judith Butler’s concept of the heterosexual matrix.

Even before the concept of “gender” had been named, sexologists (mostly writing in Europe) had begun to classify variant sex-based practices, such as style of clothing, mannerisms, voice pitch, preference for decor, etc. That is, if someone had a male body but preferred to wear feminine clothing, stand in a feminine way, and be read by others as feminine, this was considered “deviant.” Magnus Hirschfeld coined the term “tranvestism” to distinguish this group from those who had non-normative sexual desires.

How do scientists consider the relationship between sex and gender today?

Later in the 20th century, medical scientists began to define gender as deriving not from external genitalia or secondary sex characteristics, but rather from genes and neurology. That is, gender identity was understood to have a sort of primacy in genes, or to exist “prior” to the development of the sexed body. Rather than attempting to explain “deviant” or non-normative gender identity — i.e., gender that did not correspond to the sexed body — in early childhood socialization, medical scientists have come to accept gender identity as something that can be explained neurologically or genetically. 

Similar to the search for a “gay gene” that has been well-documented (for example, see Conrad 2016, Brookey 2002, and Conrad and Markens 2000), some medical scientists are now searching for the gene that predicts gender identity. “Deviant” gender identity is becoming “normalized” through a turn to genes and brains. In other words, if genes, which some have referred to as the “essence of an individual,” can predict or explain a person’s gender identity, then gender can be understood as “naturally occurring” and therefore deserving of social recognition and rights. In a certain sense, the geneticization of gender identity might help normalize “deviant” gender identity, working as a means to rally around a marker of identity akin to “strategic essentialism,” Gayatri Spivak’s fraught concept that describes how minoritized groups use aspects of their shared identity for their political agendas. 

However, it may not be wise to rely on the concept of a “gay” or “trans” gene for making political claims because it forces gender and sexual minorities to rely on a genetic marker to “prove” themselves rather than believing people’s accounts of their own bodies and desires. Additionally, because gender identity and sexual desire are complex and may change over time, manifest differently in different situations, and emerge differently in different people, I wonder whether isolating a “gay” or “trans” gene is even possible in the first place. 

Today, trans people often seek gender-affirming medical care, which can include a various array of surgeries intended to help people’s bodies fit their gender.  You consider how insurance companies, who often determine access to medical care, have shifted their understanding of what makes a surgery for trans people “medically necessary.” What methods did you use to track the changes in insurance policy over time, and what institutions are responsible for determining the boundaries of medical necessity? 

Trans people are often violently sanctioned for embodied gender that does not match their gender identity and have pushed insurance companies to dramatically expanded coverage for gender-affirming care over the past two decades. My research draws primarily draw from qualitative analysis of national health insurance policies from five large insurers, and reviews of appeals for coverage that were completed by state-appointed reviewers. In some of my other research related to the medical field and gender, I also draw from interviews with experts and from my observation at transgender health conferences in the United States. 

Medical necessity determinations are complicated. Medical necessity is ostensibly determined by medical experts and medical institutions like the American Medical Association, but variation in coverage suggests that insurers also play a role in determining what care is medically necessary. Federal and state governments often publish guidelines that private insurers then follow. In the unusual case of gender-affirming care, however, private insurers developed their own coverage plans in the late 1990s and early 2000s, before the federal government allowed public funds to be used for gender-affirming care.

In the broadest sense, social categories like “gender” shape what is seen as medically necessary for particular patients, as can be seen in contemporary studies of gender and care. In the book Trans Medicine: The Emergence and Practice of Treating Gender, Michigan State University professor stef shuster outlines how medical providers, rather than drawing from prior medical knowledge, actually produce expertise when caring for transgender patients. (See also Piper Sledge’s work on non-normative gender and cancer care.) This work shows, in part, how gender shapes the kind of care patients receive. 

For surgeries like facial feminization or masculinization, medical experts have to determine whether and under what conditions these surgeries are necessary. How do they make these decisions, what kinds of evidence can they use, and how are these decisions shaped by beauty standards?

