Labels
ICA 2025
On the
The Myth of the
and Other Such Labels for Love
Fashion, Class and Good Taste
Ggésék (2024)
COLOFON
The ICA “Institute for Cultural Anthropology” is the semi-scientific journal of Itiwana, study association Cultural Anthropology and Development Sociology at the Leiden University.
The ICA appears twice a year.
Editor-in-Chief. Herrie van Rooy
Text Editor. Maria Moser
Media Editor. Athena Thang
External Authors. Kim Meijer, Bente Heydelberg, Susan Coetzee-Van Rooy and Bertus van Rooy, Dilara Erzeybek, Hanum Atikasari, Weiyan Low
The editors reserve the right to shorten and edit articles or not to post them. Acquisition of (parts of) articles is only permitted after consultation with the editors.
PREFACE
Labels play a quintessential role in modern life. From the labels on products, to the labels assigned to people—by themselves or by others—the labelling of things or people seems to be one of the few inescapable truths of human life.
Labels can serve as a means through which to identify things, people, or relationships—serving as a clarificatory tool in the modern sense-making toolbox of mankind. However, labels can also be ascribed to people and used to oppress them or to keep them down.
This publication of the ICA looks to uncover the ways in which labels shape modern life, from social relations, to filmmaking. We seek to understand how labels are used in a modern capacity.
On the
Power of Labels
By Kim Meijer
I grew up in a family where labels were discouraged. If you need them for a diagnosis or to get some kind of medicine, fine, otherwise don’t bother. I believed this, I thought it was a good progressive statement. Not everyone needs to be put in a box of dyslexic, autistic, gay, neurodivergent, european, straight, atheist, extrovert, christian, Dutch, queer, etc. In part, I still want to believe this, I want to believe that I value a person for who he is and not which labels would (sort of) apply to them. But like any human being, I did see labels, I did need them to make sense of the world. Because, according to a Discovery Channel podcast, ‘The human mind has the unparalleled ability to create patterns out of randomness’. We need those patterns to be able to hold all the information we experience in the world in our large but still limited capacity brains.
Over the years I saw more and more people gratefully embracing the labels they found themselves in. Getting an ADHD diagnosis was freeing for those who had only ever been told that they were ‘so easily distracted’ or ‘had such poor time management’. Knowing you have dyslexia might allow you to forgive yourself for all those times you were not able to learn that new language or finish that book in time. Understanding yourself as trans might finally give the freedom to be who you are rather than trying to fit a box you do not belong to. My refusal to understand why people cling to labels, might expose more about myself as a person only identifying with the labels that hold privilege (heterosexual, cisgendered, able-bodied, able-minded) rather than my progressive upbringing or accepting nature.
In this article I want to explore the notion and power of labels from a theoretical standpoint. I will mostly interact with gender but I believe this theory could be applied to all forms of labels. While theory is generally neat and clear, life is messy and when we start discussing what people do in practice we shouldn’t generalise everyone under one label or one form of behaviour so I am really interested to hear how people experience this theory of labeling in practice.
Labels guide us through the maze that is identification and identity. To know someone as woman is to instantly assume some things about her. But as feminist scholars in the last century have continuously pointed out, the things we have assumed are not always true and put expectations on women that are harmful and oppressive. But then, what does it mean to be woman and do we have any use for the label. Early feminist scholars have long struggled with these questions, often reaching the conclusion that to be a woman is to be oppressed and that we should only use the label as a means for political action.
With Butler (1988) stating that gender is performative we have mostly moved beyond these questions. To be a woman is to be identified and to identify oneself as a woman.This means that the label of woman puts certain expectations on the behaviour of those who identify as such even if the expectations are constantly made, unmade and remade. As Goffman (1959: 37) puts it, ‘when an actor takes on an established social role, usually he finds that a particular front has already been established for it’. To be a woman is a role that already exists on a stage, much of the props, dialogue and performance has already been determined. The label of woman already has connotations and rules in social settings and thus to identify as such means that you are expected to follow a certain script. Goffman is not a gender scholar and thus mostly discusses other roles or labels a person can take on. However, I think it is interesting to also think about gender in his terms because it shows what happens when someone chooses to identify with a label from which we can start to understand what happens when someone is automatically assumed to identify with a label even if they did not actively decide to do so.
Increasingly we also have options to move away from the gender category put on us at birth. One then generally becomes part of the umbrella category of “trans”. Goffman (1959: 28) states that when an individual performs a, in this case, gender role, ‘he implicitly requests his observers to take seriously the impression that is fostered before them.’ This is where, for example, pronouns come in. When a person explains that they use a certain set of pronouns they make a claim to a particular gender role, in that role they make claim to be a person of a particular kind and exerting a ‘moral demand upon the others, obliging them to value and treat [them] in the manner that persons of [this] kind have a right to expect’ (Goffman 1959: 24). By using the wrong pronouns you are simultaneously denying people the right to be treated as that person is allowed to expect and stating that you do not believe they, in fact, possess the gender identity they claim to have.
I want to add here that the reason we have labels is to let our brain understand the world around us faster. Most of what happens surrounding labels, pronouns, but also honorary titles, etc. happens in the area of our almost subconscious. Which language to use is often a split second rather than a well thought out decision. For this we thus need to move beyond an active understanding of a person as a particular gender identity and move towards subconsciously believing what this person is claiming about themselves. This generally cannot happen instantly; it takes time and effort.
Labels are mostly effective when they already exist in a societal context. Labels that are new or you have never heard of often feel made up because they carry no meaning yet (this is true for all labels in a sense because they are performative but as soon as people know them they have acquired meaning). For those who are new to certain labels such as a grandmother and the ‘non-binary’ label, it might take time for the word to acquire meaning before one can apply it to a particular person. Simultaneously, labels always slowly come to mean different things. The label ‘woman’ has carried different meanings over the past century. The label ‘queer’ has moved from horrible insult, to meaning nothing, to a positive term for self expression for those who fall on the LGBTQIA+ spectrum. One's brains need to constantly readjust to these changing connotations and social rules and the only way it does that is by living with them, interacting with those who use them for their positive self expression and understanding what they mean while at the same time recognising that they mean nothing at all.
This of course does not mean that we should not try. This is not an excuse to get pronouns wrong but instead it should serve as a reminder why they are important, why we need to get them right. That they are more than just a preferred way of being addressed. It is not just words it is words that carry the meaning of identity. The meaning of showing your belief and confidence in a person to choose for themselves who they are. However it is also an exploration why it can be difficult and that sometimes it takes time. Because words carry intense meaning, we also need to believe in that meaning through our words, actions and subconsciousness. I still might sometimes say that labels are stupid and people should not be forced in boxes but simultaneously, I am so happy they are not just hollow words but carry the meaning of souls.
I'm a Master’s student in Cultural Anthropology and Development Sociology. My academic interests lie in gender studies, particularly how gender operates within sports and its often arbitrary categorisations. I'm currently exploring the role and representation of women in chess, a domain where gender distinctions raise fascinating questions. More broadly, I’m intrigued by how and why societies create distinctions—especially those we treat as meaningful, even when their basis is unclear.
Kim Meijer
The Myth of the
Left-Right Spectrum
By Bente Heydelberg
Political labels are essential for citizens, rulers, and political scientists alike to make sense of the political world in which we live. We cannot do without them. The important question to consider for each of us is whether a particular political label is true and useful or false and harmful. We should embrace and use helpful labels, while rejecting harmful labels.
For example, the political label “senator” is true and useful because it refers to real legislators that actually exist and occupy an office in an upper house of a legislature like
the Eerste Kamer of the Netherlands or the Senate of the United States. Using this label to refer to Jan Anthonie Bruijn or Charles Schumer is true and useful. Likewise, in our contemporary political scene, partisan labels like the “Labour Party” of the Netherlands or the “Democratic Party” of the United States communicate useful information because they evoke an understanding among listeners or readers that we are talking about a political party, which is widely understood to be a partial group of people within the political community that pursues particular objectives and is led by identifiable politicians. We recognise that political parties are social groups whose attitudes, issue positions, and leaders have some consistency over time, but also have and will change over time. Partisan labels communicate useful and accurate information.
However, ideological labels like “left-wing,” “progressive,”“centrist,” “conservative,” or “right-wing” are misleading labels because they falsely imply that politics can be usefully modelled on a uni-dimensional “left-right” ideological spectrum. The truth is that there are many issues in politics—not just one—but a uni-dimensional spectrum can, by definition, only model one thing. Those who believe in the myth of a uni-dimensional spectrum claim that it is actually real because there is one big issue, or essence, that binds together the hundreds of smaller issues that make up political life and debate. The idea is that a person or party’s stance on the one big issue (e.g., change, or equality, or size of government) dictates that person or party’s stance on the hundreds of smaller issues.
We know this claim is not true because the bundle of political issues held, and the political principles articulated by, those who consider themselves “left-wing” or “right-wing” do not have to go together in the precise way that they are currently bundled together and articulated. In fact, these positions and values are constantly changing.
For example, when we say that the Democratic Party of the United States is “left-wing” we are falsely implying that there is some “left-wing” ideological essence that causes those in favour of pro-labor government policy to also be in favor of more interventionist foreign policy, more open immigration policy, freer trade, more restrictive environmental policy, less access to guns, and more access to abortion. This is simply not true. In the past, the
“left-wing”Democratic Party has bundled together pro-labor government policy with non-interventionist foreign policy, more restrictive immigration policy, more protectionist trade policy, less restrictive environmental policy, and pro-life abortion policy. Those issue positions do not have to go together in that particular way. Today, labor union members are increasingly turning away from the so-called “left-wing”Democratic Party toward the
“right-wing” Republican Party.
Likewise, when we say that the Republican Party of the United States is “right-wing” we are falsely implying that there is some “right-wing” ideological essence that causes those in favour of tax cuts for the rich to also be in favor of less interventionist foreign policy, more restrictive immigration policy, more protectionist free trade, and less access to abortion.
This is simply not true. In the past, the “right-wing” Republican Party has bundled together free markets with interventionist foreign policy, amnesty for illegal immigrants, free trade, and pro-choice abortion policy. Those issue positions do not have to go together in that way. There was even a time when the “conservative” Republican Party was more opposed to tax cuts than the “liberal”Democratic Party. There is no fixed and enduring relationship between particular issue positions and a “left-right” political spectrum.
As an empirical matter, the “left-right” spectrum is a useless myth. However, it is not only misleading, but it is also harmful. When a person believes in the false “left-right” spectrum, they are tempted to believe that they simply have to choose the “correct” side of this imaginary horizontal line, and then adopt all of the “correct” issue positions that flow as a matter of course out of that correct philosophy. Once someone declares that they are “progressive,” or “conservative,” the “left-right” myth tells them that, due to the virtue of their correct philosophy, political parties on their side of the spectrum are righteous,
enlightened, and correct about everything, while political parties on the other side of the spectrum, due to their adoption of the wrong philosophy, are evil, foolish, and wrong about everything.
By flattening the complexity and multi-dimensionality of politics onto a simplistic and totalising uni-dimensional line, the “left-right” spectrum causes people who believe in the
myth to be more dogmatic, hostile, and angry than they would otherwise be if they did not believe in the myth. Getting rid of the false “left-right” spectrum, and treating each issue on its own, allows individuals and groups to see that they might be correct, or wrong, on any given issue, and to be more open to changing their mind. Simply talking about particular issues and parties, instead of conjuring up a mythical line running from “left” to “right,”
promotes epistemic humility and guards against turning political parties into cults.
