Intersectionality and the Arts: Counterpublic Memory-Making in Postconflict Peru

Intersectionality and the Arts: Counterpublic Memory-Making in Postconflict Peru Abstract∞ Producing memories through the creation of art has been one of many outcomes of the transnational justice period in Peru by both state and nonstate social actors. Art projects that are independent from state-led transitional justice initiatives convey a perspective about the internal conflict and the state’s legacies of marginalization that is in tension with a dominant discourse that seeks to absolve the state and urban elites of culpability. This article examines three public art projects that are conducive to applying an intersectionality feminist analysis to consider how widespread structural and systemic violence is rooted in a lengthy history of societal exclusions based on a combination of gender, race/ethnicity and socioeconomic class. A Latin American artist cannot remain indifferent to the reality of violence, hunger, misery, abuse and corruption surrounding us.1 The project of memory-making following an internal armed conflict and during the period of transitional justice reveals insights into the politics of social location and the political stakes of remembrance. Which memory is to be preserved for the national and international record? Whose perspective is mainstreamed and which ones are suppressed or dismissed by the state that was complicit in the violence? In the case of Peru, the two decades of internal conflict (1980–2000) resulted in the deaths of nearly 70,000 people and thousands disappeared. Unlike other internal conflicts in Latin American countries such as Guatemala, Argentina and Chile, the Peruvian internal conflict started with the transition to a democratically elected government after decades of military rule and also involved the culpability of nonstate actors in committing egregious human rights violations.2 Producing or documenting memories through creating art, by both state and nonstate social actors, has been one of many outcomes of the transnational justice period in Peru.3 In this article, I consider three art projects that emerged independently from state-led transitional justice initiatives, and which add an important dimension to the production of memory-making in the public sphere. These artworks seek a deep reckoning of a difficult and conflict-ridden past. By providing an alternative or expanded perspective to that of the state about the internal conflict, these art projects and, by extension, the artists themselves, serve as a type of interlocutor with distant communities, such as politically adverse constituencies and between those who experienced routine terror and those who were exempt from living with that quotidian fear. These distant communities come to represent different publics – in this instance, a dominant public that is recognized, supported or emboldened by the state, and a counterpublic which seeks to challenge its exclusion.4 Counterpublics are essential to participatory democratic politics because this sphere can be ‘understood as critical oppositional forces within the society of late capitalism.’5 In the case of Peru, the counterpublic aims to rupture a national narrative that absolves the state and the dominant public of its complicity in the violence. The transitional justice art discussed in this article is a visual representation of the counterpublic’s perspective about the internal conflict and the state’s legacies of marginalization. An intersectionality theoretical approach underscores how the combination of racism and patriarchy is co-constitutive of realities that should be viewed as interconnected.6 It is a feminist approach that mandates attention be given to the relationship between power and social location. Its political objectives are to make visible and recognize communities and their struggles that have been overlooked or even dismissed, as well as to destabilize fixed social categories of identity (from race/ethnicity to victim/oppressor). I examine how the art projects engage with an intersectionality approach that considers how widespread structural and systemic violence is rooted in a lengthy history of societal exclusions based on a combination of gender, race/ethnicity, socioeconomic class, sexuality and so forth. This combination contributes to a far more complicated reality than can be contained in a narrow narrative about the internal conflict and its causes as temporally limited to the two decades in this case. I stress my interest in the counterpublic’s perspective because this view seeks to augment or challenge the dominant public, which has largely supported a discourse in which they and the state have been released of wrongdoing. In this dominant discourse, the fault overwhelmingly lies with the extremist terrorist guerilla groups, putting the state in a position where it had to respond with power-over violence and terror. This article focuses on three artistic interventions that are visual representations of a counterpublic: a mural by the famous political artist Victor Delfin outside the office of the Asociación Pro Derechos Humanos (Association for Human Rights, or APRODEH) depicting a mosaic of past and future Peru; a memorial called El Ojo Que Llora (The Eye That Cries), representing lives lost during the internal conflict; and Museo Itinerante: Arte Por La Memoria, a travelling art museum organized by Lima-based artists that tours throughout the country. I selected these three art projects because of the role the counterpublic played in supporting their creation and because they are in publicly accessible spaces. APRODEH, which is based in a local neighbourhood, asked Delfin to paint the mural; El Ojo Que Llora relied on community volunteers in its development and is located in a large public park; and Museo Itinerante travels throughout the country and is viewed in parks, plazas and community centres. The limitation of this research is that it only discusses art projects based in Lima or from Lima-based artists; examining transitional justice art projects produced outside of Lima would enhance this research. I conducted the research in the capital city of Lima in 2013 and 2015. As part of my qualitative study, the research design included in-depth interviews with artists, online