What remains most important in their collective work, however, is the use of non-traditional, non-linear narrative form(s) to preserve and pass on the counter-memories that constitute the "others" --  those accounts left out of the linear, diachronic narrative of western-style "Progress," of "History" itself.  Even Khaled's narrative, which mimics most closely the traditional, masculinist linear form within the autobiographical mode, disrupts the logic of its own linearity through moments of "interruption" that question certain masculinist assumptions of the value of violence.  Such formal and moral subversiveness is not merely a counter-hegemonic move against masculinist discourse, but against imperialist discourse as well; for it makes us see the distortions of a dominant western discourse that would label Khaled as an unfeeling, unthinking "terrorist."  

Like those of Djebar's fictive text, but also much like  those utilized by the writers of the autobiographical texts, Morrison's formal strategies in Beloved thematize the tropes of memory and multiple selves that I have been outlining.  This complex use is best seen, as Mobley suggests, in the poetic passages at the end of the book where the voices of the three most important females (Sethe; her living daughter, Denver; her murdered daughter, Beloved), are represented as interior monologues that turn into a dialogue, and finally, into a multiplicitous merging of all three voices.  For Mobley, Beloved's monologue is the most intriguing -- perhaps the most important -- because it contains no punctuation.  Mobley states:  

[T]here are literal spaces between groups of words that signal the timelessness of [Beloved's] presence as well  as the unlived spaces of her life . . . . Samples of phrases from Beloved's monologue reveal the meaning of her presence: "How can I say things that are pictures    I am not separate from her there is no place where I stop  her face is my own . . . all of it is now it is always now."  (362-63)

These words and their mode of presentation suggest to the reader not only the seamlessness of time, "but the inextricability of the past and present, of ancestors and their progeny" (Mobley 362-63).  Indeed, the blending together of the voices of all three women in the final "dialogue" implies that it is "always now," that past, present, and future are all one and the same.  This blending also might suggest that each of these women overcomes the self-divisions as well as differences with each other to meet in symbolic sisterhood.  Such a reading implied by Beloved's formal structure, is, of course, a highly political one that, as James Berger insists, places the novel in the context of racial discourses and social policies of the 1980s (I would suggest the 1990s as well).  Remembering becomes an act of resistance and political will: Through the trope of memory, "Beloved opposes neoconservative and Reaganist denials of race as a continuing, traumatic and structural problem in contemporary America but also questions positions on the left that tend to deny the traumatic effect of violence within African American communities" (Berger 408).  

I will leave the reader with images that accrue symbolic significance in each of the texts discussed here, as examples of the will to inamnesia which is the driving force of each narrative, and which urges a case for collective feminist agency aimed at achieving an "epistemological dislocation (decalage), producing a new phase, a new consciousness, a new set of practices  . . .  capable of transforming the material world" (Althusser, qtd in Behdad 2).  Behdad is arguing a case for postcolonial criticism per se as "a belated, wild practice," making the oppositionality of postcolonial critics "a function of inamnesia [sic]" which exposes "the genealogy of the oppressed."  I am arguing a similar role for postcolonial or (perhaps more accurately) "third world" feminism which gives voice to the specific historicities of different "women of color" that have gone largely unrecognized and un(re)marked in the dominant discourse of an imperializing western feminism.  But, as Behdad argues, "to read belatedly the traces of the colonial memory, or to send the card back to a sender who may or may not happen to be there to receive it, does not necessarily constitute an oppositional praxis."  In other words, "genealogy is not merely an erudite knowledge of the past, but as Foucault points out, a kind of research activity that allows us to establish a historical knowledge of struggles and to make use of this knowledge tactically today  . . . [H]istoricity can only be meaningful if it accomplishes a link between past phenomena and present events" (Behdad 12-14).  