Furthermore, while we may prefer one party over another because it has more of the issue positions we like than another party, getting rid of the false “left-right” intellectual
framework allows us to recognize that no party has a monopoly on truth or error. Each party will, as a matter of course, be correct about some things and wrong about others. We can identify ourselves with the party that we happen to prefer without demonising parties on the other side of an imaginary line as entirely wrong and an imminent threat to all that is good and decent.
In order for a political community to enjoy freedom and democracy, the people in it must have a pluralistic view of politics. They must recognise that there are many issues—not just one—and that our political parties will always be coalitions of individuals and groups willing to work together to achieve common ends on some finite number of political issues. The pluralistic view leads people to see that they will never have a majority agree on all of the hundreds of issues that make up politics. As a result, they are more likely to search for safety in constitutionally protecting minority rights (as they see that their particular groups and bundles of issue positions will always be in the minority), and they will be more likely to encourage their own party to search for the common good in moderation and compromise on the few issues where consensus can be found.
The left-right spectrum was imported into the United States in the 1920s, and has been exported to countries around the world over the past century to their great detriment. After 100 years of confusion, it is time to jettison the “left-right” framework. The success of free and democratic government depends on it.
By Herrie van Rooy
Dialect vs. Language
When Does What We Say Become Who We Are?
Introduction
We all speak at least one language, many of us speak more than that–but what is a language? The Oxford Dictionaries’ definition of a language is “The system of spoken or written communication used by a particular country, people, community, etc., typically consisting of words used within a regular grammatical and syntactic structure” when referring to spoken languages. This definition seems adequate at first glance but when we introduce the concept of a dialect defined as “A form or variety of a language which is peculiar to a specific region, esp. one which differs from the standard or literary form of the language in respect of vocabulary, pronunciation, idiom, etc…”, suddenly there are many annoying overlaps that make classifications quite difficult for speakers of a dialect/language, and for linguists.
I will try to summarise the main perspectives on the matter here in a way that is not deathly boring, but also does not water it down too much. I will broadly categorise the main views on the matter into the following four categories: Linguistic, Sociopolitical, Cultural, and Poststructuralist. All four categories address a different aspect of that which makes the classification important. Firstly, the linguistic category, which addresses common linguistic definitions–such as the ones provided in the introduction–which aim to define what these concepts are. Secondly, there is the Sociopolitical category which aims to address the distinction between the two as a process dictated by social and/or political power. Thirdly, the Cultural category which focuses on the cultural identity that is innate with dialects and languages and how that might serve as a more useful classification criteria. Finally, the Poststructuralist category states that aiming to define in strict terms a language or a dialect is not a useful procedure since they are fluid concepts which are socially constructed and serve no real purpose in their classification as one or the other.
Linguistic
The most linguistic perspective on the matter would be that of mutual intelligibility–that if two spoken forms of communication are mutually intelligible, that they are then one form/language. This is a very simple way to classify things, but it does have several shortcomings, most notably that this definition is rarely applied uniformly. Certain languages are classified as completely separate from one another even though they are highly mutually intelligible–languages such as Swedish and Norwegian; whereas others are classified as dialects of a language for another reason (often social, political, or cultural reasons), such as with Cantonese and Mandarin.
Sociopolitical
This discrepancy can then be analysed by introducing the sociopolitical lens which accounts for many of these differences in classification. This category states that often linguistic classification is dictated by political or social power, not by linguistic characteristics. There is the timeless adage that, “A language is just a dialect with an army” which refers to the general triviality of classifying a language as such, and refers to the factors (usually political) that affect a language’s ultimate classification as a language. Often identity plays a role in classification as is the case in Scandinavia where national identity calls for languages to be classified separately, due to distinct histories and cultural experiences, in spite of intelligibility.
Cultural
That is then what is covered by the cultural category which states that many communities argue that, that which is labelled as a dialect forms significant part of their cultural identity and based upon this it merits classification as a separate language. This is very prevalent in post-colonial contexts and other places of historical scrutiny or oppression where classifications of dialects serve as a means to oppress.
Poststructuralist
The poststructuralist perspective rejects any classification as being limited in its merit. This perspective argues that “language” and “dialect” are socially constructed concepts that do not adequately capture the fluid nature or nuance of linguistic practice. Languages are complicated systems of communication, affected by cultural factors, migration, social identity, and many other factors which make strict classifications less useful. This perspective also challenges the essentialist perspective that often accompanies linguistic boundary making.
These perspectives all offer a way through which to analyse a language's position, with the last of which serving as a departure from the importance of the label “language” or “dialect”.
There is then also the concept of translanguaging which defined as ____ which says that “Such a stance (on language) is unprofitable because it insists on external categories generated by the national, political, educational, and ideological … and because, in so doing, it ignores the bilingual speaker’s own perspective” (Garcia and Otheguy DATE: 639). Translanguaging is often used as a pedagogical tool wherein teachers will allow students to answer questions in many languages or in a mix of them, in order to test their knowledge with a smaller focus on communicating “purely” or “academically.” In my high school in South Africa this also sometimes meant that when we were in English class, the teacher would explain concepts or books in Afrikaans, since that was the language that many of the children were far more comfortable in, and could learn easier in. This obviously feels strange, since we are now learning English, while not speaking English; but for many in the class this method allowed them to understand what an author was conveying far quicker than if they would have to first understand what all the words and jargon meant in English.
This concept disrupts the traditional view of languages as isolated commodities or resources in someone’s mind and rather enforces that they form part of a language repertoire, or a toolkit that an individual can draw on in a given situation to communicate what they mean. It frames languages not as singular entities in one's mind, but rather as a box of tools that can be drawn on when communicating. This is a process by which multilingual speakers can make use of their full repertoire, and can seamlessly blend features from different “languages” in ways that work outside of conventional classification. This practice calls into question the profitability of labels such as “language” or “dialect” by emphasising the fluidity of communication, especially in multi linguistic contexts. In this discussion, translanguaging can serve as a means to emphasise a speaker’s agency in shaping their own identity, rather than forcing them to adhere to strict categories rooted in educational, political, or social norms. Using this frame of reference an individual who is making use of their full repertoire to communicate or to answer a question is not “muddying” a language, or “code-switching”, but rather they are engaging in translanguaging to communicate more effectively in their context.
By rejecting rigid categorisation, translanguaging is also critiquing the socio-political labels around language. These labels can often reinforce inequality and power imbalances; which privilege standardised or dominant languages, while marginalising the linguistic practice of minorities. The lens then provided by translanguaging serves as a means to see any form of linguistic expression as (equally) valid, and it emphasises the fluidity of communication rather than upholding arbitrary categorisation.
Linking this back to the bigger dialect vs. language classification issue, we can see that the question of “what constitutes a language?” might be limited in and of itself. Making use of a label such as “language/dialect” implies not only a distinction between the two, but also accepts that they are different, and this does not align with the ways in which individuals communicate in actuality. An example that can be given here, is a personal one, in South Africa where I grew up, there was rarely a conversation held in exclusively one language with my peers, whether it was a reference to a meme, or simply a word that does not exist in Afrikaans we would mix and match in order to get out point across.
Conclusion
That being said, all this wonderful theoretical talk does not take away from the problems and inequalities often experienced within the discussion of classification. If a Haitian individual feels like their history and their culture is being undermined due to their language being classified as a dialect, who am I, or anyone else, to tell them that it does not matter whether or not it is a language or a dialect in classification. These concepts may be socially constructed but that does not lessen the impact that they have in the real world–often people’s cultural identity is tied closely to their language and often people feel an innate connection to the way that they communicate.
It is therefore that my answer to the question “what is a language?” is a complicated one.
I believe that language exists naturally in the mind of the individual, as a cognitive process that allows for communication and meaning-making, but also on a macro level where its classification carries important political or social weight. While linguistic categories may be fluid and socially constructed, this does not render them meaningless—on the contrary, the ways in which languages are named and classified have real-world consequences, shaping national identities, educational policies, and social hierarchies. The concept of “named languages” itself is deeply tied to history, power, and colonial legacies, as Sinfree Makoni and others argue. It is not simply a matter of whether languages exist in a biological or cognitive sense, but also how they are constructed, legitimised, and policed in different contexts.
Realise that there is no hard line between a language and a dialect, but that this distinction still matters. The absence of a clear boundary does not mean that classification is irrelevant—it means that we must be critical of how and why classifications are made. This is particularly important when considering the lived experiences of speakers whose languages or dialects have been marginalised or dismissed. A language is more than just a set of grammatical rules; it is a cultural and political entity, a marker of identity, and often, a site of struggle for recognition.
Translanguaging challenges traditional notions of named languages by emphasising the ways in which multilingual speakers use their full linguistic repertoire without regard for artificial boundaries. It reframes language not as separate, static entities, but as dynamic, intertwined resources that individuals draw upon in different contexts. This perspective does not erase the social importance of named languages, but it does call into question the rigidity of those names, allowing for a more fluid, speaker-centred understanding of communication. Rather than seeing multilingualism as the coexistence of separate languages, translanguaging suggests that language exists as an integrated system within the mind of the speaker—one that is shaped by social, cultural, and historical forces, yet ultimately flexible in practice.
Hi! I am the editor-in-chief of the ICA publication for this year. I am a 20-year-old Cultural Anthropology and Development Sociology student at the university of Leiden. I am also the secretary of the board of Itiwana. When I am not busy studying, or working on things for Itiwana; I enjoy gaming, singing, and music. I hope I bring some interesting things to read about, and that at the very least you learn something!
Herrie van Rooy
By Susan Coetzee-van Rooy and Bertus van Rooy
Lives, Labels and Languages
An Exploration of the Case of Englishes in South Africa
Introduction
In this essay, we want to explore labelling practices in the context of languages. We examine the case of South Africa as an example of a setting where many of the pertinent issues and conflicts – conceptual and material – play out in the lives of people. Like many sociological concepts (for example, ‘speech communities’), languages are also created constructs that are confirmed with labels created by experts and by ordinary people that express their ideas about languages. Furthermore, state agencies can also create labels for languages (Kramsch, 1998: 128). These labelling practices via different agencies lead to parallel conceptualisations by institutions, scholars and society at large, which in turn yield institutional, scientific and folk categories for languages.
South Africa has a painful colonial and apartheid history where it has been common practice to use racial and/or ethnic labels when describing social phenomena. Racial labels, intersecting with labels for languages, were used extensively by the apartheid government of the 20th century. The practices that accompanied the acts of labelling were experienced as illegitimate and severely limited, as is often the case with bureaucratic labels or categories (Kramsch, 1998: 72). Racialised labels also came to be applied to varieties of languages, including varieties of English, the language with the highest de facto status in the country that serves as principal vehicle for education and decent-paying employment (Coetzee-Van Rooy & Botha, 2024: 312). Our goal in this essay is to develop an understanding of the labelling practices towards English and its different varieties in the country since 2000 in order to provide some insights into changes in labelling practices in a society that tries to come to terms with its past to forge a new South Africa. The contradictory effects of imperfect categories and the lingering historical consequences of enforced segregation premised on these imperfect categories are central to this endeavour.
Why is it important to keep a critical eye on the development of labelling practices? In some ways, labels facilitate our understanding of the complex world we live in. On the other hand, labels contribute to the construction of the realities we live in. Labels are therefore explanatory devices as well as constructing devices. In the case of South Africa, where racialised labels contributed to the construction of an unjust social system like apartheid, it is imperative in the post-apartheid period to see how labelling practices change to explain and to construct the new South African reality.
