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The New Violent Cartography

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The New Violent Cartography

MICHAEL J. SHAPIRO*

Department of Political Science, University of Hawai’i, USA

Mapping the ‘new violent cartography’, an inter-articulation of geographic imaginaries and antagonisms, based on models of identi-ty-difference, this article begins with the analysis of a piece of photo-journalism, an image of a US soldier in a bombed-out bunker duringthe war in Afghanistan, and goes on to trace the institutions that arepart of the contemporary aspects of militarization and securitizationconstituting the ‘war on terror’. The article ends with an analysis of the anti-war impetus of cinema and the cinematic spaces of film festivals.

Keywords cartography • violence • film • photography •

securitization

Introduction: ‘A U.S. Soldier Mounts Guard’

WHEN VIEWED WITH A HISTORICAL SENSIBILITY, the warphoto shown in Figure 1 migrates almost irresistibly into twoframes of reference. One is a history of images that juxtapose

interior sanctuaries and exterior loci of danger. The other is a long trajectoryof violent engagements in diverse global venues. One belongs to media his-tory, while the other is situated in a history of interstate hostilities. However,the two frames of reference have tended to merge since the advent of themass-produced and mass-disseminated image. For example, with respect toremote wars, photographic and cinematic technology bring remote battlevenues into view. As a result, the danger that ‘eludes everyday sensory per-ception becomes socially available as a cinematic structure’ (Feldman, 2005:205). It has become evident that war history, as it is commonly understood, isinextricably linked to the forms war has taken on in media representations.Nevertheless, despite the evocative historical summonses it delivers and thehistorical emergence of an inter-articulation of imaging and reality it implies,the photo’s accompanying description is temporally specific: it referencespolitical after-effects of the USA et al.’s 2002 invasion of Afghanistan, a US‘policy’ reaction to 9/11 and the destruction of the World Trade Center:

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A U.S. soldier mounts guard in a tower of the village of Mangal Khan, the main villageof the Khakeran Valley, Zabul province, Afghanistan, June 27, 2005. From the U.S. andU.N. officials down to Afghan villagers, there is growing fear that this country may beat a seminal moment with three years of state-building in danger of succumbing to thebarrage of violence (New York Times, 27 June 2005).

Doubtless, the moment that Munita has captured will live on into a morepacific future, for as Ernst Junger’s classic observation on the role of war photography puts it, ‘as instruments of a technological consciousness, [warphotographs] preserve the image of [the] ravaged landscapes which theworld of peace has long reappropriated’. And, he adds (in a remark thatinspires part of my analysis), they also speak to

the life of the soldier on leave, in the reserves, and in the combat zones; the types ofweaponry, the look of destruction they inflict on human beings and on the fruits of theirlabor, on their dwellings and on nature; the face of the battlefield at rest and at the peakof activity, as seen by the observers in the trenches or bomb craters, or from the altitudeof flight – all this has been captured many times over and preserved for later ages in afashion that complements written descriptions (Junger, 1993: 24–25).

In its present articulation, much of the semiotic urgency of the photo isowed to its composition, which is ‘the key’, as the photographer, TomasMunita, puts it. Providing, in his terms, a ‘relation between the destroyedinterior with the soldier hiding in it and the square luminous landscape’, the

292 Security Dialogue vol. 38, no. 3, September 2007

Figure 1: Tomas Munita’s photo of a soldier



image evokes a disquieting mood: ‘Outside is the light of what can be apeaceful environment, but the soldier, hidden in his own dark watchtowerbrings a sense of terror.’ Moreover, ‘since the tower is tilted, [it] suggest[s]imbalance, instability and obscurity’.1 In sum, in addition to referencing theemotional resonances of the particular historical moment to which Munitarefers, the image also evokes and preserves an instance that is part of a visu-ally captured and thus enduring history (as Ernst Junger famouslyobserved). Given Munita’s composition, the history to which this photo contributes is a history of vulnerable bodies seeking temporary refuge and aplace for safe observation in hostile landscapes that seem both benign,because they are temporarily devoid of hostile engagement, and threatening,because their encompassing scale appears to thwart human attempts to manage them securely.

The Conceptual Frame

In what follows, I pursue the two correlated frames of reference to which Irefer at the outset, locating first the aesthetic patrimony of the image’s starkjuxtaposition of sequestered interior and expansive exterior landscape andthen its related evocation of a history of a changing cartography of violentencounters. With respect to this latter dimension of the image, I treat the spatial trajectories that the photograph implies in order to map what is historically singular about the contemporary ‘violent cartography’ (Shapiro,1997) that the USA’s ‘war on terrorism’ (displaced on state venues) has created. The most immediate spatial implication of the image is containedwithin it: it is the juxtaposition between the inside, a temporary sanctuary,and the immense outside that encompasses the interior. Beyond the image’shistorical immediacy – its specific reference to the conflict in Afghanistan –are, as I have noted, its deeper historical trajectories. My turn to the image’saesthetic patrimony, its sharp juxtaposition between interior sanctuary andexterior expanse, has a counterpart in a film history that operates mostfamously in a set of very similar juxtapositions in John Ford’s cinematic rendering of an earlier violent cartography.

The two primary conceptions driving my analysis require elaborationbefore I treat that Ford rendering. First, what is a ‘violent cartography’? In myoriginal approach to the concept, I suggested that the bases of violent car-tographies are the ‘historically developed, socially embedded interpretationsof identity and space’ that constitute the frames within which enmities giverise to war-as-policy (Shapiro, 1997: ix). Violent cartographies are thus con-stituted as inter-articulations of geographic imaginaries and antagonisms,

Michael J. Shapiro The New Violent Cartography 293

1 E-mail correspondence with author, 6 July 2005.



based on models of identity-difference. Since the Treaty of Westphalia (1648),a point at which the horizontal, geopolitical world of nation-states emergedas a more salient geographic imaginary than the theologically oriented verti-cal world (which was imaginatively structured as a separation betweendivine and secular space), maps of enmity have been framed by differences in geopolitical location, and (with notable exceptions) state leaders have supplanted religious authorities. Moreover (also with notable exceptions),geopolitical location has since been a more significant identity marker than spiritual commitment. During the Cold War, the coincidence betweenenmity and nation-state and nation-state bloc affiliation tended to coincide.And, since that period, the geopolitical imaginary has been so persistent that,although the most violent contemporary enmities involve states versus networks, war-as-policy-response continues to function largely within theold geopolitical frame.