Thus, it can be argued that the "novel" Beloved gets much of its emotive power from its ability to convey to the reader the historically real suffering of slavery through its "fictional" form.  Morrison uses this "fictional" form in the service of counter-memory ("rememory" is the word used in Beloved), similar to slave narratives, by utilizing such formal conventions available to the writer of "fiction" as symbolic metaphors, (the most "visible" of these being the chokecherry tree scar on Sethe's back).  At the same time, Morrison's narrative conveys the equally balanced need for achieving some method of healing of past wounds (of which Sethe's scar is both symbol and lived experience) which have led to present failures, in order to secure an empowered and empowering future for those who suffer most from being labelled "victims" of history.  Yet this "psychic healing" can fully occur only when America recognizes that the histories of Sethe, the Schoolteacher, and Bodwin (the white abolitionist) are entwined.  Or, as Cornel West writes:  

While black people have never simply been victims, wallowing in self-pity and begging for white give-aways, they have been  -- and are -- victimized. Therefore, to call on black people to be agents makes sense only if we also examine the dynamics of this victimization against which their agency will, in part, be exercised.  (14)

In other words, a refusal to remember the racial trauma inflicted on Black people by slavery and its legacy leads to an ahistorical perspective which, as West accurately points out, "contributes to the nihilistic threat within Black America in that it can [and is] used to justify right-wing cutbacks for poor people struggling for decent housing, child care, health care, and education" (14).

It is in the light of these comments that the chokecherry tree, carved into Sethe's back by her master's whipping, emblematizes much more than a personal scar.  Sethe's proud, stubborn refusal to "hide" it becomes a gesture of anamnesia, a "belated return of the repressed" in the contemporary discourse on race, with obvious connections to such figures as Rodney King and Mumia Abu-Jamal.   Khaled's memory of the refugee tent in Lebanon collapsing and suffocating her fellow Palestinian exiles, similarly symbolizes anamnesia.  Her memory wills the world into recognition of the continued plight of the Palestinians, truly a "belated return of the repressed" following the so-called "peace agreement" of 1993. 

Djebar's retrieval of the "incident of the caves," the occupying French army's mass annihilation of Algerian Berber tribes in 1845, (mentioned sporadically and incompletely in "official" French accounts) is also symbolic of the counter-memory necessary to connect past atrocities and suffering to present-day horrors with the aim of working actively against such re-emergences.  Indeed, the prescience of the book's palimpsestic "message" is uncanny, given the current reign of "fundamentalist" terror in Algeria.  The very title of the chapter, "Women, Children, Oxen Dying in Caves," centralizes the experiences of women as the worst victims of imperial (and presently, of state) violence.  The image of the woman found asphyxiated with her child in her arms, referred to fleetingly in Cl. Pelissier's "official" report of the "fumigation" of the 1500 Ouled Riahs becomes, for Djebar, a "palimpsest" on which she can now "inscribe the charred passion of my ancestors."  She finds a way to read the "lyrical embraces" of the dead women of yesteryear as gestures revealing "their aspirations to be the sister-spouses of their men who do not surrender" (79).  In fact, as Zimra remarks in a recent essay on Djebar's corpus, the latter's "clasping" of a dead woman's severed hand -- picked up and discarded by a French traveller and painter, Fromentin, on his visit to the Caves six months after the massacre -- be/speaks a "transgression of the highest order" by "reinscribing these bodies as subjects" (168).  By bringing back this death into our living memory via the act of remembering and rewriting history, Djebar "activates other cultural grids as well."  By trying to make the "hand of mutilation and memory" now hold the "qalam" or pen, Djebar also is transgressing the male realm of Algerian Muslim culture, since "only men may hold the qalam, sacred stylus with which the faithful copy the Qran" (168).  Thus, the act of counter-memory serves both the "minoritarian" function of identity-formation ("giving voice" to the silenced Other), as well as the postcolonial one of identity-critique (critique of the oppressively masculine nation-state).  By "appropriating the male instrument," Djebar gives back to her foremothers the "right to their own gaze/eye/(I)," and, hence, their "own erotic autonomy."  The transgression of re-memory is thus multipronged: "The mutilated hand of memory becomes the fetish that insists on its autonomy, synecdoche of an avenging body that 'speaks' to us at the end of a gendered chain of dis(re)memberment" (Zimra 168).  How sad, then, that the dis(re)memberment continues into the present; yet, how important is the "I can't go on; I must go on" stance embodied by the literary, historical, political, and cultural work of women such as these.  