A brief history of language naming in South Africa
By the early 19th century, the linguistic landscape in South Africa was populated by the languages of the indigenous people, the local forms of Dutch spoken by a much smaller group of European settlers, slaves and some indigenous people, as well as a small number of languages spoken by slaves that were no longer transmitted to children, especially Malay. The labels used for South African languages at the beginning of the 21st century did not exist, although the speech of the various people existed in a shape that is not entirely different from their descendants’ speech two centuries later.
The first language name that stuck and remain in use to the present day is English. The English language became a permanent fixture of the landscape after British control over the Cape was confirmed at the end of the Napoleonic Wars in a separate Anglo-Dutch Treaty of 1814. In 1820, the first large group of settlers arrived in contemporary South Africa, establishing a native English-speaking population in the country. Their language was simply and self-evidently called English by its speakers and the political decision makers, and this label would remain unremarkable for the next century.
In the meantime, the other South African languages were “invented”. In the case of the earlier colonial language, Dutch, awareness of its locally deviant or unique form had been recognised by the early 19th century and was documented during the course of the century by the work of Changuoin (1844) and Mansvelt (1884) among others. By the late 19th century, the label Afrikaans was adopted (or invented, then), if under much contestation until the early decades of the 20th century, on the back of a nationalist and racist agenda (see Carstens and Raidt, 2019).
The indigenous languages spoken by the original residents of South Africa, today known as Khoe and San, as well as the later Bantu inhabitants who arrived many centuries before the European settlers, were “invented” in the latter part of the 19th century and into the 20th century (Makoni, 2003 and elsewhere). The people continued to speak in much the same way, but missionaries started to codify the languages, develop orthographies and produced partial and full Bible translations in such languages as isiZulu or Setswana from the Bantu family, or Khoekhoe (also sometimes known as Nama in South Africa or Damara in Namibia) from the oldest language family of Southern Africa, often termed Khoisan. In the process, boundaries were being invented and demarcated between languages that existed in a continuum rather than in territorially bounded spaces without interaction.
English, as a foreign import, was not initially subject to such boundary-drawing and redrawing, but an awareness of the uniqueness of South Africans’ English developed gradually, especially in respect of vocabulary (Pettman, 1911). The geographical label South African English came into use to differentiate the English of native speakers in South Africa from the English of England in the 20th century (see Lanham & MacDonald, 1979), with awareness of distinctive pronunciation characteristics already documented by Hopwood (1928).
English has been acquired as additional language by other South Africans since its arrival. However, the forms of English used by a variety of South Africans had no special name and was mainly regarded in terms of proficiency levels (Hopwood, 1928; Pretorius, 1953; Lanham, 1967). Flying below the radar of much of the judgemental commentary, English was quietly absorbed in the repertoire of the community of mixed descent in the Cape Peninsula since the 19th century (McCormick, 2002). In the community that came from India, language shift to English took place, mainly in the third quarter of the 20th century and initially mainly on the school playgrounds (Mesthrie, 1992).
During the second half of the twentieth century, newer labels came into use, by adding further modifiers to “English”. These included both ethnic and linguistic labels, to denote the ethnic background and/or the first language of the speakers in question, such as Afrikaans English for the second-language form associated with native speakers of Afrikaans. By the final quarter of the 20th century, scholarly publications were written about such entities as South African Black English (Adey, 1977; Lanham, 1984) or South African Indian English (Mesthrie, 1987, 1992). Very often, such labels had derogatory implications (Mmusi 1993), where the additional labels were in contrast to the “unmarked” South African English used by white native speakers. However, a strand of thought developed to call for the recognition of these ethnically labelled varieties as respectable and acceptable in their own right (e.g. Adey, 1977; Ndebele, 1987). Such labels were mainly used by academics in a descriptive function, with limited wider use in society of by government, where only a few labels were used by ordinary speakers, often of a much simpler kind without the national premodifier, e.g. Black English and Indian English.
Challenges to the naming practices since 2000
By the start of the present millennium, the label “Black South African English” (BSAE) was commonly used in academic circles. Van Rooy (2000) sets out the main consensus at the time by defining BSAE in terms of the shared language background of speakers (indigenous Bantu languages as home languages), the context of acquisition (education in township schools during the apartheid years) and shared political history, of which the segregation and exclusion practices of apartheid were central. Buthelezi (1995) explained the emergence of BSAE in similar terms, and also emphasised the cohesive function of a shared variety that served as an expression of shared experiences.
However, several concerns were raised with the ethnic-national label. Some scholars regarded (and also experienced) the label as racist, a position articulated very forcefully during discussions at a workshop on Black South African English at a conference in January 2000 (see Van Rooy 2000). Others, such as De Kadt (2001), warned against the reification of racial categories by the continued use of the label. In the meantime, South Africa was changing and the strict segregation of apartheid gave way to more interaction across the old colour lines and hence across the segregated languages and varieties of languages.
Prompted by the concerns, we set about to investigate what ordinary South Africans would do when describing varieties of English, published as Coetzee-Van Rooy and Van Rooy (2005). We examined perceptions of different speakers of South African English, using an indirect technique to survey language attitudes, an adjusted version of the matched guise technique. Listeners (students at the former Vaal Triangle Technikon in Vanderbijlpark) were recruited to listen to passages and then asked to “evaluate” the speakers on various scales, such as whether they are deemed to be intelligent, trustworthy, likeable or physically strong. In addition, we added a question where we asked participants to assign a label to the variety of language used by each speaker.
The results for the question, ‘What would you call this English?’, for the two black South African readers are reproduced here. We wanted to find out what ordinary black South Africans thought about the varieties that were similar to their own in 2002. The two forms of English were labelled as acrolect and mesolect BSAE by the researchers, following customary practice at the time, not only in South Africa by for African varieties of English generally. The results from Coetzee-Van Rooy and Van Rooy (2005: 10) are reproduced in the following tables.
Table 1: Labels provided by participants for the Acrolect BSAE reader
Table 2: Labels provided by participants for the Mesolect BSAE reader
These findings provide some insights into the labelling practices for the English of ordinary South Africans in the 2000s. Ordinary people were comfortable to identify a variety in terms of a nationality and clearly thought of BSAE as something to which the national label South African applies self-evidently. Racial labels were also used, and some ambiguous ones like African or European that could be interpreted as ethnic or as geographical/continental. The lingering effects of apartheid, whether acknowledged as historical cause of the contemporary outcome, or as an ideological lens through which to make sense of reality, were still clearly in evidence in the responses of participants.
The dynamic of ongoing change is a key consideration in research since 2000, where researchers are required to critically rethink their own practices. In a recent interview with Cowie (2023: 416), the scholar who has been at the forefront of research into South African English since the 1980s, Rajend Mesthrie explains that he has been asking “how factors like ethnicity, class, gender, and style relate to varying degrees of use of the S [for solidarity and community interaction] and P [carrying overt prestige and power] codes” of English throughout his career. In respect of the recent changes, his goal was to determine “whether young people of the major ethnic groups, Black, Coloured and Indian, are simply adopting prestige White middle-class norms, adapting them or resisting change” (Mesthrie, 2010:3).
His use of labels like Black South Africa English across time reveals his keen awareness of the complexity of using these labels as well as conceptual development across his career. Mesthrie (2009) reported that ethnolects like Black South African English, or Indian South African English still exist, and are not necessarily devoid of status or prestige. He maintained that the use of such labels was not intended to affirm the racist practices of the past, but at the same time, that the extent of social change had not yet undone the linguistic differentiation that developed in the past and continued to be transmitted in the various contexts of language acquisition. However, he also identifies the emergence of a deracialised variety of English among Black South Africans who joined their white peers in schools, leading to various degrees of accommodation towards the norms of the white speakers that continued to enjoy prestige. In a subsequent study, he spelled out the implications of the ongoing social change as follows.
The new deracialisation itself calls into question ways of characterising South African English. Labels like ‘Black South African English’ are still valid for many speakers, but not really for the new elites of this study. I have been careful to describe the latter as ‘Black speakers’, without calling their lect ‘Black South African English’, since it is in fact a cross-over variety with almost no overlap with the norms of their previous generation. We await an appropriate label for this melting-pot, middle-class English. (Mesthrie, 2010: 29)
Mesthrie (2019: 16) contrasts this cross-over variety of English with what he labels “older Black South African English”. He emphasises the diffuse nature of the varieties of English used by black South African pupils in the post-1994, where some continue to use a form that resembles the older BSAE, but the (minority) of children who attended multiracial schools speak a cross-over variety that has more in common with their white peers. This variety is no longer associated with a single ethnic group and can therefore be regarded as a deracialised variety (Mesthrie et al, 2023: 492).
Concurrently, in popular use, a new – derogatory – set of labels came into being to respond to the same ongoing linguistic changes. In societal use, the terms Coconut or model C-accent found their way in the public discourse, sometimes jokingly, but often as derogatory terms (Wilmot, 2014). Their core meaning is that of a black person speaking (too much) like a white person. Coconut is a visual metaphor, “dark outside and white inside”, while Model C has a metonymic source, referring to the former whites-only schools that have become deracialised and hence a contact and interaction site for between South Africans of all backgrounds.
Surveying the present-day options, Mesthrie and Van Rooy (in press) conclude that “For South Africa’s Black population today it might be more appropriate to now speak of a newer continuum of ‘traditional BSAE – BSAE-aligned intermediate varieties – crossover varieties’”. On the other hand, these descriptive labels for the Englishes used by Black South African people are also contributing to construct visions of the new South Africa in that it points forward to a context where integration of people due to increased contact in ordinary life will lead to a new “South African English”. What is clear from most serious scholarship in the past two decades, is that the term South African English has become an umbrella for all forms of this language used in this geographical space, and is no longer a neutral reference to a privileged settler variety. The legitimacy of all users is more strongly recognized today than at any time before.
Conclusion
In this essay, we tried to explore the importance of critically viewing the labelling practices for languages. We focused on the case of South African Englishes as it provides an opportune context for viewing the two roles that labels play in the context of languages. On the one hand, labels are used to describe varieties, on the other hand, labels are also used to contribute to the construction and conceptualisation of realities. Recent scholarship provides evidence that the contact and integration of the lives of people in the post-1994 South Africa is leading to new forms of shared Englishes. Documenting and analysing the use of labels and varieties of languages seem to be a productive area to relate to the ways in which labels describe the language realities in the lives of people and how these labels contribute to the construction of the dynamic sociolinguistic realities of people.
Bertus van Rooy
Professor Susan Coetzee-Van Rooy is the director of Het Zuid-Afrikahuis in Amsterdam and a
research Professor in the Faculty of Humanities at the North-West University (NWU) in South Africa.
Het Zuid-Afrikahuis fosters an environment in which knowledge and cultural exchanges between
South Africa, the Netherlands and Belgium flourish. As researcher, she studies the multilingual
repertoires of people and the specific roles that the home language and English play in these
repertoires. The research methods that she uses include language portraits, language repertoire
surveys, language history interviews, social networks and ethnographies of communication.
