“Beyond the Straits: Postcolonial Allegories of the Globe”

Peter Hulme

in Postcolonial Studies and Beyond, ed. Ania Loomba, Suvir Kaul, Matti Bunzl, Antoinette Burton, and Jed Esty, Durham: Duke University Press, 2005, pp. 41-61.

Mañana, mañana

Ojos sin brillo

Noche encalmada

Y no viene el día

No viene.

(Radio Tarifa)[1]

The conference on which this volume is based asked its speakers to reflect on the future directions that postcolonial studies might take.  This paper begins by suggesting what new horizons might be glimpsed across the straits that have appeared in recent years to encircle postcolonial studies, defining it in narrow and restrictive ways.  But it is also concerned to follow the implications of its title in ways literal, historical, and theoretical.  The paper was written in the shadow of the re-establishment of one of the world’s most influential frontiers, between southwest Europe and northwest Africa.  It revisits the shape of the earth that was verified by the European journeys from that portal.  And it speculates on the survival of the allegories of globality that flowed from those journeys, and which might seem irredeemably tainted by the association with European imperial hegemony which they helped establish.  On its own journey the paper sails close to the contentious debates about globalisation and cosmopolitanism which currently enrich postcolonial studies, but it takes too idiosyncratic and meditative a course to contribute anything of substance to them.

One

My personal commitment to the idea of postcolonial studies is probably as strong as it is because the appearance of that field in the late 1980s gave me a real sense of belonging: I recognised postcolonial studies as what I had been doing for fifteen years or so without realising it.  If there is one particular stance I take with respect to the current state of postcolonial studies, it is that we are still discovering, slowly, perhaps unmethodically, but – as far as I’m concerned – with a continuing sense of excitement, the dimensions of the field.  What I mean by this is both that the field is getting bigger as the characteristic language and thematic concerns of postcolonial studies spread across many disciplines, and that at the same time we are unearthing a lot of earlier anti-colonial work, often neglected at its time of writing, which is allowing us to piece together a fuller history of the development of postcolonial studies.  So one of the fundamental beyonds suggested by my title is an encouragement to go beyond the straitjacket of those accounts and definitions of postcolonial studies which simplify and narrow its range to the work of a handful of theorists and a handful of novelists.  In the past, that oversimplified picture of postcolonial studies has even been accepted by some of those who work within the field, or have a productive relationship to it.  Fortunately, the picture is now beginning to broaden, as this volume suggests.

Perhaps the most obvious of my titular straits are the straits of Eurocentric thinking which postcolonial studies is dedicated to surpassing.  As might have been predicted, the most resistant categories of Eurocentrism are those which are so deeply embedded that we have come to think of them simply as parts of a natural geohistorical landscape; and probably none of these categories has a deader hand than that of historical periodisation.  Until recently postcolonial studies has largely situated itself in the modern world, giving consistent attention to the notion of modernity, though that narrowness of historical range is beginning to broaden.  However, even when postcolonial studies has looked back beyond the nineteenth century, it has tended to thump into the backstop of 1492, reinforcing the idea of the Middle Ages as some kind of dark hole out of which modernity seems magically to have emerged.  Certainly by the eighteenth century ‘medieval’ had already become a colonial term in the sense of giving Western modernity a period into which to shunt at least some of the social formations it encountered.[2]  Not accidentally, the term ‘medieval’ has now made a reappearance as the period in which Islam, in at least certain of its forms, can be fundamentally situated: as in “the medieval savagery of the Taliban” – as if the Middle Ages could teach the modern world anything about savagery.  Anyway, standing against these various simplifications and stereotypes there is now a growing body of work by self-defined postcolonial medievalists, who tend to be asking some of the most searching questions about the nature of nationalism and of colonialism.[3]

 In geographical terms, to look back beyond the straits of 1492 would be to give more postcolonial attention to the Iberian peninsula and to the empires developed there.  One indication of what might be possible comes with the essay Gayatri Spivak contributed to a recent volume in honour of Edward Said, which takes the form of an extensive critical tribute to a book by a distinguished Native American historian, Jack Forbes, called Africans and Native Americans: The Language of Race and the Evolution of Red-Black Peoples.  In this book Forbes attempts to understand the shifting terminology of racial and colour classification by means of a detailed tracking of the fourteenth-century Arabic and Portuguese origins of words like “mulatto” and  “pardo” and “moro”; not to show what they really mean, but to demonstrate the vertiginous shifts in their meanings over the centuries, in fact to unmoor them from their conventional definitions.  Spivak sees in this what she calls – in an unaccountably tender phrase – an “empirical intuition of affirmative deconstruction.”[4]