What I have found is that medical experts are drawing on their understandings of what ideal masculinity and femininity are. In other words, medical experts are tasked with creating boundaries that relate to ideal femininity and masculinity — beauty, in a certain sense. So, when deciding whether or not someone needs facial feminization surgery, for instance, they look at photographs of the person applying for insurance coverage, and compare the person’s face to their own interpretation of a feminine face. These understandings of femininity and masculinity, in turn, are structured by race. The ideal feminine nose, according to one of the reviewers, has thin nostrils and an uptilt at the end. Thin nostrils, of course, are associated with white femininity, as is an uptilted nose. (Check out Eric Plemons’ work on facial feminizations surgery and Jules Gill-Peterson’s work on the racialization and gendering of trans bodies.) I find, in other words, that insurer adjudication of medical necessity flattens differences across race and body size. Expansions in coverage, therefore, are bringing people closer to normative gender based on a thin, white, young ideal aesthetic.

One of the things I found most interesting about your research on insurance policies is how older transgender people interact with the medical system, for example, as they petition to have surgeries like facial feminization surgeries covered under insurance. Although many would have been ineligible for surgeries 15 years ago, some applicants are now ruled as ineligible due to their age. Can you explain this phenomenon?

This is such a great question, and something I would like to think about more. It is certainly the case that many trans people who may have wanted to apply for gender-affirming health insurance coverage a few decades ago were not able to, because insurance companies only started providing coverage in the early 2000s, and public coverage came a decade later. And, as you point out, the irony here is that older people are less likely to get insurance coverage for gender-affirming procedures because of the general assumption that older people “lose” gender as they get older. More broadly, older women are assumed to look less feminine, especially if ideal femininity is defined by young women, and older men look less masculine, as defined by ideal masculinity. Perhaps there is a kind of circle, in terms of social assumptions about femininity and masculinity. Babies are less easily distinguishable based on embodied gender than adolescents, for instance. Parents put bows on girl baby heads to distinguish them from boy babies, since it might be hard to gender them otherwise. Similarly embodied gender is perhaps assumed to become less distinguishable as people get older. 

The move toward surgical intervention has been complemented by a turn in in the fields of psychology and biology toward trying to understand gender identity through both genetics and neurology. How has research in these fields changed our understanding of where gender is located in individual bodies and, in turn, how trans people can access medical care?

Genetics has become a subject of enormous interest. We can see this across a variety of social domains, including the number of scholars who are studying the sociology of genetics, and the growth in research institutes on genetics and society. Genetics is coming to be seen as a sort of haven, with endless possibilities for explaining all kinds of human variation. The rising faith in genetic (and neurological) science does not necessarily correspond, however, to increasing evidence that genetics does indeed explain different conditions of illness and wellness. 

Despite a lack of evidence, this increasing faith – and the linking of gender identity to the search for genetic explanations – suggests a belief that gender identity is innate. A belief that gender identity is innate, moreover, is compatible with “born this way” political strategies. These strategies claim access to gender-affirming healthcare coverage and other services on the grounds that people do not choose to be non-binary or trans. The increasing faith in genetic explanations for gender identity points to a belief that gender identity is innate (i.e., explainable by genes or neurology) and therefore requires or necessitates health insurance coverage for the body modifications that will enable people to be socially legible (i.e., to be seen by others as)  men or women, if they so choose.

The trend toward gender-affirming health care is positive, as trans people have better access to care, but also troubling, as it often reinforces gendered stereotypes. What are the implications of gender-affirming health care for trans people, and for the growing non-binary community? 

Legal scholar and activist Dean Spade puts it very well when he writes that saying ‘no’ “to transgender requests for bodily alteration…props up a naturalized version of the sexual binary,” but that saying ‘yes’ “can support and sustain standard forms of gender and embodiment.” My research, echoing Spade, Eric Plemons, and others, has shown that increasing access to and coverage of gender-affirming body modifications brings with it a normalization of particular forms of femininity and masculinity — in this case, white femininity and masculinity. So there are racial implications, in that racialized gender — based on a white, thin-bodied aesthetic — is institutionalized as an ideal form of masculinity or femininity. Some within the growing non-binary community are also seeking body modifications that enable them to be read as non-binary (or, conversely, illegible as “man” or “woman”). As a result, there are a rising number of surgeons who are becoming specialists in non-binary surgery, and with this comes the possibilities for a “normative” non-binary body. Yet there are trans and non-binary people who do not seek body modification and who wish, in the spirit of Sandy Stone’s call over three decades ago, to be recognized as trans and as non-binary, and thereby disrupt conventional understandings of gender and sex with more complex configurations of sex, gender, and the body. A liberatory politics would, perhaps, see both or all of these possibilities, such that people could seek the body modifications they desire (or do not), regardless of the relationship between the sex they were assigned at birth, their current gender identity, or the physical characteristics of their sexed body. 