Susan Coetzee van Rooy
Bertus van Rooy is professor of English linguistics at the University of Amsterdam and chair of the department Modern Foreign Languages and Cultures. His primary interest is world Englishes – the shape, use and users of English across the world. He investigates phenomena like linguistic innovation and grammatical changes in the complex contact situations where English is used, together with societal attitudes towards languages and language use. He is the author of World Englishes: The local lives of a global language (2024), and co-editor of African Perspectives on the Teaching and Learning of English in Higher Education (2023) and the Blackwell Handbook of World Englishes (2025).
...and Other Such Labels for Love
Situationship Survivor
By Athena Thang
introduction
The landscape of modern-day romantic relationships is … craggy (crappy), to say the least. It’s undergone seismic shifts, being increasingly inundated with micro-labels that dissect every painful phase of your connection. Anyone with a screentime of >2 hours (you and i know it’s higher, don’t lie) can probably tell you what a ‘situationship’, ‘soft launch/hard launch’ and talking stage is. There’s a cultural compulsion with categorising the nebulous space between casual fun and committed4life – and it’s not hard to see why, given heightened anxieties around relational ambiguity. It feels like digital platform design and shifting societal values have converged to reshape our romantic norms (maybe for the worse). Dating apps like Tinder, Bumble, Hinge (Cringe!) have not only normalised hyper-specific labelling (my work? my hometown? my most irrational fear? my biggest date fail? my credit card number and cvv?), but have also structurally incentivised more transactional approaches to intimacy. Meanwhile, the erosion of traditional social scripts has left many a loverboy/lovergirl/lovertheythem in limbo, where such labile micro-labels necessitate constant negotiation of expectations, boundaries and emotional risk.
br*dgerton™ who
The emergence of these fluid categories represents a significant departure from historical norms. For much of the 20th century (back in my day… get me to bed, grandchildren), romantic relationships followed a linear progression governed by clearly defined cultural scripts: dating → exclusivity → engagement → marriage. These stages were rigorously reinforced through family oversight, community norms and institutional (religious, legal) frameworks that penalised deviations (Measure for Measure, anyone?). Categorising relationships within binaries like “casual” or “committed” leaves little room for ambiguity, given the social stigma attached to those who occupied intermediate positions. The stability of these norms relied on geographically-bounded social networks, where reputation acted as a regulatory force. As Giddens (1992) observed in The Transformation of Intimacy, pre-modern relationships were “embedded in wider social ties” that constrained individual choice but provided scaffolding for mutual obligation. However, this bedrock began degrading in the late 20th century – rising urbanisation pulled people away from tight-knit communities, while delayed marriage gave individuals more time to explore relationships outside traditional structures. Feminist thinkers began challenging patriarchal relationship models, questioning long-held assumptions about love and partnership. While this transformation has offered the masses unprecedented freedom and choice, it’s also introduced new anxieties for those navigating love and intimacy in a postdigital age.
the modern-day promethean gift of Tinder
The advent of dating apps marked a radical departure to previous, pre-digital paradigms by fundamentally reshaping how individuals approach romantic connections. Platforms like Match.com (launched in 1995 … happy 30th!) and later Tinder introduced an asynchronous model of interaction that enabled low-stakes interactions divorced from shared social contexts. These apps operationalise romantic exploration as a process of swiping, matching and chatting – actions that can be performed anytime, anywhere, with minimal emotional investment. Sociologist Eva Illouz (2007) describes this phenomenon as the “architecture of choice”, where potential partners are presented as an endless array of options. While this abundance of choice is seemingly liberating, it can also lead to what psychologist Barry Scwartz (2004) terms the “paradox of choice”, where an overabundance of options results in decision paralysis and decreased satisfaction with one’s ultimate selection.
See, the existence of dating apps in and of itself isn’t a bad thing. It’s facilitated countless happy, long-lasting connections, and expanded the possibilities for finding compatible partners – it’s not hard to see why it’s useful. You are no longer limited to people within your immediate social circle, or even your immediate physical vicinity. You’re increasingly able to, encouraged even, to use dating apps as a way to find people that share in your hyper-specific interests and perspectives. Gone are the days where you have to doll up and go to that same old lame bar to see the same old lame people. In this sense, dating apps have democratised access to romantic opportunities, offering a level of convenience and personalisation that was previously unimaginable.
Dating apps have fundamentally transformed how people meet potential partners, leveraging sophisticated psychological mechanisms that mirror addictive mechanisms used in gambling (Alter, 2017) to actively shape user behaviour, expectations and approaches to relationship formation. These platforms use techniques from behavioural psychology, game design and marketing to create engagement systems optimised for user retention rather than fostering meaningful connections.
For instance, many apps employ variable reward schedules – similar to those in slot machines – to encourage habitual use through features such as time-limited chats (Bumble’s 24-hour rule) and premium subscriptions (Tinder Plus, Gold and Platinum). Such designs foster a mindset of romantic FOMO, effectively turning relationship-building into a maximisation game where commitment is deferred in anticipation of even better options.
Moreover, the gamification of dating apps incorporates elements traditionally found in game design. Platforms lower the emotional stakes of interaction by reducing potential partners to disposable cards through swiping, a mechanism that minimises cognitive effort and promotes rapid decision making. Premium tokens – such as Super Likes and Roses – further signal heightened interest and establish hierarchies of attention, mirroring the intermittent reinforcement seen in video games and loot boxes.
Additionally, dating apps incorporate an infinite scroll design that continuously presents potential matches, ensuring a seamless flow of options without a clear endpoint. This design not only keeps users engaged but also creates a built-in incentive to keep swiping, as the barrage of profiles feels limitless. However, after a certain number of swipes, many platforms introduce a paywall, effectively prompting users to invest financially if they wish to access more profiles. This combination of endless scrolling and strategic paywalls leverages intermittent reinforcement principles – users are rewarded with new matches up to a point, then are nudged towards premium features to continue the experience.
This approach not only affects user behaviour but also reconfigures the economic model of dating apps, by introducing a form of “romantic stratification” that commodifies desirability. Premium features that prioritise certain users’ profiles create hierarchies of attention, encouraging individuals to view themselves as products requiring optimisation. This aligns with Illouz’s (2007) concept of “emotional capitalism”, where intimate relationships are increasingly subject to market logic. Hence, authenticity often becomes subordinated to presentation metrics, and the search for connection is reframed as a competitive, transactional process. This results in an environment where curating photos, scripting bios and strategically timing messages become essential activities, effectively commodifying selfhood and subordinating authenticity to presentation metrics like likes and matches.
The gamification of dating (Deterding et al., 2011) extends beyond mere user engagement tactics; it fundamentally reshapes how individuals conceptualise and approach romantic relationships. Elements such as quantification of attraction (likes, matches), achievement-based progression and competitive ranking systems contribute to what Sherry Turkle (2011) describes as a “culture of simulation”, where the lines between authentic connection and performative interaction blur. Gamifying dating apps then risks trivialising emotional investment, aligning with what psychologist Joost Raessens (2006) terms the “ludification of culture”, where game-like elements permeate non-game contexts, potentially trivialising significant life decisions.
the taxonomy of heartbreak
In response to what Bauman (2003) terms “liquid love” – the increasing fluidity and uncertainty of modern relationships – a proliferation of micro-labels have emerged to categorise various stages and forms of romantic involvement. Terms like “situationship” and “talking stage” have emerged as attempts to provide structure and definition in an environment characterised by ambiguity. While these labels ostensibly offer clarity (cue whatever variation of “we're going on dates, but aren't ‘dating’, you know?”), they often amplify anxiety, perpetuate cycles of disposability and fracture shared cultural understandings of commitment.
This phenomenon reflects a broader cultural shift where digital micro-identities erode collective norms by prioritising self-curated affiliation over inherited cultural scripts.
Romantic micro-labels exemplify this transformation – where once societies broadly agreed on what constituted a relationship, individuals now craft bespoke definitions that reduce the common ground necessary for mutual understanding. The result is a kind of relational Tower of Babel, where everyone speaks their own emotional dialect but struggles to communicate across the divide.
betterhelp ad
The co-opting of clinical language in romantic discourse reflects a broader trend of “therapeutic culture” (Furedi, 2004), where psychological concepts are used to interpret everyday experiences. Terms like “attachment styles” (anxious vs. avoidant) and “trauma-informed dating” have become popular explanatory frameworks, allowing people navigating the hellscape of modern dating to reframe incompatibility as psychological pathology. While this can promote self-awareness, it may also serve as a convenient deflection of responsibility – for instance, “I’m emotionally unavailable due to childhood wounds” becomes a legitimised exit strategy from the uncertainties of early relationship dynamics (navigating mixed signals, gauging mutual interest and managing emotional vulnerability without the security of defined commitment).
At the same time, the intersection of neoliberal ideology and therapeutic discourse in romantic relationships further complicates things. The emphasis on personal responsibility and self-reliance in neoliberal thought (Harvey, 2005) dovetails with the individualistic focus of many therapeutic approaches, leading to what Illouz (2008) terms “emotional competence” becoming a form of cultural capital in the romantic marketplace. Phrases like “you don’t owe anyone anything” exemplify this intersection; it’s frequently invoked to justify cutting people off (whether through ghosting, sudden withdrawal or refusal to offer closure) under the guise of removing toxicity from one’s life. While setting boundaries is essential, the neoliberal undercurrent of this mindset shifts the focus away from relational responsibility and mutual accountability, instead reinforcing a hyper-individualistic approach to intimacy.
This therapeutic vernacular has created what we might call pathologised dating, where normal relationship friction gets reframed through clinical lenses. Rather than viewing incompatibility as a natural part of human connection, we've developed a tendency to diagnose and medicalise relational challenges. The result is a dating culture where everyone's a patient and everyone's a therapist, but nobody's particularly good at either role.
While setting boundaries is essential, the neoliberal undercurrent of this mindset shifts focus away from relational responsibility and mutual accountability, instead reinforcing a hyper-individualistic approach to intimacy. This aligns with what Giddens (1991) terms the “project of the self”, where individuals are expected to constantly work on and optimise themselves – even in their romantic pursuits. The irony is palpable: in our quest to become more emotionally intelligent, we've created new ways to be emotionally unavailable.
Situationships invoke higher relationship anxiety compared to traditional labels – because with established terms, you know what to expect. This hyperspecific categorisation creates unrealistic expectations for relational precision (a boyfriend does this and this), heightening distress when reality inevitably diverges from the label. Additionally, there's a kind of contractual erosion where people use terminology to justify imbalances in commitment. For example, agreeing to a “non-exclusive situationship” can obscure unilateral emotional unavailability (it's only a situation for one person), leaving one party indefinitely benched without recourse.
FAFO function
The consequences of this new romantic landscape extend beyond dating app fatigue. Relational uncertainty, exacerbated by the proliferation of micro-labels and situationships, is associated with increased anxiety, depression and sleep disturbances (Knobloch and Solomon, 2002). The cognitive load of navigating ambiguous relationship categories can lead individuals to rely on maladaptive behaviours in an attempt to reduce uncertainty and anxiety (Berger and Calabrese, 1975).
Research demonstrates that uncertainty in relationships significantly affects sleep quality, heightens depression and anxiety, and creates broader psychological distress. When individuals lack access to their partner's thoughts, feelings and intentions, frustration grows exponentially. In the absence of clear information, people resort to cognitive biases that distort their comprehension of their partner's messages and impair their ability to communicate their own needs effectively.