Spivak relates Forbes to Said in a purely conventional way: Said is the ground-breaker, while “Forbes belongs to the group of social scientists who have been chipping away at the monolithic Eurocentrism of their disciplines... during the two decades after Orientalism.”[5]  (Which actually does Forbes less than justice since his first contribution to the rewriting of American history was published as early as 1960.)[6]  But by putting Forbes and Said in the same frame, Spivak both draws Forbes’s work into the postcolonial field, where its intellectual and political allies are grouping, and she extends and deepens that field by adding to it the complexity of Forbes’s American concerns and the breadth of his lexicographical scholarship.

It is profoundly telling that it was a Native American historian, interested in why the mixing between Americans and Africans had been so invisible to scholarship, who took the trouble to undertake this extraordinary work, which leads back to the equally invisible trafficking of Arabic terms into the developing European vernaculars – most traces of which would eventually be purged by the great European etymological dictionaries, those monuments to scholarship and to amnesia.  ‘Traffic’ – a word now almost synonymous with modernity – may itself be of Arabic origin.[7]  In any event, traffic – in this case human traffic across the straits – is where the main part of this paper will begin.

Two

During September and October 2000 the Spanish photographer, Javier Bauluz, documented the illegal immigrants arriving on the southern coast of Spain near the towns of Tarifa and Zahara de los Atunes.  An exhibition of his photographs has been shown in Spain under the title “España, Frontera Sur.”  One particular photograph (fig. 1) shows a young couple, presumably Spanish, almost certainly European, in swimming costumes, sitting on the beach at Zahara under a parasol.  A few yards away lies a third figure, the body of a would-be refugee or migrant, drowned on the attempted crossing of the straits of Gibraltar and washed up onto the beach.  The couple gaze with apparent indifference in the direction of the dead man, their own bodies betraying no evident discomfort or anxiety.  If the corpse were removed from the picture, it would just look as if they were enjoying a pleasant day at the seaside.  The photograph dramatises contrasts in some evident ways: between the leisure and comfort of the young couple and the stillness in death of the single man; between their bronzed skin and his shabby clothes; between their togetherness and his isolation.  In one sense this paper meditates on the implications of that photograph, which casts its shadow back to the sixteenth century and beyond.

Zahara has more resonance as a place than might be immediately apparent.  It owes its name to the Arab invasion of the Iberian peninsula at the beginning of the eighth century, which swept across these southern beaches, as did – in the other direction – the Jews and Muslims expelled in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries in order that Spain could define itself as white and Christian.[8]  The final expulsion of the moriscos was ordered by Philip III in 1609, leading to the forced removal of 250,000 inhabitants of Spain over the next five years.  One ‘representative’ figure here – from the second part of Don Quijote, published in the following year – would be Sancho Panza’s neighbour, the morisco Ricote, so acculturated that he even agrees with the King’s decree, but so in love with the country of his birth that he returns to Spain in disguise after wandering through North Africa and much of Europe.  “Wherever we are,” he says, “we weep for Spain; for, in short, here we were born, and this is our native country.”[9]  An early representative of the hundreds of thousands of Europeans who have subsequently been seen as not really European.

Another image, this one dating from 1620, Simon van der Passe’s engraving for the frontispiece of Francis Bacon’s Instauratio Magna (fig. 2), shows the ships of modernity sailing through the Pillars of Hercules into the Atlantic ocean beyond.  Bacon obviously intended this picture as a great visual monument to the alliance between European exploration and the development of scientific rationalism.  The limits of traditional knowledge, symbolised by the Pillars of Hercules, were now being surpassed.  As Bacon’s epigraph to the engraving announces: Multi pertransibunt et augebitur scientia: Many shall go to and fro and knowledge shall be increased.[10]  The northern Pillar, pebbles and sand at its foot in the engraving, is traditionally located just a few miles from Zahara.

Europeans had in fact begun to sail out past that beach and through those straits early in the last millennium on voyages of exploration and colonisation.  The first major European colonisation in the western ocean was of the Canary Islands, the Fortunate Islands of classical mythology, which had been established by Claudius Ptolemy as the prime meridian for the calculation of longitude.[11]  The Canarians were written about by Boccaccio and by Petrarch, establishing within fourteenth-century European writing many of the tropes characteristic of the colonial accounts of indigeneity that would become more familiar after 1492 in respect of the newly-discovered Americas.[12]  In particular, in the Canarians Petrarch found the type of non-European man against which to define his ideal of secular individualism.  The Canary Islands proved to be, ethnographically as well as geographically, the degree zero of European culture.