 

Podcast

Listening to Rwandan Popular Music with Victoria Netanus Grubbs

Victoria Grubbs

This episode of the Matrix Podcast features an interview with Victoria Netanus Grubbs, a Black feminist sound theorist and abolitionist educator. Victoria is currently the Black Studies Collaboratory Postdoctoral Fellow at UC Berkeley. She completed her PhD in the Department of Media, Culture, and Communication at New York University in May 2021. 

Her current book project, Kumva Meze Neza: Sounding Blackness in Rwanda, examines how popular Rwandan music worked in the aftermath of genocide to produce a collective social body. Drawing on five years of participant observation among Rwandan music industry professionals and their audiences, her work demonstrates how shared investments in the sensory experience of Blackness produce formations of togetherness that defy traditional organizing categories.

Listen to the podcast below or on Google Podcasts or Apple Podcasts. An edited transcript of the interview is below.

Podcast Transcript

Woman’s Voice: The Matrix Podcast is a production of Social Science Matrix, an interdisciplinary Research Center at the University of California Berkeley.

Julia Sizek: Hello and welcome to the Matrix Podcast, recorded in the Ethnic Studies Changemaker studio. I’m Julia Sizek, our host. And our guest today is Victoria Netanus Grubbs, a Black feminist abolitionist educator and the Black Studies Collaboratory Postdoctoral Fellow. She completed her PhD in the Department of Media, Culture, and Communication at New York University in 2021. Her dissertation examines how popular Rwandan music produces a collective social body in the aftermath of genocide, and it’s based on more than four years of participant observation among Rwandan music industry professionals and their audiences. Welcome to the podcast, Victoria.

Victoria Grubbs: Thanks, I’m really happy to be here.

Sizek: So let’s just start out by understanding Rwandan music in the context of African popular music. What’s distinctive about Rwandan music in the Afropop landscape?

Grubbs: So Rwanda’s popular music is resonating within a global context of Black diasporic music. And there’s two really popular, kind of, broad– I’m using this term intentionally– really broad genres right now. Hip-hop and Afrobeat. Hip-hop drawing on a lot of African spoken word and poetry traditions, and griot storytelling traditions, and Caribbean DJing and toasting, and American emcees and DJs playing funk and R&B hooks, and– It’s a long history.

Localized African subgenres of hip-hop, like an example, Ghanaian hiplife, Nigerian blues and funk especially from the ’70s and ’80s. Coming out of East Africa, Tanzania’s bongo flava was early hip-hop style that was really influential. And Gengetone coming out of Kenya and kapuka also coming out of Kenya. And Ugandan styles, like Lugaflow. So that’s– Hip-hop generally is pulling from a lot of that– It’s still a very transatlantic, still very diasporic sound, but it’s pulling from a more spoken word tradition.

And then there’s Afrobeat, which is dance music. And it’s recognized globally as dance music and extending that pan-African legacy of iconic African artists of the ’60s and ’70s, like Fela Kuti and Miriam Makeba, and incorporating rumba, which is coming out of the major cities in Congo, like Kinshasa and Brazzaville, and major cities in then Belgian-occupied Congo by way of Cuba. So we got early jazz, and electronic house music, and then also house music coming out of Cape Town, Nigerian funk, Nigerian soul.

So you can see they’re like– they’re growing simultaneously, but using different, I think, vocal delivery styles. But also always transferring sounds between these– I don’t want to make them sound like completely independent genres. But those are two styles that popular artists right now can go into a studio and say, I want to do Afrobeat, or I want to do hip-hop, and be immediately understood by the producer of what they need to do.

Also in Rwanda, like parallel, there’s a strong gospel tradition, especially in choirs. And the choirs are also recording a lot of popular music, drawing connections from local spiritual practices of singing, drumming, and dancing, but also influences of the church, whether it be, like the Catholic Church, or Methodist and Adventist and Pentecostal churches, which all have different sonic landscapes of their own. Something that I know less about, but something that I’m definitely interested in, and it’s definitely influential in Rwanda to think about the different kinds of auditory practices, I guess, that the church brought in and placed in relationship to spirituality.

So there’s an obvious, I think, noisiness to perhaps a Pentecostal sound compared to the quietness of a Catholic sound. So I think that there’s a lot of– I don’t know– a really interesting dynamics, even within the gospel tradition, but– and also, I would say that within the gospel tradition, there’s a really localized subgenre of music, which is music for Memorial. Music for memorializing the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda. And that music is a political project, but also, I would guess, a grief project, a mourning project, also a financial project, because there’s usually money from the state for recording this genre of music also, which makes it something that artists will be– that wouldn’t maybe traditionally be recording gospel music per se might venture into that style to record a memorial song.