research, photos and participant observation. The centralized nature of the Peruvian state means that political power remains in Lima. Thus, outcomes of transitional justice efforts from the state stem from and are controlled by this locale. Residents of Lima, known as Limeños, are deeply divided along a political spectrum that ranges from outright contempt for the legitimate concerns raised by the human rights community about this violent period to complete indifference and apathy about the past. I first conducted in-depth interviews with human rights artists affiliated with Museo Itinerante in 2013, with follow-up interviews in 2015. I viewed the artwork associated with the Museo Itinerante in August 2015 at a conference called ENCUENTRO Cultura, Arte y Cambio Social in Lima. I also viewed the APRODEH mural and visited El Ojo Que Llora in 2013 and 2015. Scholars argue it can take up to three decades to grapple with the ramifications of an internal conflict;7 Peru is nearing the start of its third postconflict decade. Peru is an especially rich site in which to explore transitional justice matters because it has been largely successful in comparison to other Latin American countries (the conviction of ex-president Alberto Fujimori for human rights violations, the issuance of national apologies and a modest reparations programme for those harmed during the internal conflict). However, scholars such as Rebecca Root contend that the achievements have been more symbolic than material.8 But for Dr Salomon Lerner, philosophy professor and chair of the Peruvian Truth and Reconciliation Commission (Commission de la Verdad y Reconciliacion, or CVR), the symbolic is about recognizing that someone’s life, deemed insignificant since the early formation of the Peruvian state, is now viewed with value and importance to the country’s history and even its recovery.9 For Lerner, symbolism is also about morality and not just representation. ABOUT THE CVR PROCESS AND TRANSITIONAL JUSTICE The Peruvian internal conflict period can be contextualized in two key stages. The first period started when the terrorist guerrilla group Sendero Luminoso (The Shining Path) officially declared war against the state on 17 May 1980 in Chuschi by overtaking a voter registration office and burning the ballot boxes. It continued until the national counterterrorism police unit captured Abimael Guzmán, the main leader of Sendero Luminoso, without exchanging gunfire, on 12 September 1992.10 The second period began when former president Fujimori initiated a coup d’état on 5 April 1992 so that he could govern the country by executive decrees until he fled to Japan to escape prosecution for corruption and human rights violations. Valentín Paniagua, a member of the Peruvian congress at the time, became the country’s interim president in 2000. Paniagua facilitated the transition back to democratic governance. Democratic elections followed later that year and resulted in the election of Alejandro Toledo in April 2001, the first national president of indigenous ancestry in a majority indigenous country. President Toledo continued the work started by interim president Paniagua by formalizing the CVR. Initially referred to as the Truth Commission, Toledo advocated for the inclusion of the term ‘reconciliation’ to the formal title. The inclusion of reconciliation as part of the official process made it enormously challenging to assemble and grapple with different, and sometimes competing or conflicting, versions of the truth. But adding reconciliation to the CVR’s mandate and imposing a restricted timeframe of two years expedited the process and compromised the investigation at the same time. These types of investigations are deeply political, leaving nearly everyone with some level of dissatisfaction with the final outcome report, including the commissioners themselves. A 2013 poll revealed that only 34 percent of Peruvians knew about the CVR process, indicating that the vast majority have remained ambivalent or disinterested in learning about the internal conflict.11 The CVR’s final report cited the legacies of racism as a contributing factor that led to the internal conflict’s longevity and brutality. These racial legacies are about an elite dominant public that viewed indigenous peoples as unworthy of citizenship because elites considered their way of life to be ‘backward.’12 Patriarchy also played a role, especially in terms of gender-based and sexual violence, accounts that were painfully revealed during public testimonies. The CVR process and final report were critical for providing some context for the internal conflict and bringing 47 cases for prosecution, two of which were rape cases.13 In addition, a powerful photo exhibit called Yuyanapaq (Quechua word meaning ‘to remember’) accompanied the report, which is featured at Museo de la Nation.14 Although Yuyanapaq is an important transitional justice art photography project, it is a state-led initiative and falls outside the scope of this article. USING INTERSECTIONALITY TO UNDERSTAND COUNTERPUBLIC ART PROJECTS Unlike a museum, where people make a special trip to view art exhibits, the artworks discussed in this article appear in spaces where the public at large can see them, even unexpectedly, as they go about the routine of their daily lives. As these artists seek to unsettle and disrupt complacency, provoke dialogue and compellingly portray aspects of the internal conflict for public consumption, these art projects have been met with resistance by the power of the dominant public that seeks to invalidate, systematically erase, ignore, disregard, reimagine and/or rewrite the complicated narrative regarding the internal conflict. The dominant public wields a power that is political and discursive. Intersectionality facilitates an understanding about this exertion of power that is ‘structural and interpersonal.’15 Intersectionality is about ‘an analytical approach for understanding between-category relationships’ (race, class, gender, age, sexuality), where these ‘between-category relationships’ shape political institutions and social actors, and unsettle the social categories themselves.16 Since ‘identity categories of race, gender, and class are shaped by distinct (national) histories and regional contexts,’ the use of intersectionality must be