The aff is just filtering local knowledge through a western understanding—this leads to wrong conclusions with negative policy effects.
Sharapova 2012 (Sevara, International Women’s Fund ‘Sharq Ayoli’, Tashkent, Uzbekistan) “Author–critic forum: decolonial theory and gender research in Central Asia: Gender epistemologies and Eurasian borderlands, by Madina Tlostanova” Central Asian Survey Vol. 31, No. 3, September 2012, p. 358
I find Tlostanova’s idea of challenging the Western monopoly of knowledge production as well as the call to join decolonialism’s movement of epistemic disobedience attractive. As a scholar from the Central Asian region I quite often face a situation described by Tlostanova: local material provided by local researchers and then theoretically comprehended by Western scholars in order to make it accepted by the audience. I often feel that such ‘theoretical’ com- prehension leads to the wrong conclusions – or at least, to conclusions that I had not intended – because it was analysed with an imported logic that is ill-fitting to the particular society being studied. Most worryingly, such analysis sometimes produces conclusions that have negative policy effects. For example, as Lewis (2008) shows, when Western scholars applied such imported logic to the analysis of the Uzbek elite and labelled different representatives of the Uzbek elite as ‘pro-Western’, ‘conservatives’, and so on, this turned out to be a poor reflection of reality.
AND No External Offense—The aff’s hegemonic notion of unchanging coloniality means their theory loses validity and historical depth.
Salvatore 2006 (Ricardo D., Departmento de Historia, Universidad Torcuato di Tella, PhD in Economics from UT Austin) “A Post-Occidentalist Manifesto: Review of The Idea of Latin America by Walter D. Mignolo” A Contracorriente, Fall 2006.
A second observation refers to the question of History and to the long duration of “coloniality.” Following Frank and Wallerstein, Mignolo places the beginning of the capitalist world system in the sixteenth century. But he sees here also the beginning of a constellation of power-knowledge that structured the world into two sides of unequal weight: modernity and coloniality. While one of the sides (of this same coin) has shown some variation over time—there have been various waves of “modernity” from the sixteenth to the twentieth century—“coloniality” has remained practically unchanged since the sixteenth century. True, there have been changes in the nature and scope of capitalist exploitation and colonialism, and in the organization of ideas and knowledge. But these changes have not affected the logic of “modernity/coloniality”. The author exemplifies this long-held persistence by comparing the contemporary US War in Iraq with the campaigns for evangelization in the sixteenth-century Spanish colonies. Is this proposition tenable? ¶ This long continuity may raise some doubts among historians and other readers willing to give credit to the idea that different waves of modernization (state-building, nationalism, industrialization, urbanization, etc.) have actually transformed the material conditions in which people live and the relations among nation-states and knowledge-producing centers. It might well be that epistemes and worldviews only move slowly, but they move nonetheless. It is unclear, then, how the “logic” of the system (whether looked from above or from below) could have remained unchanged. The very examples the author provides to deal with the racialization of peoples of native-American or African descent and of their subcontinent show that categories in fact change. Las Casas’ four categories of “barbarians” did not persist into the nineteenth-century. The identification of Africans with slavery did not last much longer than the abolition of slavery in Brazil. And the racialization of Latin American republics as “second-class nations” changed significantly with the emergence of oil-rich or industrializing economies in the region. Historians could claim that the shift from the sixteenth century to the twentieth century regarding “modernity” was such that it erased any common denominators.¶ How could the Enlightenment be compared with sixteenth- century Evangelization? What are the points in common between nineteenth-century liberalism and sixteenth-century notion of Christendom? In other words, what is common about the different temporal manifestations of “modernity”? Only that they all have their darker side (“coloniality”)? And if so, what is persistent about this systemic logic? That the excluded and marginalized—the colonized—have “always” been prevented from writing their own history, educating themselves in their own languages, or using their own categories of thought? Or that these exclusions have always been authorized by some form of racism? My point is: only at the cost of great generalization (and hence the proportional loss of validity and historical depth) can we begin to accept the notion of an unchanging “coloniality.” And when we reach that point or level of generalization we have already abandoned the historian, the political scientist, and the sociologist, and have only philosophers and critical theorists to talk to. We need to restore the historicity of the concept if we want to explain the tensions of modernity and its forms of knowledge.