Why refer to the cartographies as imaginaries? Michel Foucault (1984: 127)supplies an ontological justification: ‘We must not imagine that the worldturns toward us a legible face which we would have only to decipher.’ Howwe have the world is a matter of the shape we impose on it, given theideational commitments and institutional practices through which spatio-temporal models of identity-difference are created. Resistance to the geogra-phies of enmity that drive war and security policy therefore requires one tooffer ‘an approach to maps that provides distance from the geopoliticalframes of strategic thinkers and security analysts’, because, as I put it in myfirst approach to violent cartographies, geography is inextricably linked to‘the architecture of enmity’. As a result, to understand and critique modernsecurity practices requires one to first map and then supply alternatives to‘the security analyst’s way of constructing global problematics’ (Shapiro,1997: xi). However, the mapping of a contemporary violent cartography thatI provide here goes beyond geographic imaginaries. Part of that mappinginvolves the forces, institutions, and agencies that move bodies into the zonesof violent encounter (for example military recruitment), and it involves theforces, institutions, and agencies that identify the domestic spaces of bodiesjudged to be dangerous because they are associated with foreign antagonists.Necessarily, then, my analysis is deployed on both the distant and the homefronts in the ‘war on terror’.

Second, to elaborate the concept of aesthetic patrimony, I want to show howthe photo’s interior–exterior juxtaposition is reminiscent of several of Ford’sscenes in his treatment of the violent Euro-American–Native Americanencounter in the West, in what is arguably his most complex and politicallyacute western, The Searchers (1956). An image’s ‘aesthetic patrimony’ is thelegacy of its form and implications from earlier images in similar media. Topursue that legacy is to provide a comparative frame that helps to isolatewhat is singular about the context of the current image. Accordingly, I am




suggesting that Munita’s photo calls Ford’s film to mind, because, in severalscenes in The Searchers, the camera is positioned in ‘a place of refuge, a darkwomb-like space’ (Buscombe, 2000: 37), in interiors of refuge not unlike thatin which Munita’s soldier is sitting. Here, I am working with two of the interior scenes (Figures 2 and 3).


Figure 2: Still of Ethan Edwards approaching his brother’s cabin

Figure 3: Edwards and nephew Martin, taking refugee in a cave



Ford’s The Searchers

The opening scene of The Searchers (see Figure 2) is both cinematically power-ful and narratively expansive. It is shot from inside Ethan Edwards’s (JohnWayne) brother’s cabin, providing a view of a vast expanse of prairie, fromwhich Edwards is approaching. Edwards, a loner who is headed west afterhaving fought on the Confederate side in the American Civil War, is part of ahistorical migration. He represents one type among the many kinds of bodiesthat began heading west after Euro-America emerged from the fratricidalconflict of the Civil War and was then free to turn its attention to anothervenue of violence, the one involved in the forced displacement of indigenousAmerica, as Euro-America expanded. Edwards’s approach is observed by his sister-in-law from her front porch, which, architecturally, plays a role indesignating the house as a refuge from outer threats. In a soliloquy by a character in an Alessandro Baricco (2003: 158–159) novel, the porch is aptlydescribed as being:

inside and outside at the same time . . . it represents an extended threshold. . . . It’s a noman’s land where the idea of protected place – which every house, by its very existence,bears witness to, in fact embodies – expands beyond its own definition and rises upagain, undefended, as if to posthumously resist the claims of the open. . . . One couldeven say that the porch ceases to be a frail echo of the house it is attached to and becomesthe confirmation of what the house just hints at: the ultimate sanction of the protectedplace, the solution of the theorem that the house merely states.

Thus, as is the case with the scene in Afghanistan, viewed by the lone soldier,the significance of the scene requires an appreciation of the situation of theobserver. More specifically, the valley and Edwards’s approach to the housecannot be discerned simply through the objects observed. One needs to recognize the historical space of observation and the ways in which theobserver (Edwards’s sister-in-law) is connected to that space. Shortly afterthe opening shot, we are taken inside the cabin, where the resident Edwardsfamily is part of an earlier movement westward that established whatVirginia Wexman (1996: 131) has described as part of Euro-America’s‘nationalist ideology’, the Anglo couple or ‘family on the land’. The couple,Edwards’s brother and his wife, and their children are participants in theromantic ideal of the adventurous white family seeking to spread Euro-America’s form of laboring domesticity westward to settle and civilize whatEuro-Americans viewed as a violent untamed territory, containing peoples/nations unworthy of participating in an American future.

The second image from The Searchers (see Figure 3) participates in a refer-ential montage. It reproduces and extends the implicit warning in the first.Here, the encompassing landscape is lent threatening bodies. At this stage ofthe story, Ethan and his nephew, Martin, are taking refuge in a cave as they




hold off a Comanche attack, led by Scarface, who, with his band of warriors,had murdered Ethan’s brother, wife, and elder daughter, and carried off theyounger one, Debbie. Rescuing Debbie and exacting revenge for the destruc-tion of a family, which at a symbolic level stands for white domestic settle-ment as a whole, had then become the object of Ethan and Martin’s longsearch, which comprises most of the film narrative. Apart from the complica-tions attending the motivations for the search – Ethan, a (not unredeemable)racist, had sworn that he would kill Debbie because her long captivity hadrendered her unfit to rejoin white society, while Martin was bent on rescuingher – I want to focus on the rearticulation of domestic coherence versusexternal threat that this scene effects.