The psychological toll is particularly pronounced because micro-labels promise precision but deliver ambiguity. They create an illusion of clarity, but in reality, they add more complexity and require constant renegotiation. Every interaction becomes a potential recalibration of the relationship’s parameters – it forces people to reassess where they stand, turning relationships into ongoing boundary management. It's like trying to navigate with a GPS that keeps changing the destination mid-route – technically more information, but practically more confusion.
new rules for connection
Emerging counter-movements suggest a pendulum swing away from hyper-categorisation in romantic relationships. While not always explicitly named, these shifts are palpable in everyday practices – especially within close friend circles. For example, many women compare their partners to the ways their female friends extend care, emotional support, and community-building – areas where partners often fall short. This comparison isn’t about outright rejecting romantic labels but highlights a subtle reorientation of relational values toward communal care and mutual support, which traditional partner roles sometimes fail to provide.
Similarly, the Gen Z attitude of “doing it for the plot” – reflects a pragmatic, almost playful approach to romantic opportunities. It’s less about meticulously categorising interactions and more about chasing experiences and connections, calling a spade a spade. This mindset embraces the messiness and uncertainty of dating, acknowledging that sometimes you just show up, engage, and see what happens, rather than overanalysing every stage or label.
These movements represent more than simple backlash—they signal a growing recognition that excessive categorisation might be counterproductive. Relationship anarchy, for instance, explicitly rejects hierarchical labelling, viewing all relationships as equally important and unique, bound only by agreements made between involved parties. Practitioners often report feeling less lonely and more supported, suggesting that abandoning rigid labels might actually enhance connection.
Whether these trends signal enduring change or temporary backlash remains unclear, they underscore deepening societal ambivalence toward romantic classification – aligning with what sociologists term “reflexive modernisation” (Beck, Giddens and Lash, 1994), where societal systems begin to critique and reshape themselves in response to their own consequences.
to infinity… and beyond!
The rise of romantic micro-labels reveals a culture grappling with the contradictions of digital modernity and what it means for love. We are simultaneously liberated by unprecedented choice and paralysed by its cognitive load. Dating apps, while initially hailed as democratising forces, have become laboratories for market-driven intimacy, where human connection has been distilled into swipes, stages and subscriptions.
While micro-labels offer temporary refuge from ambiguity (so... what are we?), they risk atomising shared understandings of commitment. The challenge lies in reimagining digital architectures that prioritise depth over efficiency, people over profit. This requires harnessing the connective potential of technology while preserving the authenticity of human relationships.
Perhaps the solution isn't abandoning labels like "situationships" entirely, but recognising their limits and our capacity to connect beyond them. The goal should be creating space for genuine human complexity rather than forcing messy emotions into neat categorical boxes. After all, the most profound connections often exist in the spaces between labels – in the ambiguous, undefined territories where people meet each other as they actually are, rather than as their relationship status suggests they should be.
Hi! I’m the media designer for this year’s edition of ICA. With a passion for graphic design and a constant presence online, I’m endlessly curious about the ways digitalisation has reshaped our world. My work often explores how the internet alters relationships, communication, and identity. Whether designing visuals or writing, I’m drawn to the intersections between technology and human connection — the subtle, shifting spaces where we navigate meaning in an increasingly digital age.
Athena Thang
Audrey Hepburn
By Maria Moser
Fashion, Class and Good Taste
Holly steps out of a taxi in a slim black dress and looks up at the lettering above her: “Tiffany & Co.”. She reverently approaches the display window, opens a takeaway paper bag and eats breakfast out of it while admiring the fine jewellery. But more than a look cannot be spared, since Holly, though being in her best dress for the occasion, is anything but able to afford the objects of admiration. This opening montage of the iconic 1961 movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s is not only one of actress Audrey Hepburn’s most famous scenes, but it introduces an image of elegance that, before and after the movie’s release, has been woven throughout Hepburn’s career: Both in the character she portrays and in her personal public persona.
Audrey Hepburn was one of the most sought-after actresses of her time, which was profoundly connected to the image she and the public constructed around her: Still today, she is viewed as the “embodiment of elegance and femininity”. Another word that is often used in connection to her is “classy”: fashionable and with a sense of “class”. This is fitting, one might suggest, as Audrey herself came from a well-off family and was able to maintain this image through her successful acting career. At the same time, the characters she portrayed were either from a high-class background or striving for it and eventually ending up there. In Sabrina (1954) and My Fair Lady (1964) she transitions into an upper-class lifestyle by how she dresses, acts and speaks, directly connecting her material reality to her behaviour. In Roman Holiday (1953), her character feels trapped by her luxurious lifestyle and escapes into the middle class to experience “normal life”. However, even in those surroundings, her “upper-class” - “classy” - mannerism opens doors for her that might otherwise have been closed. Therefore, we will examine some of her films and analyse how they have shaped Hepburn’s overall image and how her image of elegance and good manners are connected to her lifestyle, making us wonder: Is elegance only reserved for the rich?
Let us take a look at the movie that started it all: In 1953, Audrey was cast in Roman Holiday alongside Gregory Peck, the movie that would win her an Academy Award. Her character Princess Ann, who is on a tour through Europe, gets sick from being pampered, shoved around in her royal duties and trapped behind castle walls. On her stay in Rome, she secretly escapes and, together with the American journalist Joe Bradley, explores the city as a “regular” girl. Her royal naiveté and ignorance about “normal life” charms not only the viewer but the other characters in the film. Not knowing her high-class background, many of them seem surprised that a girl that is seemingly coming from out of nowhere could express herself as sophisticated as she does. Unconsciously, they are taken aback by the linguistic formal register she uses in the actually casual social interactions. This is, of course, because she “does not know any better” and was socialized that way (just like her character in My Fair Lady is, just the other way around) but it is also a fictive representation of real-life circumstances: It is no secret that we associate certain registers of talking with an according socioeconomic background. At the same time, those linguistic barriers have in addition very real, materialistic barriers on top: Even if someone living in monetary poverty were to talk in a register associated with higher class, he would not magically transcend into it, but would still have the same amount of money as before. Sure, it might open doors for social connections or a better job, but frankly we have to admit that speech and mannerism might create the illusion of class while mostly, its physical reality is mostly still determined by actual wealth.
This becomes clearer in Sabrina (1954) with the very tangible aspect of fashion. Audrey’s character, giving the movie its title, is the daughter of the chauffeur of the wealthy Larrabee family and madly in love with one of the two Larrabee brothers, David. But he, in turn, pays no attention to her. Only when she returns as an elegant, well-dressed lady after spending two years in Paris, he finally tries to win her over. Too bad, however, that Sabrina and his brother Linus now start falling in love. What is most striking about Sabrina’s transformation from shy wallflower to sophisticated woman is the way she dresses. And this is not by accident: The dresses by costume designer Edith Head were inspired by Hubert de Givenchy, which was the start of a year-long collaboration and ever-lasting association between Givenchy and Hepburn. Givenchy being a French designer, however, it needs to be pointed out that the association between Paris and “high fashion” seems somewhat artificially (or even stereotypically) enhanced in the movie for the sake of telling this Cinderella-story and at the same time, deliberately showcasing the various dresses. But it is not only the connection to Paris that emphasizes Sabrina’s transformation to a high-class lady. It is also the simple fact that you can only afford certain fashion when you have more money. To be fair, Sabrina herself might not have been able to actually afford her wardrobe, but the film’s budget certainly could. We usually associate certain designs with certain classes because of affordability and the exchange value of fabrics and production processes. But today, fast fashion has changed that: Shein and Co. create looks that are cheap but look like expensive designs. This creates a new dynamic that seems to especially serve public figures on social media. You can afford to “look” rich, even when you are not. Fashion is a simple tool of suggesting a financial status to the outside world without having to explain yourself. But why fool ourselves? Why are people striving to look “high-class”? Because, of course, class bears privileges.
This is also something that sociologist Pierre Bourdieu was all too aware of. Class occupies a central role in his works and he argues that one’s class determines one’s cultural and social preferences, basically one’s taste in things. In connection to that, he develops the notion of capital, which can take on several dimensions and was first brought up in the essay "The Forms of Capital" (1985).
For him, class is not only determined by “economic capital” (owning money and resources) but it is just as much “cultural capital” (education, manners, style of talking, cultural taste) and “symbolic capital” (chronically online people would call it “aura”) that distinguishes classes in terms of lifestyle. It is as though classes have entirely different cultures of how they act, what they do for leisure and how they perceive the world. This is of course very abstract and generalized thinking, because usually it is very hard to neatly draw a line between “higher” and “lower” class. But in this case, generalization might perhaps be necessary to understand Bourdieu’s point. You can only buy certain styles of clothing or look at certain art when you have sufficient economic capital. But Bourdieu points out how the classes are usually looking to distinguish themselves from one another in other ways as well. That is when cultural capital comes into play: inequalities and distinctions in society are created through differences in taste and manners. We have seen this play out in Roman Holiday, while Sabrina puts an emphasis on economic capital. But it is the interplay of the “capitals” that create the relation between perceived elegance and class: You are elegant when you carry yourself in a certain way and have “good taste” in fashion, but unfortunately, only people with economic capital can afford to have "good taste”.
When thinking about those things, one might quickly come to the conclusion that this is a very simplified and potentially flawed or outdated view of the world (Remember Shein?). This is why I would make the bold move of contradicting Bourdieu, at least in the context of film analysis and character motivation, by looking at another of Audrey’s films: Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She plays Holly Golightly, a lively and dreamy woman who has moved to New York City in order to find a millionaire husband who will be able to buy her all of the fine dresses and jewellery she desperately desires. Those initially shallow intentions lay the groundwork for a sweet romance as Holly meets the poor writer Paul, who makes her question her motivations and allow herself to be loved genuinely. A strong character trait of Holly’s is her love for everything extravagant: Even though she does not have a lot of money, she uses her means to throw parties in her tiny apartment, buy a nice dress every now and then and go window shopping in order to cloud her worries. The movie makes it clear that Holly is not being inauthentic and just doing all of this to eventually attract a rich husband. On the contrary: It is a lifestyle she genuinely enjoys and is willing to sacrifice not only her limited income for, but also her pursuit for deep romantic connection. Even though it is quite hard for her to hold up this lifestyle, she does not let her enjoyment be restricted by economic capital. If she cannot afford to buy the jewellery at Tiffany’s, she will at least admire it from outside the window for the simple joy of looking at it. This is not an attempt to unquestioningly romanticize a lavish and materialistic lifestyle, but to show that you do not have to belong to a certain class in order to have “its” taste. What one likes or enjoys does not have to be class-specific. In addition, Holly is poor and wants to marry rich, so she dresses as though she were rich. Therefore, taste does not reflect where you fit into but potentially where you want to fit into, how you want to be perceived. Still, it is true that a certain taste is popularly connected with a certain class, but that does not mean that those connections reflect someone’s actual living situation .
What do we learn from the above analysis? Class may be a label that is hard to notice when one does not look for it, but it is a powerful one. We put it on each other all the time, often unconsciously. Holly and Sabrina even put it on themselves, by using superficial associations with class to eventually enable them to access the according social and economic circles. Because of the history of fashion, we still associate certain styles with high-class, even if the lines of affordability have blurred due to the rise of fast fashion. That said, we can today create the “illusion” of wealth through fashion and mannerism much more easily than before. So even though Bourdieu’s points are highly useful – and I would argue, even necessary – to question and criticize power imbalances between classes, he was wrong that taste necessarily reflects your place in society. Rather, it can reflect where you want to be in society. I am aware that this objection is not universally true, because most individuals are not as materialistic as we might assume and not everyone strives to belong to a “higher class” for the sake of economic capital. However, this analysis is simply to show that it is possible to contradict Bourdieu in that way.