Their retreat to native-epistemology is ethnocentric and reproduces violent nationalist politics –voting neg enables progressive change
Brewster Fitz, Oklahoma State University, 2007, American Indian Literary Nationalism, American Indian Culture and Research Journal 31 no3
Implicit in Weaver's analogical argument, in which he likens Indian boarding school students to contemporary Indian students in graduate programs in literature and cultural studies, is the assumption that most members of American Indian communities read criticism and literature. However unlikely this may be, there is another way to interpret and to use this analogical intertwining of religion, language, literature, and theory as a rhetorical tool to persuade one's readers. It can be argued that speakers of common languages, whether indigenous American languages or English, should go to the university in order to study not only the languages of other important cultures (for example, Spanish, Portuguese, French, German, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese) but also the figurative "languages" of other professional and academic disciplines. Whether these are the technical languages of sciences like geology or medicine, the abstract language of mathematics, the traditional language of law, with its expressions in Latin and antiquated syntax, or the ever-evolving languages of semiotics, linguistics, or deconstructive theory, with its untranslatable puns and neologisms in French, these technical idioms are not the equivalent of the language spoken around the kitchen table by the "Native community."
Perhaps the most important professional issue raised in the book is whether non-Native critics "can or should do Native American studies" (10). Weaver points out that non-Native critics, like Robert Dale Parker, in a critical remark on Red on Red, are unable to quote a single passage in which Womack explicitly states that non-Natives are unwelcome in Native American studies. Explaining that Parker is reacting to what he labels Womack's "implication" that non-Natives are not welcome, Weaver brings up the thorny interpretive question of the relation between the writer's or poet's intended meaning and what is understood by the reader and critic (10). This question has long been problematic. It is central to any theory of reading. I cannot say whether or not Weaver has read Wimsatt and Beardsley's "The Intentional Fallacy" (1946), in which these two non-Natives, who once ruled the empire of American New Criticism, set themselves up against traditional literary historians and philologists from all over the world, but he must know that what he, as a prosecuting attorney, can lead the members of the jury to infer is as important as what he can lead the accused to confess. He inveighs against implication at the same time that he uses it. According to Weaver, what Parker calls the implication in Womack's text is not Womack's intended meaning but is "actually Parker's own highly charged inference" (10; italics mine). In using these words, Weaver implies not only that Parker is mistakenly reading into Womack's words something that Womack did not intend but also that he is making an emotional rather than a rational appeal to his readers. Weaver then provides his own reading, namely that Womack is "simply saying that in reading literature one should privilege internal cultural readings" (10). Needless to say, what it means to "privilege internal cultural readings" can be interpreted in many ways.
Weaver declares he is going to be "explicit and I hope (for the last time) coruscatingly clear" in dealing with the issue of the participation of non-Native scholars in Native American Studies (11). Nevertheless, he uses highly suggestive metaphorical language in order to separate the needed and wanted non-Native critics from the unneeded and unwanted non-Native theorists: "We want non-Natives to read, engage, and study Native literature. The survival of Native authors, if not Native people in general, depends on it. But we do not need literary colonizers" (11; second italics mine). By metaphorically designating the unneeded and unwanted literary theorists as "literary colonizers," Weaver opens this allegedly "coruscatingly clear" statement to readers' inferences about what constitutes literary colonialism. Is it possible for a non-Native scholar and critic to put forward ideas and interpretations based on theoretical understandings of oral and written language that differ from those of Weaver, Womack, and Warrior, without opening herself to the charges of being a literary colonizer? Owing to their rhetoric, in which religion, politics, law, literature, and criticism are inseparably interwoven, it becomes difficult not to liken their own nationalist discourse to the very ethnocentric colonial discourse they see as misguided. Weaver, who seemingly without irony declares that "Native Americans need the experience of making our own mistakes in literary criticism," who implies that his own critical discourse might be faulty by explicitly stating that "[e]ven a faulty criticism is more interesting than a 'correct' one directed by a literary overseer," and who explicitly states that making mistakes is "what sovereignty and self-determination are all about," appears knowingly to leave himself and his coauthors open to the charge that their understanding not only of high theory but also of their own discourse may be faulty owing to their own willingly admitted ethnocentrism (37).