While the adventures associated with the five-year search are proceeding, adomestic drama is unfolding. Early in the film, Ethan expresses contempt forthe fact that Martin is part Indian (at their first meeting, he says, ‘Fellowcould mistake you for a half-breed’, even though Martin is, by his ownaccount, one-eighth Cherokee). However, by the time they are sequestered inthe cave, Ethan has come, ambivalently, to accept his family bond withMartin, even though he continues to insist that Martin is not his kin. GivenEthan’s change in attitude, the scene in the cave becomes an instance of family solidarity. The implication seems to be that Native America can bepart of Euro-America if it is significantly assimilated and domesticated.Ethan effectively supports that domestication by ultimately bequeathingMartin his wealth. He has apparently discovered that part of himself thatcraves a family bond, a part that has been continuously in contention with hisviolent, ethnic policing. And, on his side, Martin fulfills all of the require-ments of a family-oriented, assimilated Indian. He becomes affianced to thewhite daughter of Swedish Americans, after he has rejected an Indian spousethat he had inadvertently acquired while trading goods with Comanches. Bybecoming part of a white family, Martin is involved in a double movement.He is participating in one of Euro-America’s primary dimensions of self-fashioning, its presumption that a Christian marriage is the most significantsocial unit and that such ‘legal monogamy benefitted the social order’ (Cott,2000: 10), and he is distancing himself from the practices of the NativeAmericans, for whom the nuclear family was often not a primary psycho-logical, economic, or social unit. The settlers tended to view the NativeAmerican, non-nuclear familial practices as promiscuity.

Interpreting Munita’s Photo

How, then, can we read Munita’s photo from Afghanistan in the context ofthis specific part of its aesthetic patrimony? The attack on Afghanistan’s




incumbent Taliban regime, however distant its territory from the USA, wassold to the US public as a legitimate reaction to the continuing threat todomestic America that was initiated by al-Qaeda’s attack on US soil on 11September 2001, the first time in modern US history in which a domestic vulnerability has been experienced as a result of an attack by adversaries inleague with forces outside the continent . However, the spatial and biopoliti-cal aspects of the historical situations to which Ford’s film and the photo referare without doubt vastly different.2 The Ford images reference an expandingfrontier, as settlers and their armed protectors move in and push NativeAmerican nations westward after the Civil War. In this period, the (Euro-)American military was enlisted to defend a form of domestic life that existedon the same terrain as the violent encounters. By contrast, the current ‘forward position’ (to use a phrase that is part of the discourse of the US military) is very far from American domestic life, on whose behalf the attackon Afghanistan (and subsequently Iraq) allegedly took place. The Munitaimage reflects, among other things, the current preemptive policy of a nationdisplacing a domestic security problem on foreign turf. To access that domes-tic life, on behalf of which this lone soldier sits on a dangerous vigil, fromwithin the space of immediacy framed by the photo, we need an analytic thatallows us to escape the confinement of the frame and effectively connects ele-ments in the picture to parts of the absent world they can be made to evoke.

Two related options suggest themselves. The first derives from RolandBarthes’s famous distinction between a photograph’s studium and its punctum.Munita himself has testified to the former, because a photo’s studium, accord-ing to Barthes, registers the photographer’s intentions. In this case, it is showing the radical separation of outer light and internal darkness and theinstability that the soldier’s situation entails. Thus, what can be clearly seen –the contrasts of light and darkness, the momentarily peaceful exterior and thedestroyed interior, and the tilted angle, which is a visual code for instability –constitutes the image’s studium, which, notes Barthes (1982: 27), is alwayscoded in a way that allows us to ‘enter into a harmony with the photographer’sintentions’. Unlike the studium, the punctum is uncoded; it is a ‘prick’, ‘some-thing that breaks or punctuates the studium’ (Barthes, 1982: 26). It is an element in the image that does not contribute to the image’s referential orintended meaning. To access this aspect of the photo, we have to seek elementsthat escape the control of its intended meaning.

The second option articulates well with the first. Influenced by Barthes’s stadium–punctum distinction, Georges Didi-Huberman has developed ananti-iconographic reading of paintings by focusing on patches of color that donot constitute the details that contribute to the painting’s referential meaning.


2 When I refer to biopolitics, I am referring to those bodies regarded as politically eligible versus those thatare either excluded or deemed worthy of killing without the presumption that the killing is homicide; seeAgamben (1998).



He treats such patches as symptoms of the process of painting that, like theprick of Barthes’s punctum, disrupt the image’s coding within the frame. As hepoints out, what we can see does not exhaust what we can know, because‘knowing and looking have utterly differently modes of being’ (Didi-Huberman, 1989: 135). The patch in a painting plays the same kind of role asBarthes’s punctum because, Didi-Huberman notes, lacking definitive con-tours, it disrupts depiction, or, in his hyperbolic terms, it creates a ‘catastrophiccommotion’ (Didi-Huberman, 1989: 149). It disturbs representation by beingan ‘intrusion’ that exists ‘as a result of not seeing well’ (Didi-Huberman, 1989:165). Failing a clear participatory role in the referential register of the image,the patch, like the punctum, sends us toward other zones of intelligibility. Inthe case of Barthes’s punctum, the disruption points us to the world outsidethe photo, while, in the case of Didi-Huberman’s patch, the disruption is asymptom that sends us away from the image’s reference and toward the painting subject or the dynamic of painting.

If we heed Didi-Huberman’s point about not seeing well and at the sametime acknowledge the Barthean effect of being sent out into the world, we canreflect, first, on what cannot be seen well in the image of the soldier in anAfghan landscape and, second, on where, as a result, it sends us. Despite thealmost pervasive clarity of the details in the image, what cannot be clearlyseen is the soldier’s ethnicity.3 Yes, he is a ‘U. S. soldier’, but from what partof the US ethnoscape does he come? What kind of ‘ethnic’ American is thevulnerable body in this photo, and what are the forces involved in producinghis arrival on the scene? To the extent that we are now forced to think,because mere looking will not avail, we can ask about the trajectories ofrecruitment that are producing disproportionate levels of vulnerability forvarious ethnic Americans and, beyond that, about the trajectories leadingback from this particular landscape of violence to the overall network ofsecuritization (and militarization) that effectively legislates the problematicwithin which ‘terrorism’, the presumed global object of the war/policy thatis visited upon the Afghanistan terrain among others, is apprehended.