contextualized.17 In the context of memory-making in postconflict Peru, intersectionality is associated with social location, revealing who has the privilege to not remember and whose voices and perspectives are rendered invisible. Intersectionality acknowledges the confluence and convergence of identities and social realities that structure sociopolitical hierarchies. It seeks to understand the role of multidirectional power to address overlooked insights when it comes to social location, privilege and the shifting nature of oppressive regimes and logics.18 Intersectionality enhances and produces knowledge about a social issue, problem or conflict based on the experiences of subordinated groups. The use of an expanded approach to determine what is missing or excluded from an understanding of, in this case, the internal armed conflict is essential for the construction of memories in the postconflict context. Indeed, the Peruvian CVR designated a separate gender programme to directly address the issue of widespread sexual violence during the internal conflict.19 To this end, when ‘subordinated groups become subjects rather than objects of discourse,’ they embody the counterpublic sphere.20 Therefore, the artworks that represent a counterpublic view ‘challenge and cast doubt’ on any mediation of memory works that ‘selectively manage history in ways that reproduce state hegemony, reinscribing national identity in the fragility after collective violence.’21 The intersectionality analysis advanced in this article aims to understand the visual representations or themes depicted in the art itself to reveal the terrain of power and social location. As Elizabeth Jelin contends, ‘identity criteria (ethnicity, race, class, gender) of broadly defined “victims” become significant in understanding memorialization processes,’ in part because ‘historically entrenched cultural domination by other groups result in a lack of autonomous capacity to act in the public sphere.’22 The process of memory-making through the creation of art projects is about curating memories, which in and of itself is incredibly fraught.23 As Erica Lehrer and Cynthia E. Milton state, We may legitimately ask how much – and what kind – of debate and contention we want, recognizing that the curation of difficult knowledge can exacerbate conflict, or keep wounds traumatically open when they might otherwise heal. Yet curating ‘reconciliation’ risks other erasures, neglects, and negations, potentially inflicting further harm by silencing those living with scars, still-open wounds, or ongoing injustice. There is a need for curatorial work that can both reveal and contain tensions, highlighting the ways that aggrieved parties live in ‘contentious coexistence’ in the aftermath of violence, while also creating spaces for more robust ‘dissensual community’ to emerge.24 The ‘curation of difficult knowledge’ through the production of art must then consider how to navigate the tensions between the dominant public and the counterpublic while also recognizing that ‘difficult knowledge’ is not singular or universal and is linked to social location. In other words, the intimate knowledge that someone has about the effects of the internal conflict is reflective of their social location within Peruvian society, and to understand the knowledge produced from this social location requires an intersectionality analysis that makes them and their experiences visible in all their complexity. Moreover, as Jelin argues, ‘silences or hidden ethnic, cultural, or gender dimensions come to light in the course of the unfolding of violent conflicts and in their aftermaths.’25 In this exercise of coming to light, an intersectionality approach seeks to acknowledge these various hidden dimensions. VICTOR DELFIN: HUMAN RIGHTS ARTIST AND THE APRODEH MURAL When I first arrived at the office of APRODEH in the district of Jesús María in July 2013, I was taken aback to see that the beautiful mural by Delfin outside their building had been defaced with slabs of black paint (Figure 1). I had gone to the office to interview Rosario ‘Charro’ Navarez and to arrange a visit to El Ojo Que Llora (APRODEH staff manage access to the memorial site). As I rang the bell to the office building located on a semi-quiet street in Lima, I could not help but feel troubled and disturbed by the ruined mural. The destruction of the mural happened in response to APRODEH’s support for bringing Fujimori to justice in criminal court for human rights violations. He had fled to Japan in November 2000 but went to Chile in 2005 in an effort to possibly run for another presidential election. From there he was extradited to Peru and then found guilty of human rights abuses. His supporters, known as Fujimoristas, were angry and are believed to have vandalized the mural as well as El Ojo Que Llora. Figure 1. View largeDownload slide Delfin’s mural outside APRODEH’s office in Lima Figure 1. View largeDownload slide Delfin’s mural outside APRODEH’s office in Lima Figure 2. View largeDownload slide El Ojo Que Llora, Lima Figure 2. View largeDownload slide El Ojo Que Llora, Lima Delfin, who is nearly 90 years old and still creating art, is originally from a small community in northwestern Peru. Raised in a poor family, he studied fine arts in Lima in the 1950s. He has earned a reputation for being committed to social justice through his work and uses a range of mediums for his artistic productions – ‘wood, metal, canvas, polychrome acrylics and aluminum.’26 One of his massive 1993 sculptures, located in the Parque del Amor (Love Park) in Miraflores, an upper-class district overlooking the Pacific Ocean, is called ‘El Beso’ (The Kiss). The sculpture shows a couple kissing in a warm and loving embrace. It is a visually stunning piece surrounded by colourful mosaic tiles, affirming love in a city that can sometimes feel heartless.27 Delfin is also well known for his embrace of birds and other animals. Christopher B. Condon, director of the Bayard Gallery in New York City, wrote that Delfin does not make sculptures about ‘subjects of animals,’ his sculptures of animals speak of him himself, of his Indian and Spanish heritage, and of his own personal mythology, the spirit of which is the archetype of what these animals represent.28 Delfin stood in strong opposition to Peruvian president