Craig Womack ends his chapter "The Integrity of American Indian Claims (Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Hybridity)" in which he, among many things, attacks Elvira Pulitano with the explicit mention of this initial ironic nod to Dr. Strangelove and a humorous gloss of the final scene of that film: "One of Kubrick's most enduring images is Slim Pickens straddling the bomb like a bull rider just before the chute is thrown open, then his trip down, falling from the hatch of a B-52 and waving his cowboy hat as he plummets through the clouds. Embracing my hybridity is about as sexy as wrapping my legs around an H-bomb. While you might get a big tingle during the initial descent, it's the impact that will kill you" (174). Whether Womack wraps his legs around Elvira Pulitano's book and rides it to the ground, or picks it up and throws it back into the group of scholars from whom she has metaphorically tossed it, is left to our interpretation. Nevertheless, everyone at a rodeo knows who the best bull riders are, even if they do wear cowboy hats.
Before reading the three central chapters in this book, one should already have read, and still be familiar with, Simon Ortiz's essay, "Towards a National Indian Literature: Cultural Authenticity in Nationalism," which first appeared in 1981 and is included as an appendix. The best place to start reading after Ortiz's essay and his foreword to this book, as well as the introduction, is probably chapter 3, Robert Warrior's "Native Critics in the World: Edward Said and Nationalism." Warrior starts his chapter in the autobiographical narrative mode, telling how, during his graduate studies at Union Theological Seminary, before his return to Pawhuska to work on his doctoral dissertation, he took two seminars in literary theory across the street at Columbia University. There he encountered Edward Said, the only critic and theorist, non-Indian or Indian, whom he appears to consider worthy of being an intellectual and political role model. He ends his chapter with the story of Said's last painful decade as a theoretical scholar, passionate advocate for the nationalist cause of Palestine, and victim of leukemia. In between he sketches how he and other American Indian theorists can practice a theoretical secularism, similar to the one advocated by Said, and at the same time adhere to a tribal nationalism-tradition, which is informed by religious beliefs of various sorts: This is a complex issue, and Warrior probably would be the first to point out that he and his coauthors are far from having had the last word. Whether Said's secularism, in effect, can operate as a belief system without having the same epistemological, ontological, and ethnic grounding of religious belief systems is a tough question.
A feminist reader of this book might see Lisa Brooks to be the token female. Invited to the gathering around the kitchen table after the ceremony, Brooks cooks and serves the literary fry bread. An Ivy League academic who earned her PhD at Cornell and is an assistant professor of history and literature and of folklore and mythology at Harvard,. Brooks has genetic and cultural roots that reach back to Missiquoi, "an Abenaki village on the northeast shore of Bitabagwa, or Lake Champlain, that has been continually occupied by Abenaki families for over twelve thousand years," and to Poland, where her mother survived birth in a Nazi labor camp (246). Seemingly the perfect incarnation of the mixed-blood hybridism against which the book inveighs, Brooks favors instead the concepts of self-contained, total indigenous culture and nationalist literary sovereignty. She rejects poststructuralist thought. Probably alluding to the crimes against humanity committed under German Nazionalsozialismus and to the murderous Anglo-American nationalist expansion under manifest destiny, she "admit[s] that talk of nationalism makes [her] wary" (244). Implicit in her essay, however, and in the other essays in this book, is the argument that not all nationalisms are the same and that not all nationalisms give birth to abominable crimes against humanity. In other words, just because indigenous tribes claim to be close to the land, just because some indigenous writers refer to concepts like blood memory, one cannot automatically infer that the literary nationalism espoused by the coauthors of this book is informed by a troubling ideology like that of Blut und Boden, which is the German expression for the racist, essentialist, and warlike National Socialist (Nazi) ideology that led to so much bloodshed during World War II. Nevertheless, there are disturbing signs that these five nationalist critics have not understood that the linguistic, literary, and cultural theory that informs their writings is quite similar to that which informs the thought of conservative literary and historical scholars who not only reject high theory but also reject cultural studies of all sorts.