In a literal sense, beyond the straits is the ever-receding horizon of the globe itself.  The representation of the earth as a globe is indissolubly connected with the project of European colonialism, initially through Columbus’s circumnavigatory plan, which finds its shape in the first surviving European globe, dating from 1492 (and therefore lacking the Americas).  Eventually in 1519 a truly pan-European voyage, Spanish in name, but with German finance, a Portuguese captain, and an Italian chronicler, set off past the straits on a voyage which three years later returned to Seville having completed the first circumnavigation of the world, thereby engraving on European consciousness the sphericity of the earth, celebrated through the making of a series of terrestrial globes on which were plotted the courses of Magellan’s ship and, eventually, those of his successors, such as Francis Drake and George Anson.[13]

There are many reasons to be suspicious of global thinking.  On one level, globality – even in a restricted sense of the term – is clearly directed at the attainment of military and commercial power. The Spanish motive behind Magellan’s voyage was to circumvent the papal division of the world enshrined in the Treaty of Tordesillas.  Spain’s global reach was never fully achieved, but it was that country’s defeat in 1898 – in the the founding gesture of modern geopolitics – which gave the USA, through its acquisition of Cuba, the Phillipines, and Guam, to go along with the recently acquired Hawai’i, an equatorial girdle, immediately reinforced by the building of the Panama Canal, itself one of those ruthlessly commercial projects presented by their backers as selfless attempts to unify the world: in Ferdinand de Lesseps’ formulation, to “trace across this very globe the sign of peace.”[14]  Alfred Thayer Mahan, author of The Interest of America in Sea Power (and incidentally – or not – coiner of the term ‘the Middle East’) is rarely given his due as the great strategist behind this circumnavigatory policy, which has underpinned US global power since the beginning of the twentieth century and whose sea channels are still crucial to waging war in places such as Afghanistan and Iraq.[15]

For the tradition of rationality which Francis Bacon represents, the global accomplishment foreshadowed by Columbus and achieved by Magellan’s voyage across open seas and around the world offers an allegory of universal knowledge divorced from the local exploration of coastal waters.  In the next section of the paper I want at least to pose the question about the possible survival of versions of that global allegory in the face of postcolonial studies’ fundamental commitment to ideas of the local and the marginal. The shape of the world always dictates return so, having begun on the European coast the paper will finally circle back to Europe – unlike Magellan himself, who only ever reached the Phillippines.

Three

The first word of Ella Shohat and Robert Stam’s book title, Unthinking Eurocentrism – one of the early landmarks in postcolonial studies – needs to be taken in two ways.[16]  The embedded categories of Eurocentrism give ‘unthinking’ as adjective – the assumed, the naturalised.  But the task the authors set about is verbal ‘unthinking’, the unravelling and remapping of what the West had once, from its own viewpoint, mapped so definitively in accordance with the universal co-ordinates which it claimed to have discovered: the universalisation of Western culture as the Mexican historian, Edmundo O’Gorman called it as long ago as 1958.[17]  At a fundamental level – perhaps the deepest in the sense of the most embedded – that unthinking necessarily involves the dismantling and reassembling of the very literal terms in which areas of the world were divided and named and visualised within European maps.  The conventional founding moment for postcolonial studies saw the unthinking of the geohistorical category of the Orient,[18] but the contribution of geohistorical unthinking to postcolonial studies has a much longer and broader tradition, initially in the work of figures such as Carl Sauer and O’Gorman himself, more recently in that of Arno Peters, Brian Harley, Enrique Dussell, Fernando Coronil, José Rabasa, Patricia Seed, Walter Mignolo, J.M. Blaut.[19]  The listing of those names – the enlisting of that work of what might be called cultural geography into postcolonial studies – is intended to make one of my points: the need to enrich postcolonial thinking by going beyond the usual suspects.  As with Jack Forbes, let us pay some attention – and tribute – to where the work of unthinking Eurocentrism has actually been happening, for at least the last 50 years.  And as those names suggest, much of that work has gone on in Latin America or at least in Latin American studies.  To enlist Mignolo’s work, in particular, is inevitably to raise the question he asks so persistently about the location of what he now prefers to call postoccidentalism.[20]  For Mignolo, this work takes place “in the margins” – yet another spatial term, and one offering a location which seems more comfortably postcolonial than anything that global imagery might have to offer.[21]  Beach, horizon: margins, globe: physical location, the rhetorical position of knowledge-production.  It is those dialectics to which I turn.