Fujimori, along with numerous other artists, including those involved with Museo Itinerante. They denounced Fujimori’s self-coup in 1992 (in his effort to dismantle the Congress and govern by executive decrees) and later also his daughter Keiko Fujimori during her 2011 and 2016 presidential campaigns. Delfin has also been known to open his home in Barranco, the artist district in Lima, to human rights activist gatherings. Delfin’s mural depicts a genealogy of pain that dates back to the colonial period, but also hope, love, healing and peace. The top left-hand side of the mural shows an image of the sun and the bottom left-hand corner includes an excerpt of articles from the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR). The portraits of women in different poses (upright, lying down in cradled position) have a range of emotional expressions (sadness, pain, stoicism). A woman reading a book and a child are situated next to the UDHR image. A cross is situated prominently in the centre of the mural. The depiction of what appears to be a military officer searching the body of a similarly brown-skinned person to the right as another person looks on is a nod to the surveillance of certain racialized bodies that has become normalized in Peru. As is common in Delfin’s portfolio, prominent depictions of birds are central to this mural: a condor makes up about a quarter of the mural, and is the least damaged; a white bird symbolizing peace at the top right of the mural is untouched. Delfin’s affection for and connection to birds in particular speaks not only to ‘the animals in whose spirit Delfin lives,’ but is also an acknowledgement of the level and capacity of human cruelty.29 For instance, in one of Delfin’s earlier paintings depicting a tuberculosis outbreak in a Lima shantytown, text near the bird states, ‘I renounce humans. I request a bird’s passport.’ Viewing the images of the mural from an intersectionality perspective brings to the fore the importance of centring multiple subjectivities. In this case, Delfin portrays women outside of a predominantly ‘victim’ imaginary. The images represented in the mural in essence recognize the various depictions of power – of legacies of repression over human rights, women, children and Andean people. The message seems to be about how a colonial legacy and racist patriarchal power affected people, human rights and even birds. By depicting women so prominently in the mural, Delfin seems to signal a necessary disruption to their marginalization, and suggest that women’s energy and presence may be a way forward out of the darkness (note the large image of a woman next to the sun on the left). In addition to the mural acknowledging the relevance of human rights, a fitting recognition given the organization that commissioned it, the artwork also takes us beyond a notion of rights as inherently ‘human’ because of the inclusion or respect Delfin shows to birds. Established in 1983, APRODEH is an organization that has been advancing human rights causes since the early years of the internal conflict. The vision statement on their website, which also gets routinely hacked and shut down, reads as follows: APRODEH hopes that in Peru, human rights inspires ethics transformed by protests, cultural expressions, and inclusive public policies that express all aspects of social, cultural, and political life in a manner in which our rights are equally valid for all.30 Created in October 2001, the mural has been damaged twice. When I asked Rosario why they did not fix it again, she said that not fixing it is another way to send a defiant message that, as a human rights organization, they will not be deterred from their work. But what does the destruction of the mural mean beyond the mere fact of just ruining it? What messages are those who defaced it sending? APRODEH’s decision to not restore the mural is, on a practical level, financial, but it is also important on a political level. Given the street location of this mural, violence that would otherwise go unseen now becomes visible to the public. The targeting of the mural can be read in two ways. First, using black paint represents a blacking out and a violent systematic erasure of the narratives and images conveyed in the mural. It is a representation of the violence inflicted on Andean citizens in particular, with the streaks resembling a whipping motion. Secondly, the reaction of damaging the mural underscores the power of art in public spaces to disrupt. Such art, depending on the content and message, can awaken individuals out of complacency and make them reactionary rather than pensive. The image effectively reflects the hopes and human rights aspirations of those who have been on the margins of dominant power in Peru – women and/or Andean/indigenous peoples, for example. There is a spatial distance between those who damaged the mural and those whose bodies and histories are depicted in this work. Whoever destroyed the mural did so out of a visceral reaction to the work of APRODEH upon viewing this art. The ability to intentionally damage artwork in this way is about an exertion of power-over that stems from a privileged social location, by people who perhaps have never experienced a denial of their human rights or had their humanity questioned. They are part of a dominant public that seeks to silence the counterpublics represented in this mural through their act of defacing it. The Delfin mural outside APRODEH’s building reflects a history of Peruvian society that is painful and complicated yet aspirational in that the sun, the birds and human rights will somehow rise and be the way forward. Though the defacement of the mural is a setback and disheartening to view, the decision by APRODEH to keep it as is sends an equally powerful message. According to Delfin, ‘Nothing is more edifying than going into the streets, joining the clamor of the poor and demanding a more dignified quality of life for my fellow-citizens.’31 EL OJO QUE LLORA: A SPACE OF GRIEVANCE AND BACKLASH El Ojo Que Llora is a memorial representing tens of thousands of victims of the internal conflict, designed by the late Dutch-born artist Lika Mutal, a long-time resident (40+ years) of Lima. She told US political scientist Katherine Hite that she wished for her memorial to be understood as a humanistic effort