Finally, Shakur's re-presentation of a court scene, where she and a colleague (Kamau) are being tried for a crime they did not commit, is an anamnesiac move that links on-ground activist resistance to resistance through discursive form.  It is only one of the many instances of agency Shakur grabs for herself in order to mount challenges against the powerful "system" operating both on an on-ground, institutional level (the court, for example), and on a discursive one (that of narrative form).  Discursive challenges to rules of dominant discourse are practiced by the highly literate, well read Shakur.  For example, she refuses to capitalize the first letter in the judge's last name, she consistently misspells "court" as "kourt," and, most effectively, she refuses to play along with the discursive rules governing courtroom procedure.  When the judge moves ahead with the trial in full knowledge that Shakur's and Kamau's lawyers have had no time to prepare for it, the two defendants counsel their lawyers to remain mute and not to participate in such an (il)legal discourse (i.e., resistance through silence).  When the frustrated judge roars, "All right, then, we'll proceed with or without you. . . . Bring in the panel" (90), Shakur and Kamau immediately inform the jury of the judge's politically shady sentencing history (i.e., resistance through agency).  The judge orders the two removed from the courtroom, and jury selection continues with only the judge and prosecutor participating.  

Often the judge sends the marshalls back to ask the defendants if they will "behave."  Shakur and Kamau agree, and, once returned to the courtroom, Shakur writes that "we behaved."  Once again, she challenges the accepted conventions of courtroom "behavior" by signifying on the term "behave": She "behaves" by telling the jury what is really going on.  She further challenges the discursive authority of the judge's command, "Remove the defendant from the courtroom" (which gives the marshalls the on-ground authority to physically manhandle her), by quickly saying,"The defendant will remove herself" (91).  Most of the time, her "tactics" (to use a de Certeaun term) work (i.e., resistance through subversion).  Finally, having had enough of Shakur's disruptive tactics, the judge bans her and Kamau from the courtroom for the remainder of the farcical trial.  

The trial ends, wonder of wonders, in a hung jury.  A lone black juror refuses to convict them: He has heard the explosions caused by the placement of Assata's "incendiary devices" within the "dominant discourse" or Language of the Law.  Thus, the counter-memory invoked by Assata's account here signifies the possibility of change: Anamnesia and agency go hand-in-hand.

Conclusion

I possess optimism in the face of despair, which is what being a feminist at its most basic means to me.  I would hope that, at the very least, the kind of third world theory of feminism I have been sketching here could function as a tool of anamnesia in the service of a resistant, agential global feminism dedicated to the erasure of suffering and injustice for all.  Granted, the arena of the "fight" in the context of this paper is "merely" an academic one.  Yet, we all must do what we can wherever we are located.  

It is important and necessary to articulate projects like this one, given the recent confrontations that have occurred between certain U.S. "women of color" academic critics and their postcolonial counterparts.¹¹  These "personal" confrontations thematize the suspicion -- held by black feminist intellectuals like hooks -- that postcolonial women academics are "stand ins" for them, who have usurped their rightful place and created an unfortunate kind of racial essentialism that forecloses the possibility of crosscultural alliances between different "women of color."  Writes hooks in "Third World Diva Girls," "We often forget that many Third World nationals bring to this country the same kind of contempt and disrespect for blackness that is most frequently associated with white western imperialism."  She then castigates the postcolonial woman academic for "unwittingly assuming the role of go-between, of mediator," which ends up "reinscribing a colonial paradigm" -- an action that, hooks claims,"disrupts all possibility that feminist political solidarity will be sustained between women of color cross-culturally" (94).  

One of the dangers that hooks' claims give rise to, and one which is quite accurately pointed out by the postcolonial critic Sara Suleri, is that it could lead to the "Native Informant" or "Authentic Voice of Third World Women" trap.  This is the trap that "only a black can speak for a black; only a postcolonial sub continental feminist can adequately represent the lived experience of that culture," which in turn, too often, leads to "the objectification of its proper subject," where the "data" of "lived experience" serves as "the evacuating principle for both historical and theoretical contexts alike" (761).  To recognize the possibilities of such a "trap," which might produce something akin to an a-historical, homogenized essentialism based on color, however, is not the same as conceding that it is or always must be so.  Thus, although I am in qualified agreement with Suleri's claim that hooks "establishes a hierarchy of color that depressingly segregates divergent racial perspectives," I do not agree with the next step in her position that the "lived experience" of personal narrative which hooks (and others like Minh-ha) offer is necessarily a bogus enterprise (764-766).  