Of the new European sciences developed in the early modern period, cartography probably has the most direct and unmediated relationship to colonial practice.  Cartography helped European ships sail the oceans to their colonial destinations.  The territory to be possessed or disciplined or taxed was subject to a regime of surveying and mapping.  Cartography seems to be where Western rationality in one of its purest forms – geometry – serves an imperial practice as what Arjun Appadurai calls “the prose of cadastral politics.”[22]  Following Brian Harley’s pioneering work in this area, colonial historians such as Lesley Cormack, Barbara Mundy, and Matthew Edney have begun to detail the intimate relationships between cartography and imperialism.[23]

The founding text of Western cartography is Claudius Ptolemy’s Geography, written in the 2^nd century AD, a text which also provides the classical demonstration of the sphericity of the earth, which ancient geographers understood long before Magellan’s voyage demonstrated it.  The shift associated with Ptolemy is towards a deductive cartographic practice which would be able to incorporate existing surveys into a synthetic whole constructed by means of the abstract numbered network we now call the lines of latitude and longitude, enabling the geographer to preserve the correct proportion of small areas to the whole earth.[24]  It was the Latin translation of Ptolemy in the early fifteenth century which triggered early modern cartography, and his methodology guided European cartographers even when Ptolemy’s own maps had obviously been superseded.  Through the projections of sixteenth-century mapmakers, especially those of Gerardus Mercator, Europe produced an image of the world so powerful that we in the West still think that it’s what the world really looks like, with Europe at its centre, Africa below, and America and Asia to each side: east is east and west is west, and north is on top.

All of this seems to run counter to the grain of postcolonial thinking.  After all, the view from above is usually associated either with domination of a literal kind, as with the trope of the imperial eye, or with the claim to a scientific neutrality which is merely the universalisation of technological power, as exemplified, say, in spy-satellites.  So in the light of this imbrication between cartography and imperialism, it is understandable why someone like Walter Mignolo should reject the claim that Euclidean geometry might offer any “neutral ordering of the shape of the earth.”[25]  This seems an almost classically postcolonial point.  Europe has taken the geometrical projections that allowed it to dominate the world and passed them off as neutral and unmarked.  Postcolonial studies, it might be assumed, will re-mark that cartographic – even cosmographical – tradition as merely occidental, thus grounding, locating, and demystifying its global pretensions.[26]  Indeed, in postcolonial discussions map-making has frequently been offered as an emblem of the pretensions of rationality via reference to the now conventional topos of Jorge Luis Borges’s tantalising paragraph called “On Exactitude in Science,” supposedly quoted from a seventeenth-century Spanish moralist who recalls an Empire in which the art of cartography reached such perfection that a map of the Empire was made “whose size was that of the Empire, and which coincided point for point with it” – and was therefore entirely useless.[27]

However, in proposing a radically different set of projections of how the world looks, Arno Peters’ ‘new cartography’ offered from 1967 onwards – in classically postcolonial fashion – to destabilise those earlier Western images of the world.  The aim of Mercator’s projections had been to allow navigators to plot straight-line courses.  As a consequence they represented European land masses as relatively larger than they are.  Operating to a different imperative, Peters’ postcolonial projections present landmass areas accurately in relation to each other, at the expense of distortion to shape (fig. 3), thereby offering a salutary provincialising of Europe, and indeed of North America, especially with respect to Africa.  But – and this is where I want to try to turn the tide of this cartographic argument – maps are not merely perspectival: size is a relative absolute and landmass areas can therefore be represented accurately, or not, with respect to each other.  That phrase “relatively larger than they are” belongs to Brian Harley himself,[28] who would have no truck with claims to the mere neutral truth of Western cartography, but who is prepared to make a truth-claim which distances him from any suggestion that all maps merely offer a different ‘perspective’ dependent on the position – ethnic, cultural, spatial, or whatever – of their maker.  And the judgement about whether or not that accuracy has been achieved in any particular case can best be made from a position which might metaphorically be represented as ‘global’ since, in a globe, landmass size and shape can both be represented accurately.[29]