Sizek: That’s really interesting. So, I think– and this is part of the broader theme of your work– is that how people think about and listen to and participate in popular music has a lot to do with their national identity. Can you tell us a little bit about how music has become really central for Rwandan national identity or lack thereof?

Grubbs: I think that music is always trying to evade capture by the state, specifically also inherently Black music. So it’s not that the music is producing an investment in national identity, as much as the value of the music is always trying to be taken up by the state, and incorporated into their project of state-making and statecraft. So when you see popular artists performing the narratives of state power, and when you see popular artists performing the narratives of party lines or a particular history, there’s an investment in that that is often monetary. But beyond that, there’s an investment in that that is a recognition of the value of their work, which is something that a lot of artists are looking for. They want to– it’s hard out here for all of us, let me say. So to feel, like as an artist, that somebody sees value in what you’re doing and thinks that it matters is also at play here.

Sizek: Yeah. So let’s dig into one specific example that you look at in your research of precisely this phenomenon of the state trying to capture the value of the work of an individual artist, which is that of Bruce Melodie’s big, I guess, two hits. Do you want to tell us a little bit about these songs before we take a listen?

Grubbs: So I want to move a little bit slower than that. Because I think it’s not that– With the examples that we’re going to listen to with Bruce Melodie– Bruce Melodie re-recorded his song with another studio with a specific intention. So I think we can listen to the first one. And I can give you a little bit of context before we do that.

Sizek: Yeah, let’s do it.

Grubbs: So the song came out in 2017, in May, I believe, and it was produced by a producer named David Pro, alongside a music video that was a widely viewed music producer at that time named Ma-RivA. I just want to shout these people out, because they do great work. And the video was also really popular. And it showed girls shaking and smoking hookah and Bruce Melodie and his friends drinking out of red solo cups and dancing around. And everyone’s just having a great time. Musically, it’s a perfect pop song for Rwanda. So I think that’s a really good place to stop and take a listen.

Sizek: Oh, that’s such an infectious song. It does actually just make you want to go party.

Grubbs: Right? It’s a party vibe. And it was very successful in being circulated on the radio for that entire year. And 2017 was also an election year for Rwanda. And that was a really watched election, because it was Kagame running for a third term, which was– which had required the altering of the Rwandan Constitution, because typically, you were supposed to only take two terms. Typically, as in since he had taken power. And he was the first president also since the Genocide.

So the year was being watched because there was a lot of, I think, Western critique of African presidents taking long presidencies and taking lifelong presidencies, not participating in their idea of democracy, or feigning performances of peaceful transferences of power within the model of state that the West is trying to promote as their own. So it doesn’t necessarily look good from that perspective that he changed the constitution. But it was a election where 98% of the population voted for Paul Kagame to take this third term. And that is also considering that voting in Rwanda is required for everybody over 16. So everybody has to vote. It’s different than here, I think it’s important to note that there are lots of ways that the state can look and operate, but in the same ways, capitalism still finds its way in.

So all of that to say that the song was re-recorded in consultation with some RG Consult Group– is what it says, if you look up the citation. So the song was re-recorded with new lyrics, which changed the original lyrics. So the original lyrics, twaneye, twatsinze– we drank, we got drunk, we were drinking, having a great time. It’s a story of, we didn’t have any problems. We were just hanging out, getting drunk regularly. That was the vibe. The twaneye, twatsinze was changed to we voted, we won. So from we drank, we got drunk to we voted, we won. So we can listen to the second version of the song.

Sizek: Let’s talk about just some of the differences between this version and the previous version, like musically. I’m not a musician. What’s going on?

Grubbs: So this– I feel the citations are obvious to most people. I think you would hear it without being musically experienced or trained and say, that sounds like the same song. So, I think, that a lot of that happens because the rhythms and pitches are the same, even though the songs were re-recorded, perhaps with slightly different instruments, because it was produced in a different studio. You never know what instruments a producer will have around or will have on their computer or their hard drive.

So the basic core of the song is reproduced nearly identically the same kick pattern, snare pattern, the same chord changes, the same vocal melodies. And the really only distinct difference that you would hear is a difference in the vocal performance. It’s got a lot more energy in it. It’s got more forward direction in it. It’s a lot less laid back. It’s a lot more driving and aggressive. And, I think, this tempo of the new one is also a little bit faster, so it gives it a little bit more of that get up and go energy.