It also important to point out that in a more nuanced analysis of class, intersectionality needs to be considered: Hepburn and thus her characters are young and white, which additionally serves the fact that high class is unfortunately often still associated with the gender binary and stereotypical ideas about masculinity and femininity. But this would exceed the scope of this article and is topic for another conversation. This piece hopefully achieved its attempt to introduce the debate around class and elegance through the more tangible and observable aspect of fashion.
Audrey Hepburn remains an icon in popular culture, not only because of her phenomenal acting skills, her public engagement and later work for UNICEF, but still today, she reflects what society would label as feminine and elegant. So, no, you do not have to be rich to be “elegant” but there is certainly still an association between those terms, even today. Unfortunately, we have only found an artificial way to overcome those boundaries. But as society is changing, our perceptions can be hoped to change as well.
I am a first-year CADS student from Germany. In my 19 years of living, I have continuously re-discovered my attraction towards creative pursuits, which is why it felt right to not only become a part of the ICA, but to contribute an article myself. The topic explored in it indirectly combines multiple interests also woven throughout my private life, including writing, movies, fashion and the constant contemplation at what cost I can add a bit of romanticized Hollywood-glam to my ordinary existence. Professionally, I plan on focusing on Visual Anthropology and the Anthropology of AI, striving to eventually combine that with non-academic forms of distribution and entertainment.
Maria Moser
INTERVIEWS
When it comes to collaborating and working with other people in various contexts, labels appear to be indispensable. Who will be in charge of what? Which tasks are taken on by whom? Who has the right to make which decision? An exemplifying area for this phenomenon is filmmaking. Especially when thinking of the conventional, large-scale Hollywood production, where would we be without allocated roles and labels that tell us: This is the director, this is the costume designer and this is the person bringing us coffee? When we take a look into our field of anthropology, however, the combination of filmmaking and research makes the matter appear in a somewhat different light. Can “labels” lead to useful or even ethical research at all? We have interviewed three researchers from our CADS department. In the following articles, read about their story on how their latest filmmaking projects came about and how each of them has experienced the collaborative aspect of ethnographic research.
Interview with Dilara Erzeybek:
Home in the Garden
By Maria Moser
Dilara Erzeybek is a graduate of the Master’s programme Visual Ethnography. She is currently working on a film about Dutch-Turkish allotment gardeners, which is part of the research initiative At Home Otherwise – Rethinking Heritage through Diversity.
So to start with, could you give me a brief insight into the film you're currently working on? What is it about and what anthropological themes are you exploring?
My current film project follows the stories of Turkish-Dutch allotment gardeners to explore the idea of heritage outside of institutions. The footage is from a year-long fieldwork with colleague Simay Cetin who generously welcomed me as an audio-visual researcher to the project. When you travel by train through the Netherlands, you’ll often see these little plots of land scattered along the tracks, some with vegetable gardens, others with small cabins. These are called allotment gardens. They are small parcels of land that people can buy to grow their own crops, flowers, or just enjoy a little getaway from city life. But what we noticed is that many Turkish people, including my own family, use these plots more practically, mainly to grow crops and there was also always a traditional Turkish stove, called a ‘kuzine’. So the film also explores the idea of heritage on a home scale, inside the little cabins, but also on the land itself. I document these spaces through visual ethnography.
Many of the Turkish people who use these allotment gardens came to the Netherlands from rural villages in Turkey during the 60s and the 70s. Inside these small cabins, they recreate elements of their old way of life and reminisce about their childhood in their birth village, which they refer to as the ‘’köy’’ (village). The Turkish stove I referred to earlier is a central object in these spaces and it’s the same kind of stove they used back in their villages. It’s like they carry their (material) culture forward, while adapting it throughout time and space. My film aims to show that heritage isn’t something fixed or frozen in time, it's dynamic and connected to memory, embodied knowledge, the senses and emotions. My film is a collaboration with a broader project on democratizing heritage called ‘’At Home Otherwise’’, exploring how non-institutionalized, bottom-up practices may redefine what home and belonging means in a migratory context.
Was making a film about those people the initial idea or did the film come about as you went?
This film builds on work I started during my bachelor’s studies, where I also explored allotment gardens and their cultural significance in the Dutch context for my bachelor’s thesis. During the course Visual Methods me and my peer Lian visited my aunt's garden and made the short film Home Away From Home (2018. This helped me realize just how special the subject was, because we started to look more closely to what is happening in the allotment garden, inside and outside. I think I took that for granted because I was so used to being there at the garden as well.
I expressed my interest in contributing to the current research group as an audiovisual researcher and deeply appreciate the opportunity to contribute and collaborate with my colleagues. I felt strongly about an opportunity for an audiovisual output and that’s how I became involved in the project, because heritage is performative, visual, sensory, and emotional. My preferred style of filmmaking (and research method) is observational cinema and I like taking long takes in which things unfold at their pace. Our interlocutors touch objects, they cook, they gather, and there are moments that go beyond words. Like I mentioned before, Simay Cetin, who is a PhD student in our department, and I did fieldwork together for a year, visiting several allotment gardens. My aunt welcomed us in her garden and she became our gatekeeper. We were able to visit the gardens of her friends as well. We filmed in Rotterdam as well and Simay has also visited gardens without me in different cities.
It’s really a culmination of many things coming together that allowed this project to take shape.
Did you and Simay shoot the film together and take turns in, for example, holding the camera? Or was it really a project that you took on completely on your own?
My audio-visual part was completely up to me. Simay is not a trained visual ethnographer, so she did not hold the camera. That really made a difference in our position in the field, because Simay was more participatory, and I was more observant, because I'm holding the camera, I'm doing the sound. Looking back, I realized that I was less participatory during fieldwork than I initially expected, especially when I compare our roles throughout the process. I often reflected on my own positionality and aimed to support Simay without disrupting the framework she had set in place, while participating and filming. Simay and I travelled to and from fieldwork together so we would also discuss plans and other things and share thoughts afterwards, which was always very enjoyable and insightful.
So did she also become part of your research subjects in a way and did you point the camera at her as well?
Yes, I really wanted to showcase in the film how anthropologists go about in the field, which is very important in anthropological reflexivity, to be transparent, to show how data, if you want to call it data, to how data is gained. It was important to me because my film is very observational. So it has scenes where Simay is interviewing interlocutors. For example, we go on guided tours in the garden so interlocutors can show us certain crops that they also grew in their birth village. We also organized seed exchange events in two allotment garden communities. Simay has also learned to garden, to sow seeds and harvest produce. And these kinds of things I have filmed as well to show the process.
What were the trials and tribulations of having to take on all of the tasks that come with filmmaking yourself? Was there ever a time where you would have wished that there was someone to support you by splitting the tasks?
Sometimes I wished there was a sound person with me, for example, because one time it happened that we went into the gardens and one of our interlocutors wanted to show the solar panels that he had installed on top of the cabins and we had to climb up. I have this camera in my hands, sometimes on this gimbal, and I also have my field recorder, so it's impossible for me to climb up a cabin. So, sometimes I had to ask: “Simay, can you please hold this for me?” So then she would hold this for me. At times, I felt a bit hesitant because I didn’t want to rely on her or place extra responsibility on her. So I was always careful to ask for support in a considerate way, but she was always generous and never made it feel like a burden. I believe the equipment also plays a role—the setup isn’t very compact, which can be limiting at times. It’s something that could definitely be improved.
Were there also upsides to the fact that you had complete control over your own project, and you didn't really have to negotiate with anyone?
Yes, having full control definitely gives a lot of freedom. The process feels very fluid to me, I see it as something intuitive. I'm holding the camera, I'm talking to participants, they respond, I listen, I observe how they move, and I think about how I respond and move in return. It’s a constant flow of interpreting and reacting. almost like trying to sense what comes next. That’s why I call it intuitive, and I really enjoy that part of it.
Another big upside is timewise, I can plan and work on it whenever I feel inspired. I can just start working right away when an idea comes to me, and that kind of freedom is something I really value.
When you think about the way you interact with your informants, how much do you value your own creative expression in filmmaking as opposed to letting the informants direct the process in a certain way?
So when we talk about collaborative filmmaking, you also collaborate with your interlocutors. I can give an example. So within the gardening cabins, sometimes there are people who don't want to be filmed with their faces. And I really have to respect that, because as anthropologists, we don't want to cause any harm, no emotional harm, no physical harm. So I had to be very creative in my angles, in trying to find a right angle, in which things are seen, but not someone's face.
I have to negotiate: “Is it okay to film your hands? Is it okay to do this?” And afterwards, I'll show my interlocutors what I have edited, and I'll have to gain a certain confirmation whether it's okay to present them in this way. So, it's a constant negotiation. It's collaborative, and it's not only my output, it's also theirs. I really want the film to show how they present themselves, in their own voices, in their own terms, as opposed to imposed categories. In my film I have tried to show this by including a scene in which I request interlocutors to rearrange their seats so they have control over their privacy and I can film in a way I intend to.
Did you also have times where you have let the informants hold the camera?
That's one of the methods that we learn in visual ethnography as well, that you give your camera to your informants to see how they see things. But I have not done this in this project. I have done this in a previous project. When I studied artists, I let them hold the camera and film their spaces.
When you think about other film projects you have done, was there a project where you weren't the only filmmaker involved?
The short film that I made on the allotment gardens during the Bachelor’s course, I actually made [it] with one of my peers, with one of my colleagues, Lian Hof. She was holding the camera as well. So, we would position ourselves in different spots in the garden cabins, so we could capture everything, because once the moment is over, it's gone. So that was really about carefully planning. And during the editing phase, it was very nice, because we were like one brain. So that was really amazing and a nice experience, we still talk about it!
When you collaborated on that film together, how fixed were the roles you distributed between each other, for example, the camera work or the editing?
I would not see things as really fixed, because it's very fluid. I think we negotiated our positionalities in the moment, and it really depends on what is happening, because you cannot know what's going to happen next. We made plans before on how to do things and would usually communicate with each other, with signs and winks and things like: “Oh, you should really do this.” And it was really a nice synergy. We were lucky to have this synergy together.
Was there ever a time where you wanted to make certain creative decisions that you had to negotiate over, for example during the editing phase or in the field?
Yes, there was a moment where I had really nice footage of my aunt working in the garden, but I had accidentally left the ISO on automatic. Because of that, the lighting kept changing, the image was overexposed in some parts and fine in others. Normally, I set it manually, so this was a mistake. I had to make a choice: do I keep the scene because of its ethnographic value, or do I choose a different scene that fits better visually in the film? In the end, I chose the second option.
Another compromise I had to make was with a scene where Simay and another interlocutor were walking together through the garden community paths. I had my field recorder with me, but I forgot to put the wind shield over the microphone. The wind was so strong that the sound turned out really disturbed. It’s a pity, because a cat was following us during the walk, which added such a nice, almost poetic touch to the scene. I really liked it, but in the end, the sound issue made it difficult to include.
In the field, there were many moments where I would ask, “What’s happening now? Can you explain?” and the interlocutors would respond or I would ask them to summarize the day or an activity. Sometimes, I missed something they said, so I would kindly ask them to repeat it, these things happen in the moment. As I mentioned before, I also had to carefully negotiate who felt comfortable being filmed, whether it was their face, hands, or not at all. And of course, I always tried to make sure to respect their wishes.