Oddly, despite the current ubiquity of the discourse on globalisation, and despite us nearly reaching the quincentenary of Magellan’s voyage, the implications of the globe – in the cartographic sense of the term – have never fully infiltrated our critical language.  As Gayatri Spivak writes in an essay on Marshall McLuhan’s notion of the ‘global village’: “The ‘globe’ is counterintuitive.  You walk from one end of the earth to the other and it remains flat”[30]: the actual shape of the earth has had real difficulty in imposing itself on our ways of thinking and writing, leaving us with a language of ‘ends’ and ‘margins’, neither of which a sphere can actually possess.  Such terminology, though rarely questioned, is deeply ideological: the biblical injunction to the uttermost ends of the earth, based on the idea of a sacred centre and heathen outskirts – and bolstered by the classical tag ad termini orbis terrarum – passed into common usage and has, even within the last 200 years, underpinned two of the most savage of colonial genocides, in Tasmania and Patagonia, areas designated by Western imperial geographers as ‘the ends of the earth’ – and therefore home to the lowest and most dispensable forms of humanity.[31]  If that’s what Eurocentric flat-earth imagery leads to, then allegories of the globe might possibly offer some improvement.

 The globe seems almost to avoid scrutiny.  It is a figure of perfection, completion, and universality.  It has no truck with divisions or frontiers.  The name of the object – the globe that sits in your study – is reassuringly the same as the name of what it represents: the earth, the planet, the globe.  Scrutiny of global imagery has, however, recently arrived in two complementary studies, Denis Cosgrove's Apollo’s Eye and Bruce Robbins's Feeling Global.[32]  Cosgrove’s book about the history of global imagery is deeply concerned with the genealogy of what Robbins calls “the ambiguity of the aerial perspective.” [33]  That perspective is not necessarily physically raised above the surface of the earth – indeed it is only in the last hundred years that such physical elevation has been possible.  But rhetorically all maps occupy a position of overview or domination, with the globe itself even allowing its owner to imaginatively possess the whole world – which is why European monarchs commissioned so many globes in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.  In Cosgrove’s account, the Apollonian eye is synoptic and omniscient, intellectually detached from the earth, but never disconnected from it, which means that the knowledge invested in the Apollonian position is never separate from earthly power.  The Apollonian vision is often an imperial gaze, and is properly seen as the basis of a male-gendered Eurocentrism which rose to prominence during the early modern period, although Cosgrove rightly cautions that the issue is by no means simple: “The Apollonian perspective prompts ethical questions about individual and social life on the globe’s surface that have disturbed as often as they have reassured a comfortable Western patriarchy.”[34]  Throughout the modern period in particular, representations of the globe have been connected “as closely to lust for material possessions, power, and authority as to metaphysical speculation, religious aspiration, or poetic sentiment,” and he is careful to pay attention to the development of a Eurocentric thinking in which Europe’s “totalizing globalism” transformed and destroyed non-European worlds.[35]  But, at the same time, that potentially, or imaginatively, global view has always also been associated with the detachment and disinterest of true knowledge.  Apollo is Cosgrove’s figure for that ambiguity, master of both the imperial and the poetic globes.

Bruce Robbins illustrates his book with photographs of Italian cities taken by his father from the bomb compartment of his B-17 during and just after the Second World War, hauntingly beautiful photographs which illustrate that ambiguity of the aerial perspective in a fairly obvious way.  Interestingly, Cosgrove traces in some detail the twentieth-century fascination with the airman, who took over from the circumnavigator in offering a figure whose vision could be seen as disengaging from the limited perspective of earthbound mortals,[36] a vision celebrated in the early 1940s in the writing of Archibald MacLeish and in the map-making of Richard Edes Harrison, whose famous image of a world map called “One World, One War” is sometimes invoked as preparing the popular ground for US entry into the Second World War by placing the viewer in an Apollonian position directly above the north pole, from where the globe’s landmass appears shrunken and singular, nowhere very far from anywhere else – apart from Australia and New Zealand.

If Peters’ projections reverse the Eurocentrism of Mercator’s without ever escaping the misrepresentation intrinsic to the idea of projection itself, could anything like a postcolonial globe be imagined?  Cosgrove comes close to suggesting this possibility, in the form of the photographs of the earth taken on the Apollo space missions between 1968 and 1972 – two of which have been very widely reproduced (fig. 4).  There’s obviously nothing neutral about the origins of these photographs, but in their random angles and unplanned coverings of cloud they do further destabilise our remaining colonial certainties that north is at the top, that all writing runs a particular way, that national borders are visible.  The globe in the study turns on its own axis.  NASA’s photographs give us a globe that is spinning in a larger universe.