And also then there’s this very dramatic lyrical shift. So the lyrics transfer from a message of a memory of, oh, we didn’t have any problems, because we were just hanging around drinking, to we voted, we won, twatoye, twatsinze, we voted, we won and now we don’t have any problems. We’ve solved them all. And I think really importantly, the lyrical shift here goes to calling all of the people together, abanyarwanda. Abanyarwanda are the people of Rwanda. Like calling all abanyarwanda, turishimiye, we are happy. Like all into one feeling about this particular event.

And then saying in the chorus, we’ve done what the foreigners failed to do. So you can form a group around an inside and an outside– a perimeter around success. We, the winners, did what the foreigners failed to do, and we brought everybody together. That being the ultimate goal, a national unity. So we brought everybody together because we chose our old man. And you hear his papa voice. That’s Paul Kagame’s voice at the beginning or the intro to the video, saying, we can do anything together. And he’s speaking in the tone of voice as a father with a child, like it’s very tender and paternal. So, yeah, the song takes a lot of popular inertia and turns it into a very, I think, effective celebration of a state project of national unity.

Sizek: Yeah. And that’s– I think it’s interesting as well because it is sort of a hyper-nationalist song. In some ways– In the same way that, I think, country songs in America have come to serve that same void. Like, I’m proud to be an American. And this is sort of, like, I’m proud to be Rwandan. But you also– one of the things that you’re looking at is how they are not just producing Rwandan identity through these songs. So can we talk a little bit about the other sort of, identity politics or identity formation of these songs?

Grubbs: This is a lot of songs I now listen to. I think that what’s interesting to me about Rwandan music is that it’s being produced in a context that is immediately and specifically, this generation living in a state of reconciliation, let’s say, a post-traumatic state of reconciliation. What that means is that you have experienced some kind of violent rupture in your community, and you are also actively living together. And so any music that comes out of that context and can produce a sense of togetherness or a sense of collectivity, I think, is going to be important for us to listen to and to understand and to take seriously. That’s serious social work. And I think that’s also something that the state recognizes that it’s serious social work that this music is doing.

And arguably, the kind of togetherness that the music that I’m seeing being produced in Rwanda– and maybe we can listen to a couple of these examples of more contemporary songs, even some stuff that just came out this year, even just last month– is that in its sonic landscape, citing a much broader reference point than Rwanda. It’s not citing a specifically localized national history, in the way that the state is. And even the way that the state is citing a specific local nationalized identity, it’s around a particular sort of class status and presentation of royalty. And so there’s a very sort of, narrow state project, I think, in terms of identity. And then there is the multiplicitous broad diasporic project of Blackness that you hear in the songs that are being produced. So maybe play the one by B-Threy.

Sizek: It sounds very of the time. It sounds like it could be playing on American radio in many ways. So what– I guess, one question is what’s the circulation of music that you’re seeing with these Rwandan music producers? Where are they listening to music? How are they getting their ideas? And then how are they putting that together with what they want their songs to be about?

Grubbs: Yeah, that’s a great question. So a lot of artists want their work on YouTube, which is why music videos have become really important. If you can’t get the funds together to make a video, people will make lyric videos, or some put up an image some way to get your content on YouTube. I think, within the country and the region, YouTube is still really accessible to people in ways that paid streaming platforms aren’t. Because YouTube, you can use it pretty effectively for free still– knock on wood. So more recently artists are– Rwandan artists are putting their music on platforms, like Spotify, Tidal, Apple Music, but it’s not as accessible to most.

So I would say other than that, in a local circuit the radio is still very important. And songs travel hand-to-hand on thumb drives, or just bring the whole computer. Bluetooth from your phone to whatever local DJ you can get to play it, maybe add a little soda if you can to get them to play it for you. And DJs– In nightclubs, if you can get your songs to DJs, they’ll play it. So if you are looking for music, you’re probably either listening to the radio or searching on YouTube.

Sizek: And what about this specific song that we just listened to? How does this play into the popular scene? Is this a normal song or sort of, like a typical song on the radio?

Grubbs: Well, you know, B-Threy would like to say that he’s an original artist, and I think he’s really talented. I think he’s really pushing ahead. This is a genre that he and a collective of artists that he was working with out of a studio called Green Fairy Records was calling– is calling Kinyatrap. So this is a reference to trap music, which is an evolution of the southern US hip-hop style of trap music, but in Rwanda’s native language. Kinyarwanda being the native language of Rwanda.