Locating the Spaces of Securitization

Ultimately, the biopolitical dimensions of the USA’s anti-terrorism initiatives(the decisions about what lives to waste and what ones require exclusion orcontainment) are deployed on particular bodies, both those that are the targets and those that are the ones that must confront those bodies on


3 Although ethnicity is an unstable historical dynamic, I am using it here to denote the same ethnoscape thatfinds its way into the US census. For a treatment of the concept’s complicated dynamic, see Singh &Schmidt (2000).



dangerous terrains. But, it is the structured nature of the gaze on those bodies (among others) that situates the elaborate dynamic of the post-9/11securitization. To locate and conceptualize the current anti-terrorism poli-cies, I turn to one of Michel Foucault’s older, archaeological investigations,his treatment of medical perception, and apply his notion of the spatializa-tion of disease to the spatialization of terrorism. At the outset of his investi-gation of the history of the medical gaze, Foucault (1993: 15) discerns threekinds of spatialization. At the primary level, disease exists in a classification,in ‘an area of homologies’. At a secondary level, it is located in ‘the space ofthe body’; it is focused on an assemblage of individuals. And, finally, andperhaps most relevant to the current intensification of surveillance of poten-tial terrorism, when medicine becomes a ‘task for the nation’, it is located inan administrative structure. For example, with the development of a ‘medi-cine of epidemics’, a policing ‘supplement’ is enjoined and doctors andpatients are subject to ‘supervision’ (Foucault, 1993: 19). Displacing the oldencounter between doctor and patient is an increasing institutionalizationinvolving, for example, ‘a jurisprudence of the medical state’, as medical con-sciousness becomes linked to a life beyond individual lives: it is deployed on‘the life of the nation’ (Foucault, 1993: 30).

Analogously, to treat the tertiary spatialization of terrorism is to note theincreasing, officially sanctioned rapport among political, administrative,judicial, and military agencies, as well as agencies, organizations, and pro-fessions that have heretofore had seemingly more benign roles with respectto violence (e.g. the US Environmental Protection Agency, universities, andvarious entertainment industries). This broad, political, administrative, andprofessional collusion is deployed through an elaborate expansion of the primary and secondary spatializations of terrorism. In terms of the primaryor classificatory space, many more acts have been recruited into the designa-tion of terrorism – for example, attending seminars or summer camps in ‘terrorist’ venues or making a charitable donation to a mosque whose subse-quent allocations are along money trails that lead to ‘enemies’. This laterexample can locate the donor in the category of one who has lent ‘materialsupport’ to terrorists.

It should be noted that there are more than mere homologies between thetertiary spatialization of disease and that of terrorism. For example, analyzingthe first known case of the African Ebola virus in North America (brought intoToronto by an immigrating African, Colette Matshimoseka), Jorge Fernandes(2004: 191) points out that the event highlights the interconnections betweenanxieties about ‘the body’s integrity and anxiety about the nation-state’sdecreased viability as a stable cultural and linguistic site’. And, tellingly, thecase provoked a meeting between the Royal Canadian Mounted Police andimmigration officials, and thereafter produced a conversation between boththese agencies and representatives of Canada’s ‘health system’ (Fernandes,




2004: 192). As Fernandes goes on to demonstrate, the resulting ‘“communitydiscourse” engendered by the fear of viral pandemics is a productive terrainfor analyzing the mechanisms by which the nation-state codes bodies andarrests their flows to protect the nation-state’s locus of qualified bodies’.

In the contemporary period, in which we can observe an inter-articulationbetween pandemics and terrorism, the qualifications applied to bodies haveachieved a high level of complexity. Thus, the secondary spatialization of terrorism (like that of disease), its location in the body, has resulted in a bodythat is expanded well beyond its corporeal existence. As A. R. Stone (1995: 41)puts it, ‘the socially apprehensible citizen . . . consists of a collection of bothphysical and discursive elements’. It is a ‘legible body’ whose ‘textuallymediated physicality’ extends to its paper [and electronic] trail. Hence, forexample, the militarized, surveilling agencies connected with the ‘war on ter-rorism’ treat the body’s phone, e-mail, credit card, library borrowing, andbanking records, as well as, in some cases, phone conversations. Bodiesinside and outside, citizen and non-citizen, thus have enlarged silhouettes,shapes that extend to their financial, communicational, and informationalprostheses. Just as in Foucault’s terms there are spatializations of diseasebeyond the confines of the individual body to include ‘other distributions ofillness’, the location of political pathology goes beyond directly implementedideologies, beyond the desires and drives in the individual terrorist body, tonetworks and cells with a global distribution.

To connect this newly produced and expanded terrorist and/or terrorist-supporting body to the relationships emerging between political initiativesand institutional structures, we can return momentarily to Foucault’s (1993:38) insights about the 19th-century convergence that developed between ‘therequirements of political ideology and those of medical technology’. As the spaceof medicine shifted to hospitals, whose function was not simply to care forpatients but also to provide a venue in which the medical gaze could aid andabet the state’s developing concern with the vitality of its population as awhole, medical authorities and state-directed policing authorities developeda working rapport. Given the increasingly militarized state’s concern withthe recruitment of an army (as well as with the mobilization of a labor force),‘medical knowledge’, assisted by developments in ‘probabilistic thought’,became collectively inflected; the locus of medical knowledge turned awayfrom the peculiar maladies of individuals and toward ‘the collective life ofthe nation’ (Foucault: 1993: 31). For example, disease was increasinglyobserved in terms of ‘frequency’ (Foucault: 1993: 109).

If we fast-forward ahead two centuries, we can observe a similar politicaland institutional rapport, as health officials, environmental agencies, andother surveilling agencies associated with anti-terrorism policy collaborateand trade tropes. As Fernandes (2004: 196) notes, the domains of security policy and health service coalesce discursively as ‘public health’s referents,