Could any such global, Apollonian moment exist within postcolonial studies, or at least in dialogue with postcolonial studies?  Given the commitment of postcolonial studies to the work of the local, in the margins, then a commitment to allegorical globality could perhaps only survive counterintuitively – and, to be sure, against the grain of the term ‘Apollo’.  But there is a contragranular tradition of this kind within postcolonial studies: I’m thinking – to keep within cartographic imagery – of something like Aimé Césaire’s attack on humanism in the name of “a true humanism... made to the measure of the world,”[37] a call which finds its echoes in Fanon and in Said, and which encourages me to offer in shorthand three possible instances of such postcolonial globality.

It was Fernando Coronil who suggested the need to attend more carefully to the actual textures of occidentalism itself, the better to then formulate postoccidental thinking.[38]  But the term ‘postoccidental’ itself has a much longer history, coined by the Cuban critic Roberto Fernández Retamar as early as 1961.  Interestingly, for Retamar the origin of postoccidental knowledge is to be found in the work of Karl Marx, the irony of history determining that the occident would provide the material for its own unthinking underneath that suitably global dome of the British Museum Reading Room.[39]  A theory of history thinking itself – and the metaphor seems unavoidable – above the circumstances and location of its production.

The second example is very different, and comes from within cartographic studies itself.  Shortly before he died, Brian Harley initiated, with David Woodward, a massive series of volumes called the The History of Cartography, which is slowly offering a global account of the history of map-making.  This is not an unpositioned history -- it’s mostly written by Western scholars and published by the University of Chicago Press -- but it gives enormous weight to indigenous and non-Western traditions of map-making which not that long ago would not only have not been seen as important, but would not even have been recognised as map-making at all.  There is a universal claim at the heart of this project, but it is one spoken with due tentativeness: “There has probably always been a mapping impulse in human consciousness,” Harley writes.[40]  The determination to approach the history of “understand[ing] the world by depicting it in map form” in “a global way” is then finessed by imaginatively rising above the tradition of Western cartography, of which the whole project is obviously the inheritor, in order to recognise the unfamiliar, especially the indigenous, to engage it in conversation, and to allow it to change the terms in which the field of cartography is described.[41]

The question of indigeneity provides the third example.  No issue has pressed matters of locality so hard in places like Canada, Australia, Ecuador, and Mexico, where land is a fundamental and burning issue.  And yet the movement for indigenous rights has become a powerful force in the modern world at least partly because of its successful use of global opportunities, particularly in the forums of the United Nations where it is helping refashion the language of human rights, a language we often assume belongs to the Enlightenment, but which actually has its origins in the debate that followed contact with that indigenous Canarian population, victims of the first of Europe’s genocides of native peoples.[42]

So perhaps, at moments, and with due caution, the development of postoccidental thinking might still operate some version of a global perspective without betraying its local commitments.

Four

That ends the speculative circumnavigation, returning me to dry land, in Europe.  I’ve referred both to the postcolonial tradition ‘from the margins’ and to some more tentative global positioning, but I want to end in Europe for two reasons.  First, to make the point that the attractions of global allegory do not involve divorce from the pressing circumstances of moment and location – which for those of us who work in Britain currently involve grappling with the idea of Europe.  And secondly, because it is important to remember that postcolonial studies has a purchase beyond the unthinking of Eurocentrism’s view of non-European worlds: Britain itself, and Europe more generally, is deeply marked by its postcolonial condition, even as – and especially because – it has such difficulty recognising that condition.  The dimensions of the condition might be suggested by juxtaposing two very different ‘voyages in’, to use Edward Said’s term.[43] For most Europeans, though not all, the postcolonial condition might be grasped by coming to terms with the colonialism which preceded and enabled the establishment of the nation states we inhabit.  The eye has to turn inward and investigate that internal history, which Shakespeare witnesses and inscribes and to a degree enacts in plays like King Lear and Macbeth.[44]  (Likewise in the USA, no taking of a postcolonial position should be able to ignore the genocidal violence which both preceded and followed the establishment of the nation state, and whose aftermath continues to disfigure American realities.)  In other words, while postcolonial studies needs to move beyond various straits, it also needs to be recursive, testing the power of its analyses on the monuments of European culture: it must continue to unthink those cultural securities at home.