And also, there’s efforts within these diasporic genres to always localize, to always make it feel your own. B-Threy is also coming from a specific part of the capital city of Rwanda that has a very urban, all-night, 24-hour kind of energy, as opposed to other parts of the city, which maybe are a little quieter or sleepier. So, I think, you can also hear his environment in that reference to trap music in the first place. Let’s listen to the one by Double N, Abaswa.

Grubbs: This is an even, I think, more contemporary style, even pulling from the American drill style, which is also a subgenre of trap music. So thinking about how you also hear the umuduri, which is a local traditional Rwandan instrument. Which was, I think, another example of that intention to really try to localize these diasporic genres. And so this artist calls this style rap gakondo. Gakondo meaning tradition, or roots, or culture, so culture rap. And if you want to play just quickly, the track umuziki, you can hear that local instrument just as a solo instrument with a vocalist.


Grubbs: That’s just a lovely example of how the local sounds get incorporated these diasporic styles, which then have the intention of being heard around the world. That’s the desire, to put them on YouTube. You want to put them on the radio. You want the DJ to play your song, because you want this song to travel. And I think that’s also a real characteristic of this diasporic Black music is that it wants to travel. It’s catchy. It’s music that holds on to you. It’s music that you take with you. It’s music that gets in your body. So that’s the intention to make a hit is really that desire to make a song that’s going to grab onto you, and you take it with you and go somewhere with it. Yeah.

Sizek: Yeah. So maybe to turn toward the other side away from the producing music and the intention of producing music to talk about listening and listening practices. Because that’s one of the things that you’re really interested in doing is trying to focus on not only the way that this music gets produced necessarily for an international audience, but how people talk about and embody the practices of listening.

Grubbs: Yeah. I think it’s something that we need to be more intentional about. I think listening is really under-theorized. I think we’re not as reflective about it in our everyday lives, as we need to be. And I think we consistently underestimate the fact that perception know is theory-laden. I think I’m citing somebody there that I should say, but it’s not coming to me at the moment. But there’s an influence of the world on how you might imagine you yourself as an individual to experience sound, for example.

So it’s not natural or inherently instinctual that when you hear a sound you respond a particular way. That’s entrainment. That’s learned in practice. It’s experience in the world and observing the people around you and imitating what you see. So even in the ways that we use our voice, even in the ways that we use our voice to reach out to other people, we’re performing a very narrow set of sounds that– our voice is capable of making all kinds of outrageous noises that we generally don’t make, because it’s unattractive. It’s an appealing.

You will lose social– to the people around you, perhaps in another world in another context, that’s not true. So, I think, it’s important that we really take care to think about where the values that we place upon the sounds that we hear come from, and why things sound a particular way to us, why things feel a particular way, what makes something feel the way that you think it should feel or doesn’t feel the way you think it should feel, what makes you comfortable with your evaluations of what you hear. Because sometimes we’re so confident in what we think we hear, and we can be completely wrong, you know.

So I just think that part of my learning and part of my growth as a theorist in sound and as a scholar in sound is trying to slow down and really take care to think about, why did I hear that that way? What does it mean that I have this reference? What does that mean about me as a referent? I’m participating in this listening, so understanding that in another context, another person might hear such a thing differently. And what would that mean if, perhaps in another context, a person heard it the same as I did? And what might that mean if another person in another context heard that the same as I did, and it moved them in a particular way that was familiar to me? And now I find myself moving in a familiar way with other people, perhaps that I don’t even recognize myself in union with, but moving in union and in chorus nonetheless.

And I think that’s what diasporic music is doing. I think it’s producing a body that can see itself, and feel itself, and hear itself, I think most importantly, as a collective. And it’s not a state project. It’s not a national identity. It’s not something that can be voted upon or claimed to be by some military. It actually just has to be built by these producers in their studios, trying to make beats, listening to what they hear on YouTube, downloading these sounds, sampling these sounds, trying to make a hit, trying to make a song that somebody else is going to listen to, and have a little bit of influence on how the culture grows.

Sizek: Well, great. That’s so– I think it’s so interesting, because it points to both the ways that there are these intended modes of producing music to try to create a community, as well as the ways that people take them up are never the ways that are entirely intended, even if they might resonate with those original ways. And so you have a couple more clips for us. And. I want to listen to them.