contagion and cleanliness [become] active tropes on the new technology ofgovermentality’. Confirming Foucault’s insight about the co-development ofmedical and state ideologies, the modern agency responsible for directing themedical gaze, the public health service, is one among many involved inrestructuring its agenda to adjust to anti-terrorism policy. The recent publi-cation Terrorism and Public Health applies the venerable medical strategies ofepidemiology, a mode of medical knowledge that has for over a century produced an inter-articulation of medical and policing authorities, to thethreat of terrorist biological warfare strategies. Agencies such as the Councilof State and Territorial Epidemiologists, the Centers for Disease Control, andthe National Electronic Disease Surveillance System are being configured to,in the authors’ terms, respond to the ‘challenges posed by terrorism’ (Conrad& Pearson, 2003: 272). While using health agencies as defensive strategiesagainst the intentional spread of disease tends to be regarded by many as notpolitically problematic (with the notable exception of those with no maliciousintent whose movement across borders is impeded by yet another surveil-lance agency), other components of the ‘institutional ecologies’ (De Landa,1999: 319) produced by the contemporary anti-terrorism militarization aremore controversial. For example, when intelligence-gathering by the FBIafter 9/11 began creating a pervasive climate of intimidation, extended evento surveillance of people’s library borrowing, the agency attempted to enlistthe support of librarians and booksellers, many of whom resisted and con-tinue to resist the recruitment of their services into the ‘war on terrorism’.Thus unlike previous wars, the contemporary ‘war on terror’ is deployed notonly on a distant front but also on a home front. As a result, a mapping of thecurrent violent cartography requires an exploration of its dual deployment.

The Distant Front

Given the elaborate network of agencies involved in the ‘war on terror’, it isclear that the home front is as much a target as are the distant ones.Moreover, on both fronts, there are technology-aided instances of hystericalperception. Turning first to a telling instance on a distant front, it was reported that in the fall of 2001, shortly after the US-led invasion ofAfghanistan, there was a lethal episode of mistaken identity. A remote operator controlling a Predator Drone (a pilotless ‘weaponized’ aircraft)killed three non-combatants. When first employed, the Predator Drone wasan unarmed surveillance technology. But, as a commentator on the episodenotes, ‘back in 2000, when the CIA thought it had Osama bin Laden underlive aerial surveillance in Afghanistan, it pressed for a weaponized version ofthe Predator’ (Brzezinski, 2003). The Defense Department followed through.




It purchased a fleet of armed Predator Drones from General AtomicsAeronautical Systems, and, as the story goes, one of them, operated inaccordance with the pretext for arming the Predators, ‘was . . . involved in atleast one bombing in Afghanistan, in which a “tall man” was presumed by aremote operator to be bin Laden’. The time gap between ‘seeing’ and shoot-ing from the air has become almost imperceptible since the beginning of thewar-cinema articulation, which began during World War I when ‘generalstaffs began to take aviation seriously [and] aerial reconnaissance, both tacti-cal and strategic, became chronophotographic and then cinematographic’(Virilio, 1989: 17–18). But, as Paul Virilio adds, at this early stage, it took ‘con-siderable time . . . to analyze the photographic information’ before the photo-and cinemagraphic results could be transmuted into ‘military activity’.

In the episode in the Afghan desert, the fates of the tall man and his twocompanions, who were civilians foraging for scrap metal, were decided in amatter of seconds: ‘he and two companions were killed’ (Brzezinski, 2003).The commentator reporting the episode was not writing a human intereststory, even though, ironically, the makers of the Predator Drone regard them-selves as (in their own words, with apparently no irony intended) ‘commit-ted to improving the human condition’.4 He was writing a militarytechnology story, pointing out, among other things, that in addition to beingprone to surveillance errors, the Drone’s airworthiness is questionable: itoften crashes. Nevertheless, such stories about the vagaries of accident-pronemilitary technologies are pregnant with political significance.

At a minimum, the story reflects a remarkable shift in the deployment of warring violence. Whereas the industrialization of warfare, which peakedduring the 20th century, involved complex organizational decisionmaking to shape the delivery of force on battlefields, contemporary infowar resemblessome aspects of the historical trajectory of industrial production. The recotta-gization of production witnessed in such concerns as the Benetton corpora-tion, which collects the products of many individual producers rather thanrelying on a factory system, is also apparent in the move to infowar structures.As Friedrich Kittler (1999: 175) observes, ‘Information Warfare can begin onany desk equipped with a PC’. But, the shift from the foundry (where weaponsof steel are forged) and the mechanized battlefield (where they are put to useby a massed army) to the PC-equipped desk, with a lone operator, reflectsmore than a mere dispersal of the production and delivery of lethality.

In general, historical developments in weapons technology speak to a history of nation-state policy and, in particular, to a genealogy of sovereigntyand sovereignty-related practices: productions of political space, epistemo-logical orientations, and the biopolitical designation of qualified versusunqualified bodies, especially those belonging to the friends and enemies


4 See the General Atomics website at http://www.ga.com/about.php (accessed 16 May 2007).



of political entities. Discourses on weapons therefore extend well beyondtechnological issues. Doubtless, we can learn as much about the biopolitics ofcontemporary sovereignty-as-decisionmaking by heeding the minutiae ofballistics and delivery systems as we can from the pronouncements of‘defense intellectuals’ about what lives are at stake, where danger lies, andwho are the enemies. Weapons design is, among other things, an imple-mentation of the state’s approach to valuing, excluding, and sustaining versus eliminating forms of life. Among other things, the anticipated newweapons designs, developed as a reaction to an enemy that cannot be con-fronted on a fixed or demarcated battle field, reflect the USA’s planning for anew cartography of violence. As before, weapons design articulates thespaces of encounter.

For example, the US Navy has announced a plan for a different kind of fleet.During the Cold War, the aircraft carrier and Polaris submarine patrolled inthe spaces around the Soviet bloc. Now the plan is to resort to smaller craftwith shallow draft. A report in the New York Times describes the design:

The plan calls for 55 small, fast vessels called littoral combat ships, which are beingdesigned to allow the navy to operate in shallow coastal areas were mines and terroristbombings are a growing threat. The plan calls for building 31 amphibious assault ships,which can be used to ferry marines ashore or support humanitarian operations (Cloud,2005).