Inasmuch as British culture recognises itself as postcolonial, that recognition is due to the presence in the UK of those who undertook the voyage in, during the 1950s and 1960s, largely from the Caribbean and the Indian subcontinent.  Those inward voyages took many forms, but surely one of the most exemplary was that of the Barbadian novelist and critic, George Lamming, whose book of essays, The Pleasures of Exile, was published in 1960 but only recognised nearly thirty years later as a landmark work in postcolonial studies, largely due to Rob Nixon’s pioneering essay.[45]

One exemplary aspect of Lamming’s work was his recognition of the centrality of what he called “the whole tabernacle” of English literature to the colonial system.[46]  Lamming set out to shake the foundations of that tabernacle – by re-reading The Tempest.  On most grounds, that might seem a less radical move than hammering a nail into Prospero’s head, which was what Caliban wanted to do in the course of that play.  But Lamming was working in accordance with the first rule of guerrilla tactics: always take the enemy by surprise.  Prospero will expect the nail in the head and take precautions, as the play itself shows; but he will not expect to be challenged as a literary commentator, a role Prospero and his descendants had long thought of as rightfully theirs.[47]  Lamming’s reading of The Tempest has changed our understanding of Shakespeare, opening the way for postcolonial scholarship of the kind that has now installed itself as the canonical reading of the play.[48]

The Tempest was probably the first literary beneficiary of circumnavigation.  At that uttermost end of the earth which was Patagonia, Magellan encountered native people who were described by the Italian nobleman, Antonio Pigafetta, the expedition’s chronicler, as “Patagoni.”  Pigafetta tells of how Magellan captured two of these natives by a trick, imprisoning them in fetters.  When they saw how they were deceived, he wrote, they roared like bulls, and cried out to their great devil Setebos, to help them.[49] 

The route from the Patagonian coast to Whitehall, where the word Setebos was spoken on the English stage, was by no means straightforward.  The first published version of Pigafetta was an Italian translation of a French translation of the then lost Italian original.  That Italian translation was itself translated into English in abbreviated form by Richard Eden in his The Decades of the New Worlde published in London in 1555, and then posthumously reprinted in an augmented version in 1577 called The History of Trauayle in the West and East Indies, which is where Shakespeare probably came across it.[50]  It’s one of the oddities of the translation process that the non-European word, precisely because it is unfamiliar to all parties in all European languages and once it finds its first European – in this case Italian – form as ‘Setebos’, remains absolutely constant until it finally emerges in Caliban’s description of Prospero’s power as such that “It would control my dam’s god Setebos.”[51]  That such a previously unknown word should reappear in absolutely identical form in The Tempest nearly a hundred years after its first recording off the South American coast makes Pigafetta’s text one of the very few certain verbal sources for the play.[52]

Five

The Tempest takes place in the dangerous waters between Naples and Tunis, by implication between Christendom and Islam, and was first staged in 1611, between Philip III’s order and the final expulsion of the moriscos from the Iberian peninsula.  For all Fernand Braudel’s emphasis on the deep currents of Mediterranean history, the story he tells of the area in these years is in one sense rather crude – an essential struggle between East and West, meaning the Islamic world and Christian Europe.  After centuries in which the East was dominant, by the sixteenth century the West “was far ahead of the East,” a statement he glosses as “more forceful and holding the Islamic world in its dependence.”[53]  More interesting than the historical judgement itself is what counts for Braudel as evidence for this Western domination, which is human migration.  Not, however, as you might expect, human migration from East to West or South to North, not the evidence of a superior civilisation, richer and more developed, which attracts the inhabitants of the less developed world like bees to a honeypot – which is now the story we are told to explain migration from South to North.  Just the opposite in fact: “Men flocked from Christendom to Islam, which tempted them with visions of adventure and profit – and paid them to stay.”[54]  Braudel accumulates evidence for this.  The Grand Turk paid handsomely for Europeans to work as artisans, weavers, shipbuilders; Spanish garrisons on the North African coast were decimated by epidemics of desertion, as soldiers embraced Islam; small boats left Sicily full of candidates for apostasy, for ‘turning Turk’ as the contemporary phrase put it.  This is a strange kind of ‘dominance’: Shakespeare’s Alonso, pressured into giving his daughter Claribel into a dynastic marriage in Tunis would certainly suggest a much more equal balance of forces at this moment.  “Perhaps unconsciously,” Braudel says, “the Turks were opening doors just as Christendom was shutting them.  Christian intolerance, the consequence of large numbers, did not welcome strangers, it repelled them.”[55]