Engaging the resolution and dialogue solves better—their separatist politics results in ethnographic discourse that turns the aff
Elvira Pulitano, associate professor in the Ethnic Studies Department at California Polytechnic State University, 2003, Toward a Native American Critical Theory, p. 21-22
Allen's claims, tend to ignore her critical position. 5 From within the category women of color, Allen enters the discourse on Native American critical theory by acknowledging the necessity of generating a form of criticism originating primarily from the Native or indigenous cultural context of the literary texts themselves and producing strategies that suggest how such a discourse can be effectively articulated. Yet her position remains ambivalent throughout the entire critical process. As I argued in the introduction, Allen's critical perspective takes a separatist stance grounded, as it were, in a rigidly gynocentric Indian view. By articulating what the literary critic Chela Sandoval calls "a typology of oppositional consciousness" (3), Allen presents a discourse conceived as different from both a patriarchalmasculine and a hegemonic-feminist perspective. 6 While the basics of her epistemological process are rooted in a female-centered universe, I would argue that Allen's mode of "oppositional consciousness" goes beyond feminist problematics. Insisting as she does on a distinctive Indian perspective, Allen ends up- especially in The Sacred Hoop- forging what I call an ethnographic discourse, construing and constructing Indianness from the seemingly romantic, sentimentalized perspective of Eurocentric thinking, the same thinking that for more than five hundred years has defined the Indian as the Other of Euramerican consciousness. 7 Despite critics' attempt to read Allen's theory from within her own paradigm, I argue that Allen's (separatist) critical stance appears problematic in the context of a Native American theory through which authors are attempting to generate a discourse that significantly challenges the authoritative Eurocentric mode. Instead of participating in the critical dialogue from within, showing how it is possible to create new ways of theorizing while adopting the discursive tools offered by the metropolitan center, Allen steps outside, into the margin, and opts for a separatist solution. Such a separatist solution, however, ironically ends up legitimating the binary categories of Western Eurocentric thinking.
At the heart of Allen's critical theory are the images and symbols of ancient Keres traditions as well as her own self-divided sense of what she calls the "breed" experience. According to Elizabeth Hanson, "the 'breed' experience becomes a mediative, revealing means of adding 'breath' to 'breath' and thereby extending the life of Native American literature in a white American literary context" (10 ). Allen - who refers to herself as a "multicultural event ... raised in a Chicano village in New Mexico by a half-breed mother and a Lebanese-American father" (Rev. 127)- occupies what Keating refers to as a "threshold position" (2), participating in a number of apparently separate worlds yet refusing to be contained within any single group or location.
Drawing from the poststructuralist insight that language does not merely reflect reality but also reshapes it, Allen, along with the other Native American authors discussed in this study, merges this performative power of the written word with Native American oral traditions, in which words have the power to create, alter, and even destroy. As she rewrites and reelaborates Native belief systems, Allen simultaneously, according to Keating, "spiritualizes" and "politicizes" her work (5). Yet, one could argue, the ways in which Allen's reelaboration of the oral tradition takes place must be very carefully considered in order to evaluate the political effectiveness of her critical strategies.
The decolonial tendency to collapse everything into discourse and study of textual meaning destroys any ability to engage capital and allows it to continue unabated
Read 10 (Malcolm K., professor of linguistics and Latin American studies at Stony Brook University, “Reclaiming Reality: Walter Mignolo,” in Latin American Colonial Studies: A Marxist Critique, p 89-91)-jn-gender modified
Reader’s note: “Alethic” = grounded in truth.