Grubbs: Awesome.

Sizek: So can you tell us a little bit about these two other pieces that we have, and what we might be able to learn from them?

Grubbs: Yes. So I have another example of how earlier influences, I guess, of these local artists– So the first one is Miss Jojo. I wanted to just make sure that we hear her, because I think too many times the Rwandan music scene is dominated by male artists, and the women don’t get nearly enough airtime, they don’t get nearly enough money. And I think we just in the culture– I think globally, we just don’t see women in these leading producer roles either. And so, she’s just a really important voice to see. So she was producing songs a little bit earlier than the folks we heard, 2007 to 2012. And we’ll listen to one of her songs.

Grubbs: I think you can hear a lot of the influences in her music from the– Even though she’s a solo artist, she’s pulling from these ’90s girl groups, like SWV. Like having your girls behind you, having these backing vocalists, which I think was something that the other artists weren’t really doing at that time like she was. So I really appreciate her for that reason. And also, she keeps that classic Afrobeat clave in the back to keep consistent with that ’50s, ’60s, ’70s rumba tradition. So it’s also part of a larger African legacy in that way.

I think the last song, by Mavenge Sudi, is a little bit older example. So I like that we’re kind of traveling back in time, but it shows a more traditional solo artist’s style. Maybe with this style would evolve from someone playing this single string umuduri to now a guitar.

Yeah. In that song, Mavenge Sudi is actually citing his teacher, who is a guitar player named Gaetan Kayitare. And he was killed in the Genocide in 1994, but he had played and shared a lot of his songs with Mavenge. And Mavenge keeps those songs as a living tradition by playing them and recording them.

And I think you can hear the African roots of the blues when he plays them. I think it’s a really sort of, lovely, stripped-down, kind of pure example of those sonic elements of Black diasporic sound, because you have just this very repetitive but moving backbeat, and then you have just the two chords being played over and over again, in a circle. And then you have this poetry on top of it.

And so, those are the things that stand out to me when I see that artists from the ’50s– songs like this– to the ’70s, to the early 2000s in Rwanda after the Genocide when the industry was able to rebuild itself, to what’s happening now 25 years later, is that consistency. And that’s what makes me think that they’re invested in this larger global project and less focused on producing music that is specifically or inherently Rwandan. So when you see music, for example, like Ntidukina, it stood out. It wasn’t that that was an expected thing for him to do necessarily, but that it was a very insightful thing for him to do nonetheless. Yeah.

Sizek: Yeah, well that brings us really full circle, all the way from the ’50s to 2017, and beyond. Thank you so much for coming on the podcast.

Grubbs: No problem, thanks for having me.

Woman’s Voice: Thank you for listening. To learn more about Social Science Matrix, please visit matrix.berkeley.edu.

 

Article

Advancing Computational Psychology: A Visual Interview with Bill Thompson

Bill Thompson

How do humans pass on complex concepts and knowledge to subsequent generations? In his research, UC Berkeley cognitive scientist Bill Thompson uses computational methods and large-scale experiments to understand problems like knowledge transmission, the universality of language categories, and the social aspects of human problem-solving.

Thompson is an Assistant Professor in the UC Berkeley Department of Psychology and Director of the Experimental Cognition Laboratory. Thompson is also affiliated with the Institute for Cognitive and Brain Sciences and the Program in Cognitive Science.

In this visual interview, conducted by Matrix Postdoctoral Fellow Julia Sizek, we focus on one of Thompson’s most recent research projects, which considers how humans can become successful at a problem-solving task. The findings from the research were published in Science.

One of the big questions you grapple with is how people learn and what the relationship is between learned traits and “universal” human traits. What new tools and methods have emerged to conduct this research?  

Psychological research can help us understand the basic cognitive processes involved in learning, memory, and reasoning, but traditional experiments were often limited to simple judgments of very simple stimuli and to small groups of participants. With modern computational methods, we can study these aspects of the mind ever more precisely. My research tries to make use of these emerging tools, and combine them with large-scale behavioral experiments to learn more about human language and cognition, especially our capacity to learn from and reason about each other. 

For example, our recent studies have used machine learning methods such as neural networks to analyze large-scale behavioral datasets, uncovering patterns in the strategies people use to solve problems in groups. Using these methods, we’re able to study entire networks of participants, and leverage this larger-scale data to understand the underlying algorithmic structure of how people reason about more complex problems. That’s significant because it brings us much closer to the kinds of problems people face in the real world; moreover, understanding cognition in computational terms allows us to translate new findings into more human-like artificial intelligence systems.        