I think that the real issue here is the insufficiently articulated difference between the projects of postcolonial and minority interventions in the U.S. academy thus far, and, by extension, in the larger cultural and political scene.¹²  The minoritarian project (i.e. one pertaining to longstanding disenfranchised U.S. minority populations such as Blacks and Latinas) has, for obvious reasons, been essentially (pun intended) an identity-formation one; whereas postcolonial intervention has been driven largely by a critique of identity, with the aim of unsettling all binaries upon which identity rests.¹³  The unfortunate result of these perceived "differences" has been, in the words of one postcolonial critic, not the differences themselves, which are "necessary and various, but the ways in which these differences are being utilized in academia and elsewhere to pit 'minorities' [including the postcolonial variety] from the United States and elsewhere against each other while keeping academic curricula and the power status quo unchanged" (Grewal 247).  The danger of this kind of antagonism, then, is clear: Those who should be allied in their common struggles against racism, sexism, homophobia and class dominance, end up fighting each other.  In other words, in the name of radical difference, we forget our shared oppressions, albeit different in degree though not entirely in kind. It is crucial, in my opinion, to close the gap created by this perception of difference.  

In order to do this, I believe the first order of business is to recognize that, due to a nexus of power differentials generated by different histories, locations, and subject-positions within the U.S. body politic, minoritarian projects, broadly conceived as pertaining to the oldest "minority" populations of color (such as Native American, African-American, Latina and Asian-American -- recognizing the differences among and between these several groups) are and will be differently inflected from those we are referring to as "postcolonial."  Postcolonial projects involve more recent diasporic/immigrant communities, such as those of South Asia, which are, in general, better off economically than their minority counterparts, yet, like the latter, subject to racist stereotyping and limited opportunities.  It is possible to see the two projects -- minoritarian and postcolonial -- as complementary and interlinked, rather than as simply opposed.  In fact, we do see both identity-formation as well as identity-critique being practiced as historical and rhetorical strategies in the work of man, so-called minority writers, and feminists (Gloria Anzaldúa is one such example, as is hooks herself).  

The second point to be made in this connection is that the terrain of postcolonial criticism is itself a contested one.  Although Spivak and Bhabha, followed by a newer breed of the likes of Suleri, have dominated, and in many ways, have set the parameters of the debate, they are by no means the only voices.  We would do well to recall an earlier body of postcolonial criticism, avant la lettre, best typified by the work of Edward Said, who always held a politics of identity in balance against an equally important critique of a politics of presence.¹⁴  Hence, Grewal's critique of Suleri's lack of a feminist politics is well-taken and addresses my point: "While ignoring the oppositional valence of terms such as 'Third World' in histories of decolonization in various locations, Suleri's text [her autobiography, Meatless Days (date)] does not address the complicated nature of feminist practices that are demanded by the positionings of postcolonial female subjects in various locations" (242).  In other words, Suleri's own acute discomfort at claiming any identity that might link her to that detested (because ahistorical) category, "Third World Woman," has led her to embrace another extreme position: that of the solitary, "homeless" intellectual.  It is not a position from which a politics of solidarity can be generated. Grewal, also a "postcolonial" academic, recognizes this limitation in Suleri's stance, while herself advocating a very different, indeed, third world feminist, praxis.  

It is my contention that without a common articulation of such a third world feminist theory and praxis, the project of global feminism is doomed.  Thus, the counter-memory of narratives like Shakur's must be mobilized to fight against their re-enactments. Morrison says so poetically, so ambiguously, so firmly and committedly at the end of Beloved, "This is not a story to pass on"; yet, it must be passed on.  We must never forget.  Long live the Shalurs, the Djebars, the Kahleds of this world.


Notes

  la.   This paper is part of a larger project begun during a Fall 1992 Fellowship at Harvard University's W.E.B. Du Bois Institute.  An earlier version was presented during the Fellows' Fall Colloquia series.  I am grateful to Henry Louis Gates, Jr., Anthony Appiah, and several of my co-Fellows for their support and constructive criticism of this project.  Thanks also to Theodora Jankowski for reading an earlier draft and offering insightful suggestions.