Thus, despite the hi-tech weapons that can be aimed and launched from aremote computer-equipped desk, some soldiers, like the one in Munita’sphoto, will be cheek to jowl with the ‘enemy’. And where the enemy is to befound is a result of the Pentagon’s new map of danger, which, as one analystnotes, disproportionately includes states that are ‘disconnected’, insofar asthey exist outside of globalization’s frontier (Barnett, 2004: 121). From thepoint of view of the US executive branch’s geography of enmity, not being anintimate in the global exchange of resources – for example being an Iranrather than a Saudi Arabia – increases your chances of becoming a ‘roguestate’ or part of the ‘axis of evil’ and thus a potential target. But, while thosewho draw the new maps remain safely outside of the line of fire, others have to implement the cartography of enmity ‘on the ground’. Moreover, inaddition to the vulnerable bodies abroad are those ‘at home’, who are vulnerable to the war on the domestic front, carried out by a militarizationthat comprehends numerous agencies, involved in either recruiting bodies tosend abroad or identifying dangerous ones to isolate. The involvement ofrecruiting agencies raises the question of the home front, the space fromwhich vulnerable bodies will be drawn and, increasingly, the space withinwhich domestic counterparts of external enemies are sought.




The Home Front

As Virilio (2002: 8) points out in an analysis he undertook during the firstGulf War, the militarized state looks inward as well as outward, manifestinga ‘panicked anticipation of internal war’. In the case of the post-9/11 ‘war onterror’, the same preemption involved in assaults on states has been turnedinward. A state of siege mentality is effacing the inside/outside boundary ofthe war. Achille Mbembe (2003: 30) puts it succinctly: ‘The state of siege is itselfa military institution.’ In contrast with the firefights deployed on distancedterrains, the weapons used internally are surveillance technologies and extra-juridical modes of detention. For example, as an instance of hysterical per-ception, an FBI fingerprinting laboratory identified a lawyer in Oregon asone whose fingerprints were found among the detritus of the train bombingsin Madrid in 2004. Furthermore, FBI agents pressed their perceptions forsome time, despite a rejection of their fingerprint data by their counterpartsin Madrid.

The technologies deployed in the ‘war on terror’ have operated on twofronts, the distant and the home. For example, the drone, which was‘weaponized’ for use on a distant battlefield, is being employed in its spare,observational version in US–Mexico border areas to help prevent illegal entryof immigrants. According to a report in the New York Times, on 25 June 2004,unmanned planes known as drones, which use thermal and night-visionequipment, were used in the US southwest to catch illegal immigrantsattempting to cross into the USA from Mexico. The drones form part of thedomestic front in the USA’s ‘war on terror’; specifically, they are part of ‘theDepartment of Homeland Security’s “operational control” of the border inArizona’ (Myers, 2004).

However, while one agency involved in the ‘war on terror’ is diverting itstechnology to help exclude Hispanic bodies, another is actively recruitingthem for duty on the external war fronts. As shown in Michael Moore’s documentary Fahrenheit 9/11, military recruiters are most in evidence in poorer and disproportionately ‘ethnic’ neighborhoods and venues – forexample, the parking lots of discount department stores. Ironically, given theparticipation of southwestern border patrol agencies within the HomelandSecurity network, much of the recruiting is aimed at those Hispanics that liveon the margins of the national economy. An item about recruitment in theDenver area tells much of the story:

In Denver and other cities where the Hispanic population is growing, recruiting Latinoshas become one of the Army’s top priorities. From 2001 to 2005, the number of Latinoenlistments in the Army rose 26 percent, and in the military as a whole, the increase was18 percent. The increase comes at a time when the Army is struggling to recruit new soldiers and when the enlistment of African-Americans, a group particularly disillu-




sioned with the war in Iraq, has dropped off sharply, to 14.5 percent from 22.3 percentover the past four years (Alvarez, 2006).

Where are the recruiters searching? The story continues:

Sgt. First Class Gavino Barron, dressed in a crisp Army uniform, trawls the Wal-Marthere for recruits, past stacks of pillows and towers of detergent, he is zeroing-in on oneof the Army’s ‘special missions’: to increase the number of Hispanic enlisted soldiers.

But the military’s domestic initiatives go beyond collecting bodies. It is alsomilitarizing other agencies, assembling them within what I have called the‘tertiary spatialization of terrorism’. As the author of The Pentagon’s New Mappoints out, ‘a whole lot more than just the Defense Department’ is activelypursuing the ‘war on terror’ (Barnett, 2004: 95). One aspect of that broadenedparticipation is evident in a recent collaboration between three kinds of institutions: Hollywood film-making, the military, and the university, all ofwhom share participation in the University of Southern California’s Institutefor Creative Technologies. The collaboration exemplifies ‘the tertiary spatial-ization of terrorism’ inasmuch as it is located in the sector of the institutionalecologies of militarization that involve relations among military, entertain-ment, and university agencies. Leaving aside the historical development ofthe film industry (which, like the Internet, has borrowed much of its tech-nology from innovations in the military’s information technologies), USC’sinvolvement can be located in a long history of the university’s role in national policy.

The modern university began, at least in part, as an ideological agency ofthe state. It was intellectually shaped as a cultural institution whose task wasto aid and abet the production of the ‘nation-state’, a coherent, homogenouscultural nation contained by the state. Bill Readings describes a paradigmaticexample, the University of Berlin, for which Alexander von Humboldt was primarily responsible: ‘Humboldt’s project for the foundation of theUniversity of Berlin is decisive for the centering of the University around theidea of culture, which ties the University to the nation-state.’ And, he adds,the project is developed at the moment of the emergence of the Germannation-state. In addition to being ‘assigned the dual ask of research andteaching’, the university is also involved in ‘the production and inculcation ofnational knowledge’ (Readings, 1995: 12).

Although, as Readings (1995: 29) points out, in recent decades, the ‘univer-sity of culture’ has been transformed into more of a corporate-type entity, abureaucratically run ‘university of excellence’, where ‘“Excellence” . . . func-tions to allow the University to understand itself solely in terms of the structure of corporate administration’, there are nevertheless key periods inwhich its faculties have participated in shaping and reproducing the domi-nant discourses of national policy. Certainly the colonial period is significant.The university, like weapons technology, helped to consolidate colonial




empires. Just as the repeating rifle and machine gun were instruments usedin the European nations’ expansive/violent sovereignty in the 19th century –as John Ellis (1975: 1) puts it, the weapons were used to ‘consolidate theirnation’s empires’ – even the so-called literary canon, an academic produc-tion, served as a pacifying instrument. For example, it was invented in Britainas part of a colonial pedagogy to subdue the Indian subcontinent culturally(Viswanathan, 1989).