It is still repelling them.  The second inward voyage to set alongside Lamming’s is fictional: the disturbing and minatory novel by the French writer, Jean Raspail, first published in 1973, and called The Camp of the Saints.  The title is a Biblical reference, from the Book of Revelation (20.9), in which Satan is released from his 1000-year imprisonment and unleashes the forces of Gog and Magog, which “compassed the camp of the saints about,” until the fire from heaven came down to devour them.  In the novel, a pilgrimage of a million starving Indians storm on board ships in Calcutta harbour and sail round Africa, through the Straits of Gibraltar and into the Mediterranean where they beach on the French coast.  French army units, ordered to fire on the invading masses, desert in droves, and the novel ends with the establishment of a new world order dominated by the forces of the previously dispossessed.  In the preface to the novel’s second edition, Raspail explains that it was only “prudence” that had led him to displace the threat to Europe onto faraway India, from where it actually lies – on the southern shores of the Mediterranean, ready to follow what he calls the “mighty vanguard already here... in the bosom of a people that once was French.”[56]

In recent years Raspail’s novel has begun to look prophetic.  In the summer of 1991 thousands of Albanians commandeered ships to take them to the Italian ports of Bari and Brindisi where they were locked up in football stadiums before being forcibly repatriated.  In February 1993 a small rusting freighter called the Golden Venture carried refugees from China to Kenya and then Kenya to Rockaway, in the Queens district of New York City, where the boat ran aground, drowning several of the refugees.[57]  Then, early in 2001, even more pointedly, the East Sea, a freighter flying a Cambodian flag, was beached by its crew near Nice with a cargo of nearly 1000 Iraqi and Turkish Kurds packed into the hold in conditions very close to those described by Raspail for his Indian ship (fig. 5).  Needless to say, this cargo of the dispossessed did not take over the government of the world.

Raspail’s novel is a fascist cry of despair at the white race’s supposed failure of will, or of “soul” as he calls it.  Its four US editions in the last fifteen years have been embraced by white-supremacist organisations such as Stormfront and American Renaissance as a warning to the white race that it must be prepared to defend itself against the threatening tide of the dispossessed who will soon attempt to overthrow its long and deserved hegemony, unless that white race rediscovers what Raspail unblinkingly calls “the inflexible courage to be rich.”[58]

On a small scale, it’s increasingly common, in many parts of the world, for the rich to need the protection of locked and patrolled housing estates to feel secure from the poor, just as, on a larger scale, the borders of the rich countries, and principally the long border between the USA and Mexico, need electronic surveillance, armed guards, wire fencing, and deep canals.  Elsewhere, as with the Straits of Gibraltar, the natural frontier is itself a huge though often insufficient deterrent.  Javier Bauluz’s exhibition is entitled “Spain: Southern Border,” but the man in his photograph has been cast ashore not just on the border between Spain and Morocco, but – since the accords which brought down most of the internal borders in Europe – on what has become the border between Africa and Europe itself (now practically synonymous with the European Union), and even the frontier between the First World and the Third, the Camp of the Saints and the tents of the wretched, a frontier fortified and patrolled as never before, which is why so many people die trying to cross it.[59]

The most troubling aspect of Bauluz’s Zahara photograph is the couple’s unthinking, unseeing gaze, which must mark some sort of disavowal, some unconscious insistence that this stretch of sand is still a beach, rather than one of the contemporary globe’s most significant fault-lines.  Cultural studies has taught us about the history of the beach.[60]  For postcolonial studies the beach has become – thanks to Greg Dening’s work[61] – a prime contact zone of colonial history, an area which might become a theatre for violence and killing as well as for commerce and escape, which might be the crucible for new lives and new languages; but which was never meant to be the setting for indifference and denial.

The Tempest has a song for a drowned man – “Those are pearls that were his eyes” – but since the play is a comedy, Alonso, the man supposedly drowned in those waters and sung about by Ariel, turns out not to be dead at all.  Radio Tarifa’s words, the epigraph to this paper, sung by Faín Dueñas with that hoarse and keening edge which is a characteristic of the vocal traditions of both sides of the Strait, perhaps offer a better elegy for the drowned man on the beach at Zahara, for whom the day will never come.

Illustrations

Fig. 1  The beach at Zahara de los Atunes, Spain (Photograph by Javier Bauluz).

Fig. 2  Simon van der Passe, Frontispiece to Francis Bacon, Instauratio Magna,  Instauratio magna, London: Joannem Billium, 1620.

Fig. 3  Arno Peters, The Peters Projection, Copyright by Akademische Verlagsanstalt.  English version by Oxford Cartographers Ltd.

Fig. 4  Whole earth: NASA’s photograph AS17-22727.

Fig. 5  Migrants from the East Sea on a beach near Nice (Photograph by Jacques Munch, AFP and AP).

Notes