While you are editing, do you ever wish you had input from outside or there was someone to give you their insight?
For me, it's very important to have outside input, because people can give different insights, also non-academics. And that's why I'm also asking my colleagues to come and see and give their inputs, because it's the first time that I'm managing this project alone. I film alone, I edit alone, I present it alone. Colleagues are important.
If you think back to the general experience of taking this film on completely on your own: What is your attitude towards fixed roles in collaborative filmmaking, especially in ethnographic filmmaking? Do you think it can be useful to some degree or not at all?
It can be useful to do everything on your own, because you're better able to judge your own positionality and your own reflexivity. And when you work with another researcher, for example, it can be fruitful in a way that you can reflect on both. Because what Simay and I are doing now is that we visit the same gardens, but outside of those gardens, she visits other gardens. Without the camera, without me, and I visit the gardens with my camera without her. So, I think that reflecting on these things is very important, because the camera really influences the way that people interact with you. In the field, some are more scared, so you have to really build trust. A way of doing that, for example, was to show my previous film to new interlocutors, and they recognized themselves and were more open and willing to answer questions or participate.
I think it really depends on what is being studied. In some contexts, fixed roles in collaborative filmmaking can definitely be useful, especially when the project requires clear responsibilities or when working in a larger team. But in more fluid, creative, or intimate settings, like in ethnographic filmmaking, flexibility can be just as important. What matters most, I think, is making clear agreements with each other from the start, understanding who does what, being open about expectations, and having conversation throughout the process.
Do you feel like the film is really part of your own project?
I don't want to take the complete credit for the film as my own artistic project, because I really want to view it as collaborative. I got into this project because of Simay. She allowed me to come with her and I am thankful for that.
Outside of the academic setting, yes it really feels like my own project. As I mentioned, we filmed in my aunt’s garden, and without her, the film wouldn’t have been possible. In a way, the film is also a small tribute to her. I find it meaningful to have captured a part of her life, to keep those moments alive.
Is there one moment while you were shooting in the gardens that that just really moved you or that you will probably remember for a long time?
We were filming in my aunt's garden before my grandma was sick. My grandma loved coming to the gardens because she's always lived in an apartment, just like my family. They've all come from living in an outside environment to living in small apartments. My grandmother really, really loved coming to the garden. And when I was asking her about how she feels when she comes to the garden, she immediately talked about her emotions, about her past. There was this nostalgic moment where she expressed her memories and her feelings toward these memories in relation to her past and how these memories came to life in the garden. And this was actually the first time that I heard my grandmother talk about the past, and that was really an emotional moment for me. Also, at that moment, my whole family started crying, and I recorded this, so it was a beautiful, unexpected moment that I will never forget.
I am a guest researcher and filmmaker currently collaborating on the project At Home Otherwise at department CADS at Leiden University. My path into anthropology grew from a curiosity about how people create meaning in everyday spaces. I became drawn to visual storytelling and explored spaces for artistic practice and homemaking in the allotment garden.
During my master’s in Visual Ethnography at Leiden University, I became increasingly interested in the intersections of art, heritage, and migration. Film became a way for me to capture stories in a sensory and personal way. After graduating in CADS, I studied Art History, including internships at Museum De Lakenhal and volunteering at the Cobra Museum.
Dilara Erzeybek
Interview with Hanum Atikasari:
Being with my Neighbours
By Maria Moser
Hanum Atikasari is a PhD candidate at CADS. Her film “Being with my Neighbours”, in collaboration with Taylor Bonin, focuses on palliative care volunteers in Indonesia.
You were recently making a film in 2024, called Being with my Neighbors. To start with, could you give me a brief insight into what this film is about and what the main themes of the story are?
It actually started later during my field work. I did my research on end of life care in Indonesia and started my fieldwork back in 2022 with multiple visits to the field site, and then at the end of the field work, I was thinking: What can I do for [the informants]? How can my research be accessible, not only for the academic audience, but also for the broader audience, for the people that I worked with? How can they access this research? So I came up with the idea of making a film. My main focus at that time was: How do people care for those who are at the end of their life in the Indonesian context? During my research, I worked with community health workers and with NGO staff who are doing palliative care, or care for people with life threatening illnesses. But what they do is mainly in a community base and on a voluntary basis. During my more than eight months’ fieldwork, they told me that they are often not acknowledged by other people, especially by people from the government. There is a part of them that wants their work to be more visible. So I pitched that idea: “What if I make a film for you?” I have no previous experience with filming, so I asked my colleagues here, some visual ethnographers and anthropologists in our department, for some advice. I worked with a friend to help me with the filming. But previously, I already had some ideas about what I am going to film. Because I wasn’t planning on doing the filming for the whole period of weeks or months. I only had limited time, so I only did two weeks. You could call it the two-weeks-project of filming [within the longer fieldwork project]. But the filming itself took less than two weeks. It was just a few days, but it's basically me following the person that I work with, visiting their neighbors and helping them navigate care, connecting them with NGOs and other organizations.
When you collaborated with another filmmaker for this project, did you also have a role behind the camera, or were you the subject of the camera?
Before we started filming, we came up with ideas about what we were going to film during this very limited time. I did some brainstorming: What do I actually want to film? Although, at the end, I will follow [the informant]. To prepare the schedule for filming, I communicated with my friend, who is also new to film. We figured things out together and also, about what shots we should take and making different kinds of scenes. And my friend is also not very familiar with the location. The idea was that I was in the film, so it's basically following me, but the main focus is my interlocutor. So the camera is kind of like my eyes. There are also some moments where there’s interaction between me and her. There's an interview between me and my other interlocutors. So it's a little bit of both. In ethnographic research in general, you do the analysis during the filming process. You go back and forth about what you are going to do the next day and what will be interesting.
Did you also have a situation where you were in front of the camera and you would have liked to also make decisions as the camera worker or where you would have loved to be behind the camera in this moment?
There were some moments when we had an interview. I prefer to be behind the camera, so it's focusing on the person that I talk to. They kind of just talked to the camera, I was standing behind the camera and asking questions. There were also some moments of interaction where I was involved in the field, because there were interactions with the patients as well, so it was a little bit of both. During that process, it was quite messy.
Was it more of a spontaneous allocation of tasks, or rather fixed roles of who is in charge of what?
It was more spontaneous. When my friend was the person holding the camera and I was doing the directing part, he’s also like: “Oh, this is interesting. Why not take this? Why not take that?” So we kind of did directing together. I would not say it was just me directing. I found it really rewarding, actually, to work collaboratively with other people, because you get ideas that you sometimes don't think of. And the editing process was mainly done by my friend, because logistically, it was beneficial for him to have everything, but I had the materials as well. The [editing] process was about going back and forth, back and forth. We developed the storyline together with all of the materials we had. What will be the story? Which shots do we want to put in, which shots do we want to leave out? That's a lot of work. A lot of decisions to make. How long are we going to make this film? Because at that time, the idea was that I go to Indonesia for a six-minute film. Nope, we ended up with 20 minutes! Because it's a pity to let go. When you do filming, you just want to take as much as you can.
Because you talked about how rewarding the collaboration was and how many ideas you got from each other: Were there also times where you had to compromise your ideas? And how easy was it to let go of your own ideas if you realized that the idea of your friend might work better?
The advantage of working with my friend [is that] we've been friends for about 10 years already. So we kind of understand each other.
But of course, there’s also that kind of friction, different ideas of how to put things. There was actually a moment where he already put things together, and I was like “Why do we have that?” And that needs a lot of negotiation. We're lucky because we were friends for some years, and had feelings with that kind of conflict.
So do you feel like the aspect that you were friends made it easier to negotiate?
Yeah, it is [easier]! To actually let go of some part, or to include some other part. It was a lot of work to manage that balance, let's say, between you being stubborn and then you also compromising. There's no formula for that, unfortunately.
When you think back to the process in general, do you feel like you really valued your own creative expression, or did you rather prefer to let the informant or the events direct the storytelling?
Actually, it’s the second one. I let the informant direct us, because at that time, I said to the main character of the film that we just want to follow her. “Whatever you are doing, you can just tell us if you want us to join or not.” Sometimes we didn’t know what she had the next day. That was also a surprise. What if she wasn’t not doing anything the second day? And sometimes, we just had days off where she was like: “Today, I'm just going to do my washing at home” And what were we going to do? I'm very lucky that my informants were very much communicative, very engaging and also very natural with the camera. It was just the same as what we had without a camera during the filming process. [Because] I knew her for some years already, it affected her feeling comfortable in front of the camera or maybe she felt comfortable because nowadays we are just exposed to all of this. Your phone has a camera. We send selfies all the time, sharing photos and being comfortable when someone records you. That's actually something that I think is interesting to figure out. I did the filming at the end of my fieldwork, I can't imagine doing that at the beginning. So the relationship was already there first.
Do you feel like the informant would have been less comfortable in front of the camera if you hadn't known each other already?
Yeah. But that was also something that I found out during my research. It surprised me, because there were a lot of people that I had not met yet during my [initial] fieldwork, especially some patients, some new patients, and family members. To build that trust is also very important, to feel that comfort. And maybe that was because of my interlocutors and that I just followed her with the camera. So yeah, it's important to build something in advance, I would say. So that they can trust you with the materials and stuff like that.
Because you mentioned this trust relationship, I would like to go back to this collaborative aspect. Do you feel like it would have been easier if you had those fixed roles and you were the only one making certain decisions? Or do you feel like, in retrospect, it was more rewarding to have this spontaneity?
Yeah. Because with this film, but also with the [entire] project, I really liked the collaborative approach, instead of just me doing the thinking. Because sometimes, you have some new ideas by working with other people as well. I don't really push my ideas or my thinking towards the direction that I want. But also, it's not only about me and my friend, my collaborator, working together but it's also about the interlocutors. What they found important to capture, what they found important to actually be seen by others. Part of it was also that they directed us towards what they found mattered to them. I think often, we as a researcher have some ideas about what would be nice to have, but in reality, it will be even nicer if we follow what is important for [the interlocutors], instead of just following our own ego.
If you think back to this project in general, do you feel like film is something that you will also use for future projects, or that you will do a small film like this again?
Oh yes! Actually, the other day, I just made a joke that [the film] delays me from the writing process. Because it is also time consuming, especially for me, with no experience at all of conducting film. If I want to do it again, I will consider it in the future, as long as it's feasible in a way that fits for the people that I work with. Because for this film, it serves certain purposes. I know it sounds very cliché, but I like to see films as a way of care. It's also something new to me, maybe it works for them too. But if I work with different people who don’t want to be filmed or the topic is very sensitive, it might be a bit difficult. So it depends whether it's suitable or not, but I would certainly consider maybe doing this again in the future.
I’m a PhD candidate at CADS. I study care trajectories of women with reproductive cancer and end-of-life care in Indonesia. My research is part of the ERC starting grant-funded Globalizing Palliative Care project. My journey to anthropology is not straightforward. I obtained my master’s degree in public health from the University of Melbourne, Australia, and I worked in the international development sector for various programs in Indonesia, Australia, and Nepal. Before joining the institute, I worked as a research assistant at the Nossal Institute for Global Health on an ethnographic study on cervical cancer in Indonesia. My positive experiences of this ethnographic research made me realize that I wish to conduct research that combines ethnography and health. My research is driven by my interest in how social, cultural, and structural conditions shape health, illness, and well-being.