Certainly in the 20th century, the Cold War stands out as a period in whicha wide variety of disciplines participated in creating the geopolitical imagin-ary that dominated European and American national policies. In political science, the subdiscipline of comparative politics, especially that part thatoverlapped with ‘area studies’, developed its still-enduring orientation during the Cold War. It articulated the idioms of political science with thoseof other social science disciplines, and partook of an undisguised, geopoliti-cal partisanship. For example, an analysis of key area studies methods textsreveals that ‘just as the humanities were meant to cultivate a self that wasauthorized to transmit the legacy of the past, area studies would develop abody of elite scholars capable of producing knowledge about other nations to the benefit of our nation’ (Rafael, 1994: 3). Of course no discipline collabo-rated more actively with US military strategy during the Cold War than‘operations research’, a quantitative, decision calculus-oriented discipline.The field was shaped by the national security state: beginning as a military-sponsored set of research teams, it soon migrated into academia while never-theless retaining its defense department and military funding. As onehistorian of the field points out, ‘by the mid 1950’s, several universities . . .began offering master’s and doctoral programs in operations research [and]by the end of the 1950’s . . . operations researchers . . . began mass producingpublications’ (Waring, 1995: 34).

At the same time, the CIA was recruiting practitioners of the arts andhumanities as part of a cultural cold war being staged in postwar Germany:

In consultation with American academics, playwrights and directors, a massive theaterprogramme was . . . launched. Plays by Lillian Hellman, Eugene O’Neill, ThorntonWilder, Tennessee Williams, William Saroyan, Clifford Odets and John Steinbeck wereoffered . . . [and a vast books programme was launched, aimed primarily at] projectingthe American story before the German reader in the most effective manner possible(Saunders: 2000: 15).

But, even on their own, the humanities failed to maintain their presumed dis-interest during this period. For example, William Epstein (1990: 16) hasshown how 18th-century studies in the mid-20th century articulated with‘Cold-War American culture’. Various ‘eighteenth-century and other literaryscholars’ served as cold warriors [in both] ‘the American intelligence com-munity and the American academic community’ (Epstein, 1990: 68). Whilethe ‘American academic recolonizing of the post-war world’ was certainly




led by area specialists who ‘divided the world into geopolitical spheres ofinfluence contested by the two great powers’, there were fellow recoloniza-tion travelers among 18th-century and other literary scholars (Epstein, 1990:83). Quite aside from whether academics actually engaged in intelligenceoperations, scholars in a wide variety of disciplines affirmed and reinforcedaspects of national policy while presuming to be mere ‘realists’. Amongthese, perhaps the most noteworthy such ‘intellectual’ cadre is the subdisci-pline of international studies/international relations known as ‘strategicstudies’, but many mainstream international relations theorists cleave to adominant power-legitimating frame of analysis as well.

While there are other noteworthy periods in which one can discern an academic militarization/securitization connection, my main interest here is the new 21st-century relationship between the academy and infowarstrategies. This connection, best exemplified in USC’s Institute for CreativeTechnologies (ICT), is not historically unique. While it can be argued that the2003 war in Iraq is the first true infowar – Brzezinski (2003) states that ‘Iraq . . . may be remembered as the first true war of the information age, whencommand-and-control technology took over the battlefield’ – an infowar prototype can be found in Napoleon’s war strategy. As Friedrich Kittler(1999: 173) points out, it is a ‘likely assumption that the coupling of generalstaff and engineering education, which was institutionalized by the FrenchRevolution’, was supported ‘through the founding of the Ecole Polytech-nique in 1794, [which] made information systems conceivable as weaponssystems’. But the university–militarization relationship is far more elaboratenow than in earlier periods. To appreciate the extent of the collaboration, it isworth scrutinizing the USC program, which inter-articulates the military, theHollywood entertainment industry, and the university. In their descriptionof its mandate, the ICT states:

For the Government, the ICT provides the ability to focus these technologies [those oftheir computer facilities and those used in Hollywood’s film industry] toward learningand training in the civilian sector with far reaching implications for revolutionizing education in our country and the world. For Hollywood, it is a form for filmmakers tocontribute their knowledge and expertise to the daunting challenges of anti-terrorismand national defense.5

Having indicated that the ICT is a vehicle for articulating Hollywood enter-tainment technologies with the technological service they render for thearmy, the ICT justifies its role in the anti-terrorism infowar by noting that itaddresses two constituencies. Its ‘Experience Learning System’ (ELS) ‘willteach soldiers and students about the future by having them “virtually” gothere’. Many of the prototexts for this dual pedagogy are provided by past


5 This and subsequent quotations taken from the ICT website at http://www.ict.usc.edu (accessed 12 May2005).



Hollywood productions. For example, in describing ‘the hub of the ICT’sresearch’, its ‘Experience Learning System’, the Institute likens it to ‘theHolodeck in Star Trek’ and notes that ‘the ELS will teach soldiers and stu-dents about the future by having them “virtually” go there’. This ‘virtualreality’ thematic pervades the ICT’s educational strategy. For example, in thegraphics lab, the goal is ‘to achieve “virtual reality,” absolute realism ingeometry, reflectance, lighting, dynamics and animation. The lab [it notes] isdoing groundbreaking research in active range sensing, global illumination,reflectometry, dynamic simulation, human and facial animation, and real-time rendering’.

However, entertainment media constitute a small part of the articulation of the military with information and entertainment agencies. Recently, forexample, investigative journalists discovered that the US army was payingIraqi journalists to write favorable articles about the US role in the reconsti-tution of an Iraqi political system. But, of course, many dimensions of domes-tic journalism celebrate the post-9/11 securitization and military initiativeswithout prompting. Part of what I am calling the new violent cartography iseffectively to be found in the pages of many daily newspapers, often in feature sections rather than national and international news reports – forexample, the Honolulu Advertiser’s ‘Military Briefing’ section, which reportsepisodes of ‘heroism under fire’ and features human-interest vignettes aboutbrave soldiers missing their families but remaining dedicated to their missions. Nevertheless, in recent months some of the independent media isasserting itself, rather than allowing its space to be incorporated within the US policymakers’ map of enmity. For example, the Associated Press,under the Freedom of Information Act, forced the release of documents –‘hearing transcripts and evidentiary statements from the two types of military panels that evaluate whether the detainees should remain atGuantanamo’ (Golden, 2006: 1). Such reports, along with an increasing number of editorials attacking the very implementation of a detainee status,a series of violent spaces of interrogation and torture, contest some of themost hidden and extralegal parts of the ‘war on terror’. Detainees exist inwhat Giorgio Agamben (2005: 50) calls ‘a space devoid of law, a zone ofanomie in which all legal determinations – and above all the very distinctionbetween public and private – are deactivated’.