The specter that haunts everyone is that of regulatory determinism, otherwise the notion that, in principle, events are determined as in a closed system, through the reduction of complex beings to their component parts. Given sufficient information, it would follow, we can know when, and if, I will get out of bed, in which case the prospects for human freedom look bleak indeed. The way out, for the critical realist, is to emphasize ontological depth or emergence: the laws of nature are reconstrued, not as constant conjunctions, but as real mechanisms, operating at a level distinct from those of the empirical and the actual. The ensuing stratification facilitates a notion of human agency (Bhaskar 1993: 50-53 and passim): there is a difference between catching a bus and catching a cold. What blocks any comparable resolution from the standpoint of the constructivist is his empirical realism, based on the notion of a totally rule-governed phenomenal world. To escape the reach of the ensuing determinism, the "free subject" needs to be located in a subjective realm of performance, outside the objective purchase of science. We are determined as material bodies, qua empirical subjects, within the phenomenal real, but are free as discursive subjects, at the transcendental, noumenal level. The latter, as we know from Kant, defies causal explanation, which explains the under-theorization of Mignolo's notion of performance, to which we referred above. The effects of Mignolo's hermeneutic bias do not end there: displaced too are the notions of reference and denotation and, by the same token, of cross-cultural evaluations. For in the absence of a third party, standing somewhere in outer space, who, precisely, is to pass judgement on Amerindian culture, or to draw comparisons with its Spanish equivalent (Mignolo 1995: 327)? Who, that is, other than the various embodiments of imperial power? Truth, in such circumstances, is deprived of any alethic grounding.17 It belongs instead to the more powerful, even, or especially, within the sciences, where knowledge is allegedly nothing more than whatever powerful individuals, groups or nations dictate. The result is a kind of identity thinking in which the intransitive existence of causal structures (and the beliefs and meanings that they produce) is collapsed into the transitive dimension of practice. Perforce, Mignolo is now threatened with entrapment by an epistemological relativism that his bourgeois colleagues can afford to view with equanimity but that is denied to him, as a theorizer of colonial oppression. Hence the need to lay claim to a materialism: "I placed a heavy accent on the materiality of culture and on human beings' (as individuals and communities) own self-descriptions of their life and work" (Mignolo 1995: 320). Everything is about the struggle to avoid death, to reproduce, etc. This is not, to be sure, the world of classical idealism, which, by definition, foregrounded the realm of ideas, but that is because a crucial slippage has taken place, from ideas to the semiotic or linguistic, or rather – because we are in the world of actualism – to "languaging." For performance is to be understood, above all, as a discursive act, in the tradition of Gadamer and his latter-day followers, notably Rorty, for whom being is manifest in language. The transformation is less radical than might seem, at first sight, to be the case, in that the pivotal opposition remains the same: between, on the one hand, a phenomenal or empirical realm subject to strictly deterministic laws and, on the other, an intelligible realm of human being, where agents are free to perform at will. All that has happened is that the Kantian problematic has been displaced onto discourse, which now offers the scope for freedom, creativity and performativity previously reserved for thought. All this, of course, is transferred, in the case of Mignolo, to the realm of coloniality, where "languaging" is not an object or real mechanism but an actual process, not a competence but a performance. A performance that is an act of total transcendence, in which it is possible to conceive of "thinking beyond thoughts and languaging, indeed beyond language" (Mignolo 2000: 254), defined through the recursive capacity of language: "languaging in language allows us to describe ourselves interacting as well as to describe the descriptions of our interactions" (254). Finally, the sign finds its referent, but only in the form of other bits of languaging, a somewhat incestuous encounter, perhaps, between subject and object, but a felicitous one for all that, conceived "as the difference that cannot be told, and not as an 'area' to be studied" (Mignolo 2000: 69) or, in other words, as a form of almost angelic communion bordering on the ineffable. And so what might seem like the outer reaches of a colonial territory turns out to be very familiar terrain: the site of an encounter between two beautiful souls, of eminently petty-bourgeois extraction. The romantic myth of self-creation re-enacted! It is a shame to disrupt the happy union, but there are a number of problems with this scenario. Principally, it is easy to see that the notion of the subject as free to choose between new descriptions can encourage the voluntarist view that we are always free to choose any descriptions, or that our performances escape the restraints of social life, not to mention the limits imposed by ecology. What such a view ignores, among other things, is the existence of objective social structures (from language to economic systems) that totally transcend the level of the self, for whose "performance" they are a necessary condition. Such structures cannot be theorized later, once the performing subject has been installed, by "piggybacking" (to use Mignolo"s phase) on other systems of thought, for the simple reason that, to reiterate, they precede the performance. And any theoretician that thinks otherwise will quickly encounter difficulties. The latter will be compounded by a further basic limitation characteristic of hermeneutics that relates to the very nature of science. It may suffice from the outside to justify a belief or action by reference to what the scientific community believes, but as Bhaskar has insisted, the situation is rather different inside. "This may be partly because what is at stake (what stands in need of justification or criticism) is precisely what the community believes. But it will also be in part because at some point the explanatory query in science will take the form 'why is the world this way?,' whereas the explanatory query about science will take the form 'why does this community believe such-and-such?' The answer to the former question will not consist of intellectual cultural-history or the natural sociology of belief, but of a (scientifically-) ontologically grounded, or justified, scientific explanation" (Bhaskar 1991: 35). Any ongoing attempt to collapse the scientific debate into the hermeneutic one is, we believe, bound to give rise to a whole series of performative contradictions, of which more below.