1.  See Inderpal Grewal's essay, "Autobiographic Subjects and Diasporic Locations: Meatless Days and Borderlands," in Scattered Hegemonies (1994), edited by Grewal and Kaplan.  Also,see  hooks' essay, "Third World Diva Girls," in her collection, Yearning (1990), and Suleri's response to it in "Woman Skin Deep: Feminism and the Postcolonial Condition" (1992).  

2.  Indeed, this article is but a brief introduction to a larger, book-length project which explores varieties of third world feminism.  A chapter I currently am working on focuses on women's rights issues as addressed in current Street Theatre of Pakistan.  

3.  A salient point of departure for my own theorizing is the need to link issues of form/genre in discourse, to forms of on-ground or "real" resistance struggle; only such an intermixture of the "real" (lived experience of daily life) and the "imaginary" (the transcription of that "reality" in literary form) can allow, I argue later, for theory to be linked to political praxis, aimed at changing the world for the better.  

4.  In this essay, I am using the term "women of color" interchangeably with the terms "third world women," "postcolonial women" and "minority women."  The quotation marks indicate my unease with this, or any of the other terms, to represent accurately the variety and complexity of the lives and positions of the women grouped under these rubrics.  I like using the term "women of color" as an umbrella term privileging commonality over the differences encoded in the other terms; hence, it is a useful term for my purposes.  

5.  I will be referring to Caren Kaplan's use of the term, as developed in her essay "Resisting Autobiography: Outlaw Genres and Transnational Feminist Subjects," in De/Colonizing the Subject: The Politics of Gender in Women's Autobiography (1992), eds. S. Smith and J. Watson.  

6.  By "identitarian," I mean a project based in identity politics.  By a "third worldist position," I mean one such as elaborated by Ella Shohat in "Notes on the 'Post-Colonial'."  Shohat correctly points out how the problematic spatio-temporality of the term post-colonial (guilty both of depoliticizing differences between colonizer and colonized, as well as inhibiting articulations of neo-colonialism) has led to a privileging of hybrid over communitarian-based identities, thus dismissing the latter as regressive and "essentialist."  This is much the same move made by postmodern theory.  

7.  An expanded use of the term "resistance literature" is elaborated in Harlow's book (1987).  

8.  "Testimonio" is the term used in reference to autobiographical accounts by Latin American women, ones usually dictated to and transcribed,  as well as translated into English, by Spanish-speaking western feminists.  

9a.  On the concept of the split self, it is interesting to note what Henry Louis Gates, Jr. has to say about Barbara Johnson's analysis of Janie in Zora Neale Hurston's novel Their Eyes Were Watching God ( 1937).  He writes:  

Barbara Johnson's reading of metaphor and metonymy in Zora Neale Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God (1937) "deconstructs" the received (Western-male) concept of voice in the text as an impulse to "unification and simplification"(Auerbach) and reveals that, in the black and feminist tradition, "The sign of an authentic voice is  . . .  not self-identity but self-difference." (19)

9. While I am appreciative of Kaplan's nuanced argument relating to the production and reception of third world women's autobiographies/prison memoirs/ethnographies etc. it the global marketplace, there are two important factors she does not consider sufficiently.  First is the problematic power differential encoded in the transcription of many of these testimonios -- for eg., I . . . Rigoberta Menchu, and Let Me Speak! Testimony of Domitila, A Woman of the Bolivian Mines -- where the collaboration consisted of an educated western woman writing the oral testimony of these poor third world peasant women for publication and circulation in the West.  Certainly Kaplan does raise the question whether or not such a process "constitute[s] collective action or appropriation?" but she too hastily veers toward the former hypothesis in her overall argument about the possibilities for transnational feminist praxis.  The second troubling issue in Kaplan’s piece is its over-valorization of the autobiographical genre (even as it seeks to de-stabilize it’s own generic boundaries) in constructing a basis for a transnational critical feminist praxis.  Are third world postcolonial and minority women's autobiographical discourses the only available/suitable data for constructing a "resistance criticism" that might allow white women, once again, a mode of entry into the analysis and explication of women of color -- albeit in a much less hegemonic way than before?  