to awaken the consciences of all Peruvians to the violence and suffering of the recent past, as well as to encourage reflection regarding the relationships between painful memories and a more just, solidaristic Peru.32 Unexpectedly passing away from a stroke at the age of 77 in 2016, Mutal set out to create a space to memorialize lives lost that could be open to all Peruvians.33 Just like the Delfin mural, this memorial has been damaged numerous times, most recently in January 2017.34 I was able to see the memorial in 2013 and returned in 2015 to assist APRODEH with the logistics for two events: one in honour of a disappeared husband and father in 2013 and one as part of a school field trip in 2015. For security reasons, a fence surrounds the memorial and a security guard staffs the only entrance to it during the day. Yet, if people are determined to destroy the memorial, they will still find a way to do so by jumping the fence. The memorial has been embroiled in controversy since the beginning, ranging from its funding, to its location, to artistic autonomy, and to what the memorial symbolizes about culpability and victimization. Who is the legitimate victim in this internal conflict? Does the killing of Senderistas merit the same recognition and mourning in this space? These questions came to the fore in November 2006 after the Inter-American Court of Human Rights found the Peruvian government at fault in a 1992 raid involving bullets, teargas and bombing of the cells in Lima’s notorious Miguel Castro Castro prison, which left 41 Senderista women dead.35 With the court declaring the Peruvian government culpable of wrongdoing, the judges stipulated, among other things, that these Senderistas should be part of El Ojo Que Llora. In this section, I apply an intersectionality analysis to this artwork to discuss the symbolism associated with the materials used for this memorial. I also discuss how intersectionality complicates the notions of ‘victim’ and ‘perpetrator’ in this case. Regarding what I refer to as ‘deserving victim status,’ the controversy surrounding the inclusion of Senderista victims in the memorial resulted in Mutal stating that the Senderistas should not be part of the memorial as they were not true victims.36 When you arrive at the memorial, your eyes go directly to the upright stone in the middle. From the main entrance, you do not notice the eye-crying feature of the stone sculpture in the middle of the water until you walk all the way around to the other side. As detailed by Hite, Mutal demonstrated layers of thoughtfulness in this design: To center her piece, Mutal sculpted a representation of the ancestral goddess Pachamama, Mother Earth. Mutal shaped Pachamama from an ancient, pre-Inca stone she had found on a trek in northern Peru years before, and in the stone she affixed another rock as an eye. A trickle of water runs continually from the rock, as an eye that cries, that mourns the violence. The stone of Pachamama conveys a maternal quality of the familiarity and ongoing duress of suffering, implicitly against a notion of a masculine inflicting of violence. The representation also projects an eternal sense of victimization, neither periodizing nor romanticizing a ‘pre-violence’ or ‘pre-conflict’ historical moment. Mutal represents the genealogy of the victims as long and deep.37 This stone centrepiece sits in the middle of a path shaped like a labyrinth. As you walk on this path, stones guide you through the memorial. Many stones are blank, some engravings have been erased over time by the sun, and other engravings are vivid. The stone engravings, done entirely by volunteers, contain the names of the dead and the disappeared. There are also several upright stones in one row of the memorial – these stones have the names of significant massacres during the internal conflict engraved on them, such as the Barrios Altos massacre (a poor district in Lima) when the Fujimori administration ordered a secret military police unit to kill residents suspected of having ties to Sendero Luminoso. Mutal’s artistic decisions reflect a centring of women’s energy in response to an exertion of hypermasculine violence. Mutal associates violence from the internal conflict with the pain inflicted on Mother Earth to such a degree that the earth weeps. In other words, this masculine violence from the internal conflict period is familiar and even felt by Pachamama, by Mother Earth, because indigenous ancestors have been victims of violence for centuries. Acknowledging the erasures of the histories of violence targeting indigenous/Andean peoples reveals the entrenched social hierarchies in Peru, based on ethnicity, class and gender. These erasures rendered indigenous peoples disproportionately vulnerable to violence during the internal conflict. Thus, this artwork facilitates an intersectionality analysis that recognizes violence as historical, systemic and intentional, and renders visibility to the disproportionate targeting of indigenous communities. It is sobering to walk the labyrinth’s path and see the thousands of names of unknown people, years of birth and death, or else just years of birth, since they are part of the disappeared. Viewers are left questioning: Who is this person? What happened to them? Why did this happen to them? And is this memorial enough? As you walk through the site, collecting unanswerable questions, you eventually make your way to the Pachamama stone. Mutal’s design is such that a deceptively modest-sized memorial takes time to walk through; its layout forces you to slow down. The path is designed so that you zigzag through to one end of the memorial and then turn to go back in the direction from which you just walked. In my view, this walking back and forth mirrors the nonlinear nature of transitional justice. Just when you think you have made it to the end of a row, you have to make your way back to the other side. After several minutes have passed, you eventually arrive at the Pachamama stone. When I first walked along the stone path, I saw that some of the rocks had been harmed with orange paint, now largely faded. Repairing the stones can be expensive, and funds are hard to acquire because they have to be privately solicited since the government will not contribute financially to the memorial. Yet seeing so many stones