Hanum Atikasari
Interview with Weiyan Low:
Ggésék
By Maria Moser
Weiyan Low is a PhD candidate at CADS. In his film “Ggésék”, in collaboration with Kolektif Rumah Kosong, he documents a matchstick factory in Malaysia and the relationship of its workers with the machines.
You have made a film about a matchstick factory in Malaysia. To begin with, could you give me a brief insight into the central themes you're exploring, what the film is about and why you chose to look at the factory?
This film was more a serendipitous endeavour, because my research is actually on artificial intelligence and Islam in Southeast Asia. The research itself is a lot about future making and, of course, with AI and digitization, future industries. So this became an opportunity to examine a life world that is in its twilight era, in a way. It was at the end of the first round of field work and where I was staying there were people who were touring, and they were like: “There is this factory that's going to close down.” That's the story I received. Now it's like: Well, okay, I should go and have a look before I leave. It would be a shame. And I went with a very close field friend of mine, and we were just stunned by the atmosphere. It evolved into a conversation about: Why do we feel this way when we enter spaces like this, in the same way that we experience nostalgia for things and times that we haven't experienced? Just for context, where I do my field work, it's in a part of my country where there have been no cinemas in the last 30 years because it's a more conservative part of the country, and there's a small collective which my field friend is a part of, that's trying to start their first small-scale Film Festival. And so I ended up working together with a collective to make this film. The themes kind of emerged through discussions with them, because they're from that state, and I'm not from that state, and also, we were going to do everything in the local language as well. Then the conversation of human-machine relationships in post-industrial or late industrial worlds came from that. I didn't want the research to have a strong bearing, because then it feels like an imposition for me, like: “I'm here to do research, therefore I will make a film.” And I see that as more of an imposition. It was a gamble as to whether it would be something that would work with the research that I'm doing. It kind of emerges more as a question to the research, which is quite interesting, and whether that works as another story. The themes emerged throughout the filmmaking process, because it was not just about making an ethnographic film. We wanted to document workers’ stories. And whether that was for film or not was irrelevant. And personally, the first thing I did before I left, I took a video of the machines, I recorded the sounds, and that proof of concept is what became the basis of the documentary later.
I also heard that you didn't do this film alone, but collaborated with someone there. Could you talk about how this collaboration came about?
I collaborated with an upstart collective called Rumah Kosong; a small group of friends who have day jobs, who love films and want to make them. In the past, when I first started doing anthropology in my Master's, we weren't trained in visual anthropology or anything, but I did do a film as well. I've always helped. Filmmaking, photography was always a very good way to enter the field for me, but also like a very good way to share. Data is stuff that's always shared in the field. This approach was an opportunity for us to document the place of which the footage, photos and everything go back to the workers and this collective. They want to use it for bigger projects in the future, then we have gotten all of this material already. And because during fieldwork, when the first small film festival was held, their film about what happened to the facades of the old cinemas from the 90s was quite striking. And I was like. “Oh, it would be quite interesting if we did something together.” And so, this happened a year later. It was more about all being able to contribute to the scene, because these were people that I was hanging out with. I mean, as a rule of thumb, whether it's photos or video, there's always co-ownership of my data when it comes to visual work.
Were you also collaborating on the field side, not just behind the scenes and organizing the production? Were there also people on site with you that were holding the camera or making directorial decisions?
[Regarding] the technical thing, I'm credited as the director. But the camera was tossed around between me and another friend, and I also did sound for it as well. And my field friend who I first went there with, he's actually a book publisher in the state. He was credited as our fixer and everything. But it was mainly three of us that were shooting most of it, and we kind of had a schedule of the workers’ half an hour break [where] we could talk to someone. Other than that, we wanted to reconstruct the daily goings of the factory itself. Me and my friend have a very different shooting style. I'm more stagnant, and he does a lot of long movement takes. That combination was quite interesting, because most of my shots were of machinery and most of his shots were of people. A lot of this collaboration becomes more apparent in post-production. Because during production, you're like: Okay, you're keeping a mental note of this? Should we pick up on this? And you're really just having fun with people, to be honest. It's not like we had a storyboard or whatever. We're not going to move or change anything when people are comfortable. It was a bit of a gamble.
Was there ever a situation where you had contrasting visions with your collaborators and you had to negotiate about which decision to make? And how did you approach that?
That came mostly in the editing process. The idea the collective was thinking of, at first, was to not have people at all [in the film], to just fully lean into the machinery. Then I did think that that could be a bit problematic. And having spoken to workers and the managing staff, their stories were actually very interesting to weave in. How do we balance these two worlds out? During the shooting process, when you see something interesting, you either, if I'm holding the camera, film it. Otherwise, I'm ushering my friend over, trying to record sound. You just go running around. I think that was the most fun part. But most of the decisions came in post because we wanted to do something that we could screen at the second edition of this local festival together with the collective. And then there was some talk about what if we did make something that we could submit or screen elsewhere? And then there was some contention, because it was very important to us as well, that this is a film that locals will understand. And the criteria for ethnographic film is sometimes inaccessible to people at the market, for example. We had to find a way to balance that out. And that's where, in the editing process, there's a lot of back and forth. How does this sequence work? How do we do the storytelling in a way that is respectful? And to some degree, it gets the emotions across that we want. Because we eventually screened it at the factory for the workers as well and the friend I went there with, Zaidi was his name, he also does film photography, so we also had portraits of the workers that we gave to the workers when we visited again. It had to be that balance.
And in this process of post-production negotiation, was director also a role you tried to embody or did you rather intend to have this eye-to-eye level of negotiating?
That's a tough one. Because I think when you're there as a field researcher, it's not a hierarchical thing, and you try to respect that. But also, as a field researcher, wanting to privilege other positionalities in the field, that's very important. It becomes a lot of give and take.
The directorial position was given to me. I didn't ask for it, because when I submitted the first proof of concept film and all that footage, I thought that would later evolve, and then they're like: Then I should direct their next film. That was kind of it.I think as far as directing goes, it's constant discussion, really, because even in post-production, [with] my friend who's credited as Director of Photography in the film, it was a bait and pass, and it was a conversation. Most of the editing work is conversational. There's poetry in the film that we wrote together, and that poetry and the idea of poetry came from him, and then we just co-wrote. And then I had the idea, [that] it should sound great in the local dialect but also in English. Then we spent the whole day writing poetry together, and then that became the chapter markers for the film. That’s the nature of collaboration. I don't like the idea of like: I sit there and give orders. Honestly, half the time it's just going. “Well, I think this, but how does that feel to you?” And then from there, we make a decision and we move on.
If you take those things you just said into consideration, to what extent do you feel like those fixed roles in filmmaking might even be a bit redundant? Or do you think they are still important to some extent to know who focuses on what?
I guess in filmmaking in general, [roles] are important. It depends on the film. If you have a director who is very much like: This is the throughput of my vision. And I need the people I work with to understand that this is the end. Then, of course, the hierarchy becomes kind of important and not in an egoistic kind of way. It's just, that's the vision in ethnographic film, or at least in this case, I think it's very different. If you treat it the same way that we would treat field work, it's a very different relationship, right? Because I guess for anthropologists, the fear is very different, because it's the fear of misrepresentation, of repeating certain tropes, and so on and so forth. I guess that's where it has to be more democratic. It can be frustrating as well, don’t get me wrong. I guess it really depends on the genre.
Especially in the context of ethnographic filmmaking, are you also someone who values your own creative expression to a certain extent, or do you tend towards letting the informants, in this case the factory workers, direct the process?
That's a really interesting one, because with the factory workers, there was so much more that happened off camera than on camera. That's why other ideas for photo books and stuff are on the back burner right now, and I think we got more of that after we had screened the film to the workers. I wasn't present for that because I had already returned to the Netherlands, but I think for most of these workers, because most of them were in their 70s already, it was just a good time to see themselves, their friends and the space that they work in. We didn't work directly with the workers, because there was no time for them to spare. Because as relaxed as the factory atmosphere is now, the workers still had work to do, and their breaks were relatively short for them to do their personal stuff. And we didn't want to interfere too much. It was more the manager. Just for some context, the manager and the owners really don't like the media. Because the media tends to report on the factories like: “It's the last thing! It's going to close soon!” And they're kind of done with dealing with the media in that sense, so it was kind of important that that didn't come up in the film. We're not trying to do a How-It's-Made-video and we're not transfixed on the end of an industry, because our interviews did not reflect that. Besides the owner being frustrated with it, our interviews with the workers did not reflect that at all. In that sense, that was the extent of working with the workers to build the narrative.
So was it less about telling the story of the factory and more about telling individual stories of the workers?
It was a mixture. There aren't any lengthy interviews. They just weave in and out of the imagery. It’s more like a portrait of the factory space.
What was one specific moment in the field, working process, or while shooting this film, that just really sticks out to you or that you will probably remember for a long time?
It's the shot I'm most proud of. I spent a lot of time in the factory. In the afternoon they have the lunch break and their prayer break, and for me, that was the most special time. This factory, it's not in a high urban area and at this time, the factory grinds to a halt, and it's just quiet, and you just hear the collection of afternoon prayers from the surrounding mosques. And the workers pray in the factory. And I would just be there at lunchtime to just sit with the workers, because it becomes this serene place, and also because in this place, the workers have customized their spaces. The relationship between the owners, the managers and the staff, there's almost no hierarchy. Some workers come and go as they please. I don't want to romanticize the whole thing, because, of course, it's a very precarious state for the industry, and this kind of relaxed life can only exist in post-industry. It's an exceptional time and space. I will put it that way for the factory. And some of them even have their kids work there too. The oldest worker was 70, which is 79 this year. And her daughter works there, and she started when she was 18. So she's been there for 60 years, an entire lifetime.
So if, for example, a 70-year-old worker chose to retire, is that something he would have a lot of control over? Could he just stop working?
They all could have. Technically, legally, they all should have retired. But the thing is that, in the words of the factory manager, it's a family business, so these things like profit margins and whatever, are not the most important thing. There's one worker. His job is to transport stuff from one pump factory to the other like clockwork. He's also in his 70s. His kids don't want him to work. He cycles 20 kilometers in 30-something-degree sun every day. Who's going to hire someone in their 70s? For context, this is declared one of the poorer states in the country as well. There are some economic factors that perhaps are behind this too, but also because they're content with the work. A few of them actually just continue working because they like the work. In one case, two of them have become, like best friends over time, and they just worked together for decades. It's the relationships that kind of keep people there, and also the reality of who's going to hire someone in their 70s. It's not super hard labor to some degree. And it pays the bills as well.
There are also other things that came out of this. Because my friend and I decided to go back and take photos and everything. The initial photos that we took of the place also became a photo exhibition in Barcelona. And it’s interesting, because then the conversation of industry kind of moved from place to place as well.
Having spawned in the post-colonial land of intersectional food and ethnoconfusionism of Malaysia, I’ve always had a curiosity in the dynamic relationship between people, practices, places, politics, and ‘things’. After working as a school teacher for several years, I saved enough to undertake a Masters in Cultural Anthropology in Belgium. I was enchanted by the field of ‘material culture’, which led to my Masters research on guitar pedals and Flemish post-metal where I also developed my practice in photography, music and affinity for ‘noise’. Now pursuing my PhD, these practices are my sensors in the field, meandering my way through the search of noise in music and photographs. My current research investigates visions and visuality through competing Islam-led futures, and the everyday movement of people embracing generative AI between Malaysia’s urban and rural spaces.
Weiyan Low
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