In a study on cultural learning, you focus on a question about how humans pass along strategies for performing tasks. In an experiment, you asked participants to try a difficult sorting task. Can you describe the task and how the experiment works? 

Suppose I lay out six images on the table in front of you. I tell you that each image has a number on the back from 1 to 6. Your task is to put the images in order from left (1) to right (6). If you can get the order correct, I will pay you. 

The trick is that you have to do this without ever seeing the numbers. All you can do is choose pairs of images to compare: if the pair you choose is out of order, I will swap their positions. However, every comparison you make reduces the eventual payout.

It might sound like a magic trick, but this is a difficult puzzle to solve. Computer scientists have studied the algorithms capable of solving this kind of problem extensively. Even the simpler algorithms can be quite counterintuitive. 

We studied this task because we are interested in how people discover solutions to difficult problems – a key ingredient of all human societies. We asked people to solve the puzzle without any kind of training, and write down any insights they had into what makes a good or bad solution. The messages people wrote were handed to the next group of participants, who also tried to solve the problem and wrote down their own insights. 

Over the course of the experiment, thousands of participants tried to solve the problem and transmitted information to each other about their successes and failures. Over time, the strategies people discovered evolved to become more efficient, but also more complex. By the end of the experiment, people had discovered some highly unlikely and very efficient algorithms – even some algorithms that have been discovered and documented in computer science! 

In this process, participants were able to learn from others – and choose who to learn from. How did research participants decide who to choose as their teachers? 

The key to this process of cumulative improvement, we found, was the ability to be selective about whose advice you seek out. If people were paired up randomly with teachers, there was no way for high-performers to pass on their knowledge. Rare discoveries of innovative solutions often went extinct because people were never exposed to them. 

Instead, if people were allowed to choose a teacher based on the solutions the teacher had discovered, then many people were exposed to innovative discoveries, even when they were rare.   

algorithmic trees
Algorithm lineages in the experiment. Each row in the trees represents a generation of the experiment. From “Complex cognitive algorithms preserved by selective social learning in experimental populations,” by B. Thompson, B. van Opheusden, T. Sumers, and T. L. Griffiths, Science, 376 (6588), DOI: 10.1126/science.abn0915.

How did participants sort between the strategies when they were able to pick between teachers?

One of the most interesting things that the experiment illustrated was a kind of tradeoff in the accumulation of knowledge: as people’s strategies became more efficient over time, they also became harder for the next generation to learn. People at later generations in the experiment inherited more complex algorithms, but this meant that they often had a harder time acquiring this inherited knowledge. Another way of putting this is that as time goes on, we need to invest more and more in mechanisms that support learning and preserve knowledge.

Cognitive psychology has traditionally focused on the idea of fixed, universal cognitive functions such as an innate ability to learn language or distinct types of memory. But there is a greater appreciation now for the role that learning in culturally embedded social contexts plays in the construction of our cognition, shaping the way we conceptualize even basic aspects of the world. The culture we grow up in provides us with counting systems, maps, calendars, categories of kinship relationships, and many other cognitive tools for thought. Our hope is that research like this can help highlight some of the ways that cognition is always evolving, and how we can study aspects of that process experimentally and from a computational perspective. 

How might your work have a broader application for explaining how strategies spread that are harder to learn, but more successful?  

The trade-off between a person’s ease of learning a strategy and their efficiency and success at completing a task can help us understand the importance of mechanisms that mitigate barriers to knowledge. One area where this is potentially quite important is in the design of computational technologies that capture and transmit knowledge – social networking algorithms, large language models, or educational technologies, for example. 

Understanding the tradeoffs that arise when thousands of people start to learn from each other via algorithms is a core challenge for contemporary psychological research in my view, especially in the context of cognitive development among children and young adults. For example, the use of large language models to support education offers significant potential for personalization and increased access to knowledge, but at the same time these systems have the potential to reinforce biases and reproduce harmful content that was present in their training data. More generally, increasing mediation of human interaction by machine learning systems has the potential to amplify misinformation, promote simplification over understanding, and distort our impression of what other people believe.    

Here at UC Berkeley, one of my goals is to create the research infrastructure and training that new generations of students in behavioral science need in order to address these challenges with cutting-edge methods, including computational modeling, machine learning, and high-powered, large-scale experiments. Broadening access to these innovations is critical.