ruined, I wonder what someone gains, psychologically or politically, from this kind of destruction? Each rock represents a loved one to someone, and ruining the rock is just another form of violence directed at those who are among the living. During my first trip to the memorial, Rosario told me that stepping on the stones is unacceptable and that visitors must stay on the path the entire time once they have entered the memorial. It would be like ‘stepping on the dead,’ she told me, and they have suffered enough. The purpose of El Ojo Que Llora is to provide a space for contemplation, reflection and grief for disparate communities, where demarcations between victim and perpetrator are somewhat blurred. Families and community members who have loved ones as part of the sculpture arrive there seeking some comfort and validation. Others, like myself, a member of a transnational family connected to Peru, are forced to contemplate complicity and the enormity of the tragedy. Mutal’s reasoning for excluding Senderistas as legitimate victims of the violence, as ‘deserving victim status,’ despite the Inter-American Court’s controversial decision, lacks an intersectional perspective and contradicts her stated intent of a ‘solidaristic Peru.’ This view reinscribes a stifling binary of ‘victim’ and ‘perpetrator’ that does not align with the work of scholars.38 More importantly, given the controversies exposed by the Court’s decision, deciphering who embodies ‘deserving victim’ status for inclusion in the memorial becomes critical to challenge. Paulo Drinot asks, ‘under what circumstances could victimizers be victims?’ He connects the naming of victims to the interpretation of violence, specifically the perpetrators of violence, or to ‘the ontologies of violence.’39 Further, as Margarita Saona points out, this remembrance of the victims of violence, particularly when their names are displayed, get tangled in the memory battles about innocence and responsibility. Those who have studied the communities who have suffered the most in the armed conflict know that categorizing victims and perpetrators is a complex issue.40 As Hite states, ‘Victims, perpetrators, resisters, and survivors come from many sides of the conflict and can often be read as all of the above and more.’41 In the case of the categories delineated by Hite – victim, perpetrator, resister and survivor – an intersectionality analysis probes how one person can occupy one or more of these categories simultaneously. To understand why in one instance an Andean villager is an innocent victim and in another context a perpetrator, one has to consider the circumstances and social conditions in which those categories are utilized and to what benefit. After the terrorist attacks in the USA on 11 September 2001, transnational feminist scholars urged a recognition of ‘the gendered and ethnocentric history of sentimentality, grief, and melancholy that have been mobilized.’42 This same perspective can apply to transitional justice in Peru given the reaction to the creation of this particular memorial and the debates regarding who is deserving of victim status in the aftermath and who merits grief. Intersectionality challenges fixed categories and identities, in particular because, as Jelin argues, ‘identities have to be conceived as historical constructs, with blurred and changing boundaries’ because ‘no community will be homogenous.’43 Thus, neither the victims nor the perpetrators should be homogenized because reifying a deserving victim status will result in the impossible task of identifying innocence that is in tension with complex subjectivity. This tense and awkward, but necessary, convergence of people affected by state and terrorist violence and those on the margins of that violence becomes possible through this memorial. Those who stand against what the memorial represents are members of a dominant public that is unwilling or unprepared to process the internal conflict in a way that is fundamentally healing. As Saona states, A monument conceived as a symbol for peace revealed how truth and reconciliation are not achieved by decree. The names on the stones bring together the innocent ones and the ones who were agents of violence, and this, in fact, might lead its visitors to reexamine the past.44 I would also argue that in this reexamination, this kind of framing of the stones – ‘innocent ones’ and the ‘agents of violence’ – should be challenged as well because the criteria for determining the status of innocence and perpetrator belie the realities of the internal conflict itself and of intersectionality. MUSEO ITINERANTE: ARTE POR LA MEMORIA AND THE PRESERVATION OF MEMORY EVERYWHERE Museo Itinerante: Arte Por la Memoria is a travelling museum organized by several Lima-based artists committed to representing a counterpublic view of the internal conflict. The artworks are a condemnation of complicity, from those at the top of multiple presidential administrations to those who looked the other way. A group of artists felt compelled to get organized during a 2009 commemoration event of Fujimori’s self-coup. Their first project was ‘a street exhibit just with artworks that denounced the crimes of Fujimorismo.’45 To their surprise, ‘people debated right there, they fought, they commented’ upon coming across this exhibit in the city. As the artists debriefed about the experience, the strong potential of art to address human rights issues became crystallized. They concluded, ‘why don’t we formalize this project and do itinerant exhibits in different places, in public spaces, talking about human rights?’ These artists continue with this travelling museum today, ‘taking an art exhibit that deals with human rights violations or with the history of political violence in this country to different parts of the country.’ Museo Itinerante has become a point of departure for other artistic projects as well, such as community murals. This same group also conceptualized a separate project called Lugar de Memorias (‘Place of Memories’), where they mark a site with a sign to inform the public that human rights violations occurred there. Their intent is to use art for the purpose of raising awareness, provoking discussion and enacting social justice as part of their contribution to transitional justice efforts. A large sign is posted at the entrance before you walk through Museo Itinerante. This sign describes the exhibit as a travelling museography without form, without defined space, without doors or walls, a space that collects the different memories that from art – in its diverse technologies and formats – [produced] about the years of violence in Peru.46 Given its mobility, this museum can appear in diverse locations, from ‘a plaza, a park, a classroom, a cultural centre or in any place.’ The artists’ desire for this kind of flexibility is a way to ‘activate in the ordinary citizen, reflections, discussions, and opinions about a painful period of our history that has left large debts outstanding from the state and society to those who were victims.’ The artists extend an invitation to look and feel the stories and the diverse memories contained in the drawings, the artistic boards from Sarhua, graphics, installations, photographs and paintings, as these stories are testimonies that bring us closer to understanding our history and reconstruction of our own memory. It is through this invitation that the artists of Museo Itinerante hope to create an exhibit space for ‘an intercultural dialogue that brings together the memories of popular artists, urban artists, victims and activists who have made use of the symbolic resource to resist forgetting.’ Museo Itinerante is about a convergence of memories, from those affected in remote communities to those impacted by violence in Lima. These artists are striving to reach an understanding of this difficult history by maintaining a sustained critique of social exclusion that reflects an intersectionality approach. In seeking to bring communities together in an intercultural dialogue, the travelling nature of this museum is conducive to ensuring these dialogues are decentralized (i.e., do not only take place in Lima). When I toured the exhibit at a conference in Lima, I was struck by how all the different features of this travelling museum – the photos, retablos, paintings, clay projects and posters – came together in a type of beautiful and powerful montage. It felt like an intercultural dialogue through the heart, viewing work produced by a range of people using different aesthetic mediums and methods. One of the most compelling aspects of this counterpublic is its artistic heterogeneity. Drawing from different art mediums and incorporating multiple memories, the travelling museum and its affiliated artists are part of a counterpublic that understands multiple forms of artistic engagements are needed to reach the widest possible viewership. For example, while photography may resonate with one set of viewers, perhaps the narrative quilts resonate with another. In either case, the best kind of art provokes overdue discussions. By bringing together diverse artists and activists in a travelling exhibit as the basis for an intercultural dialogue, Museo Itinerante is advancing the idea that transitional justice art belongs everywhere. Another important aspect of this art project is its engagement with different memories, which acknowledges that multiple intercultural dialogues must occur as part of transitional justice. This point is especially relevant when we consider that those impacted by the violence are extremely varied – from the rural campesino farmer to the urban union activist to the leftist student. The importance of sustaining multiple conversations about the internal conflict suggests that resisting the desire to forget means having to navigate these various strands without producing a hierarchy for the dialogue. Put differently, it would be simpler to just focus on former president Fujimori’s regime or the disproportionate level of violence by Sendero Luminoso, but the artists and artwork affiliated with Museo Itinerante manage various conversations, including about Fujimori and Sendero Luminoso, simultaneously and in tension. Applying an intersectionality analysis in this case is a compelling reminder about the role of recovering and uncovering memories from a counterpublic perspective because of the new issues or insights that are to be gained through that process. Consider, for example, posters designed by artist Mauricio Delgado called ‘Un Dia Como Hoy’ (‘A Day Like Today’) that were part of Museo Itinerante when I viewed the museum.47 These powerful posters highlight events of significance that correspond to the internal conflict period. As Delgado describes it, this project is an intervention for Limeños that serves as a virtual calendar within the space of ‘non-physical memory’ as a way of recovery, and of rejecting indifference and a desire to forget the atrocities of the internal conflict. The poster in Figure 3 documents the day when 12 women from Cusco arrived in Lima to denounce the forced sterilization campaign targeting Andean women under the Fujimori regime. Figure 3. View largeDownload slide ‘A Day Like Today’ poster on display with Museo Itinerante. Image courtesy of Mauricio Delgado Figure 3. View largeDownload slide ‘A Day Like Today’ poster on display with Museo Itinerante. Image courtesy of Mauricio Delgado Importantly, Delgado engages in a significant exercise of visibility, which is a core tenet of intersectionality – the poster includes the names of the 12 women who arrived in Lima to demand justice on 6 September 2001. The sterilization campaigns under Fujimori are believed to have affected close to 300,000 women and about 21,000 men.48 They occurred during the 1990s, specifically from 1996 to 1998.49 Delgado’s work highlights this state campaign of gender-based violence which, upon first glance, might seem disconnected from the internal conflict. However, the state waged the sterilization campaign against rural and isolated Andean communities, disproportionately targeting women, as a component of their multiple and aggressive strategies during the internal conflict. Through an intersectionality analysis of power, the forcible sterilization campaign becomes another dimension to the internal conflict, rooted in social hierarchies of race, gender and class that interact with a confluence of racism and patriarchy and that overly affect poor communities. The description accompanying the poster not only engenders an image of these women as victims, but also recognizes their agency in denouncing the state and forming