I have pointed to some of the limitations I perceive in Kaplan's theorizing not to detract from the value of her project of constructing possibilities for transnational feminist praxis, which is my goal and hope as well, but merely to underscore the need for maintaining continual vigilance over our critical/theoretical practices.  

10.  For example, Massad argues in "Conceiving the Masculine: Gender and Palestinian Nationalism" that, despite her "revolutionary" and "courageous spirit," and her "constant subversion of gender relations through her actions," Kahled "remained trapped within a masculine-centric discourse" of nationalism (pp.).  Certainly, much transnational work being done by Third World activist women's organizations to promote solidarity between women caught within competing nationalisms, concerns itself with challenging precisely such a masculine-centric discourse.  Such organizations are, for example, Israeli feminist groups like Women in Black, Women Against the Occupation (Shari), and the Women's Organization for Political Prisoners (WOFPP).  A South Asian Feminist Collective whose members comprise women from India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, and Bangladesh, recently put out a manifesto entitled "The South Asian Feminist Declaration"(1990), outlining a transnational alliance of women that could lead to a demilitarization of the region.  The work and vision of such women's groups needs to be explored within the framework of my project, and I expect to do so in a related essay.  

10a.  In the 9 June 1996  New York Times' Week in Review , Miller has this to say about the recent Israeli elections:  

Only days after the election that brought Benjamin Netanyahu and Oa Likud . . . to power, the 400 Jews of Hebron seized an ancient Turkish bath near their settlement and gathered for a concert of Hasidic music and male-only dancing to celebrate "Heavenly Mercy" and the "Hand of God'' on Earth -- namely, the victory of the party that had pledged to make fewer concessions to the Arabs, advance peace through military strength and insure that Israel becomes a more Jewish state. (5)

As Miller further points out, it is hardly a surprise that such a victory only could happen through the election of Jewish fundamentalists: " . . . [D]evout Israelis have reason to celebrate: the Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox parties captured 23 seats in the 120-member Parliament, up from 16."  

11.  The most publicized of these was perhaps the incident at a 1982 Third World Feminist Conference at Cornell University, which bell hooks refers to in her Yearning essay, "Third World Diva Girls."   It is no secret that the "Third World woman scholar" hooks berates for her "disrespectful" behavior towards the black women was (is) none other than Gayatri Spivak.  

12.  See Seshadri-Crooks, "On the Margins of Postcolonial Studies," forthcoming in New Directions in (So-Called) Postcolonial Studies, eds. Afzal-Khan and  Seshadri-Crooks.  See also in the same volume, Timothy Powell's essay entitled "Postcolonial Theory in an American Context: A Reading of Martin Delany's Blake" for an interpretation of African-American writing through the lens of postcolonial theory and criticism.  For detailed analyses of America's internal colonialism, see Cultures of U.S. Imperialism, eds. Kaplan and Pease (1993)  

13.  I am thinking here of the work of postcolonial theorists who have been most influential in the North American academic scene, such as Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak and Homi Bhabha.  Their work derives much of its conceptual force from the poststructuralist thought of European philosophers like Jacques Derrida, who consistently has critiqued the metaphysics of presence.  Having said that, it is important to note that many "minority" critics/activists/writers have begun to grapple with some of the powerful verities of postmodernism regarding the decentered subject or self. See, as an example, a lucid discussion of Gloria Anzaldúa's work which posits the emergence of a "new mestiza consciousness, which is not unitary or concrete, for it is always in the process of becoming" (Grewal 250).  Anzaldúa does not offer a subject of feminism as an end product; for, we are told, the creative energy of this process comes out of continual change.  

14.  For a cogent blending and defense of these competing positions, see Said's Culture and Imperialism (1993).  The thematics of his work are taken up in interesting and varied ways by a younger generation of postcolonial critics and activists, many of whom, following Shohat's provocative analysis in "Notes on the Post-Colonial," have begun to question the validity of the term itself when applied to different sociohistorical and economic realities in different parts of the Third World, as well as to different "third world" communities residing within the U.S, or so-called First World.


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