Conclusion: Contesting the New Violent Cartography

Where are the counter-spaces to the new violent cartography? The violencethat has emerged from contemporary practices of militarization and securiti-zation is being contested in display spaces that function outside of the




governmental controls that were exercised in earlier historical periods. Thefate of Edouard Manet’s painting The Execution of the Emperor Maximilian provides an apt illustration of a former governmental suppression. Franceinstalled the Austrian Archduke Maximilian as the puppet monarch ofMexico in 1863. By 1866, Napoleon decided that funding the French forcesrequired to keep the Archduke in his position – in the face of an armed republican insurrection – was too costly and withdrew his troops. Left with-out sufficient protection, Maximilian, who had in fact behaved for the mostpart as a humane and enlightened monarch, was captured and executed by afiring squad, along with two of his loyalist generals, in 1867.

Shortly after the event, Manet executed his first of four historical paintingsof the execution. However, because it was politically controversial, inasmuchas it displayed, graphically, one of the lethal consequences of the French foreign policy, visited on what many regarded as an innocent victim, thepainting was denied entry into the Paris Salon, year after year (Friedrich,1992: 73–76). A canvas that was perhaps a 19th-century equivalent of theimages of a helicopter on the roof of the US embassy in Saigon, leaving manySouth Vietnamese to their postwar fates, did not appear in public until it wasshown in Boston, seven years after the execution. In contrast, not long aftermedia publicity revealed the torture and degradation of prisoners in AbuGhraib prison in Iraq, the Colombian artist Fernando Botero executed a seriesof paintings of the atrocities committed against Iraqi prisoners there. Shortlyafter they were finished, the paintings began traveling around the world,appearing first in Rome at the Palazzo Venezia (beginning in mid-June 2005) and heading thereafter to art museums in Germany, Greece, andWashington, DC (Johnson, 2005: E-33, E-40).

There is another kind of display space that is available and increasinglyused by those who supply images that contest militarization, securitization,and violence. Increasingly, contemporary film festivals provide a venue forfilms with significant anti-violence and anti-war themes and cinematic styles.For example, at the 2006 Berlin Film Festival the trend was ‘definitely politi-cal’, whereas at the previous year’s festival political themes were matched by emphases on sex and football (Bernstein, 2006: 28). At Cannes, politicallyoriented films continue to displace Cannes’s historical emphasis on the‘beautiful’, continuing the trend that brought Michael Moore’s anti-war documentary Fahrenheit 9/11 the Palm d’Or (Dupont, 2006: 20), and at theTromsø International Film Festival there is now a prize for the best ‘peacefilm’. A panel of reviewers – including scholars involved in peace and con-flict studies, organizers of film festivals, and makers of feature films and documentaries – deliberate about the anti-war, anti-violence merits of filmsfrom all over the planet and bring those deliberations into public dialoguewith sizable audiences. Many of the films shown at the festival also later findtheir way into theaters.




Among the films showing at the Berlin Film Festival in 2006 (and subse-quently released worldwide to commercial theaters) was British filmmakerMichael Winterbottom’s The Road to Guantanamo, which, like Botero’s seriesof paintings about the abuses at Abu Ghraib, provides stark images of atrocities visited on prisoners/detainees. Winterbottom’s film focuses on‘three British Muslims who traveled to Afghanistan just as the United Stateswas embarking on its military campaign’ (Dupont, 2006: 20). These men, whoare played by actors in the film, report, in interspersed documentary close-ups, that after being ‘captured by the pro-American Northern Alliance . . .they are hooded, beaten, transported with other prisoners in a packed truckand eventually turned over to the Americans who beat them during interro-gation and fly them to Guantanamo, Cuba’. At a minimum, film festivalspace (and often theater chains with mass audiences) is opening itself toimages that disclose the violence and abuses of rights that constitute much ofthe new violent cartography that has been effected during the ‘war on terror’.Along with other ‘arts’ – notably photography and painting – a politics ofaesthetics, which reconfigures the sensations associated with violence, isavailable as a counter-force to the institutional collusion instantiated in thetertiary spatialization of the ‘war on terror’.

Finally, to contrast the militarization-complicit university–Hollywood–military connection at USC’s Institute for Creative Technologies with theincreasingly political and anti-militarization impetus evident at internationalfilm festivals, we can turn to the issue of realism. As Michael Dillon (2006: 8)points out, the governing associated with the ‘war on terror’ has produced alegitimating account of the ‘real’, a soliciting of fear, and an enframing ofdanger that is ‘beginning to transform the cultural and political codes ofsecurity – civil and military’. As I noted, the military dimension of that trans-formation is focused on the ‘realism’ that Hollywood film technologies can add to the military’s simulations of battlefield experiences. But, cinemaoffers a version of realism that is also critical rather than merely warrior-vocational. As Walter Benjamin (1968: 228) suggested during an early epochof film history, because of its ability to ‘reactivate the object’, film offers anintimacy with reality that was unavailable before the ‘work of art’ was trans-formed in ‘the age of mechanical reproduction’. Film, he noted ‘permits theaudience to take the position of the critic [because the audience] takes theposition of the camera’. Insofar as the spaces of contemplation and exchangeon the reality of the violence associated with recoded modes of security areincreasingly activated at film festivals, film festival space offers itself as acounter-space to the new violent cartography.

* Michael J. Shapiro is Professor of Political Science at the University of Hawai’i. Amonghis recent publications are Methods and Nations: Cultural Governance and the IndigenousSubject (Routledge, 2004) and Deforming American Political Thought: Ethnicity, Facticity andGenre (University Press of Kentucky, 2006).




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