an association for forcibly sterilized women in search of accountability. Due to the artists’ stated intention of including diverse art creators, Museo Itinerante strives for memory portraits from a counterpublic perspective. It grapples with the multiple social actors and deep layers of state complicity that portray state violence, including the forcible sterilization campaign, as necessary during these years of political upheaval. An intersectionality approach recognizes the importance of holistic representations that engage with the messiness of the internal conflict, and sheds light on events, social actors and trauma associated with the internal conflict that might otherwise be overlooked. An intercultural dialogue between viewer and artworks and between artist and the reclamation of the right to memory is fundamental to the creation of transitional justice art. CONCLUSION As Milton argues in the case of Peru, ‘art offers a powerful means for recounting the past and for reaching a kind of understanding.’50 Intersectionality theory is illustrative for acknowledging the differential experiences with violence and trauma in the journey to reaching this understanding. Delfin’s mural on APRODEH’s building depicts the determining power of social location when it comes to reckoning with gender-based colonial violence, respect for human rights and the legacy effects of authoritarian rule dating back to the colonial period. The mural’s destruction with streaks of black paint indicates that the road to healing and peace remains distant. The controversies surrounding the inclusion of Senderista victims – who did not meet some arbitrary criteria of ‘deserving victim’ status in the court of the dominant public’s opinion – in El Ojo Que Llora reify a narrow construction of victim that elides complex subjectivity. Lastly, the Museo Itinerante travelling exhibit’s inclusion of multiple memories results in diverse representations and the inclusion of various counterpublics impacted by violence. These different types of art projects afford viewers the perspectives of people from across a spectrum of social locations. In the postconflict context of Peru, art depicting some aspect of the internal conflict is meant to offer a critique or layered commentary on what happened, as well as provide a moment of pause about the breadth, depth and extent of the violence. These dissident artistic engagements occur within a context in which powerful and elite forces from the dominant public converge to stymie holistic transitional justice representations by the counterpublic. This article explored three art projects that are the visual representation of the counterpublic. The artworks, and by extension the artists, become interlocutors that can be viewed as a bridge between counterpublics and dominant publics. However, the defacing of two of the artworks – the APRODEH mural and El Ojo Que Llora – is a reminder that art is provocative. The very reasons why the artworks are attacked remind us of their importance. Efforts to memorialize the internal conflict through art, or to delegitimize those artistic endeavours through acts of violence, are about the stakes involved in representing the internal conflict period beyond a state-dominated narrative. By focusing on art that is accessible to the public at large and that represents a counterpublic point of view, this article used intersectionality as an approach to examine the artworks. These art projects, and ones that still have to be envisioned, could become part of a democratic project of inclusivity in which intersectionality is used as a core lens through which to continue producing and analyzing wide-ranging representations of the internal conflict that aim for increased visibility and accountability. Footnotes 1 Victor Delfin, Delfin: Paintings and Sculptures (Lima: IMADIS Comunicadores, 2000), 227. 2 Comisión de la verdad y reconciliación, ‘Informe Final,’ 2003, http://www.cverdad.org.pe/ifinal/index.php (accessed 16 October 2017). 3 Cynthia Milton, ed., Art from a Fractured Past: Memory and Truth-Telling in Post-Shining Path Peru (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014); Víctor Vich, Poéticas Del Duelo: Ensayos sobre arte, memoria y violencia política en el Perú (Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 2015). 4 Nancy Fraser, ‘Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy,’ Social Text 25(26) (1990): 56–80. 5 Rita Felski, Beyond Feminist Aesthetics: Feminist Literature and Social Change (Boston, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989), 166. 6 Ange-Marie Hancock, Intersectionality: An Intellectual History (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016); Sumi Cho, Kimberlé Williams Crenshaw and Leslie McCall, ‘Toward a Field of Intersectionality Studies: Theory, Applications, and Praxis,’ Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 38(4) (2013): 785–810; Hae Yeon Choo and Myra Marx Ferree, ‘Practicing Intersectionality in Sociological Research: A Critical Analysis of Inclusions, Interactions, and Institutions in the Study of Inequalities,’ Sociological Theory 28(2) (2010): 129–149. 7 Kirsten Weld, Paper Cadavers: The Archives of Dictatorship in Guatemala (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014). 8 Rebecca Root, Transitional Justice in Peru (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012). 9 Personal interview, Dr Salomon Lerner, Lima, Peru, 12 August 2015. 10 Miguel La Serna, The Corner of the Living: Ayacucho on the Eve of the Shining Path Insurgency (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2012). 11 La República, ‘Solo 34% de peruanos conoce la comisión que investigó violencia terrorista,’ 18 November 2013, http://larepublica.pe/18-11-2013/solo-34-de-peruanos-conoce-la-comision-que-investigo-violencia-terrorista (accessed 16 October 2017). 12 See, Paulo Drinot, The Allure of Labor: Workers, Race, and the Making of the Peruvian State (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011). 13 Pascha Bueno-Hansen, Feminist and Human Rights Struggles in Peru: Decolonizing Transitional Justice (Chicago, IL: University of Illinois Press, 2015). 14 Erica Lehrer and Cynthia E. Milton, ‘Introduction: Witnesses to Witnessing,’ in Curating Difficult Knowledge: Violent Pasts in Public Places, ed. E. Lehrer, C. Milton and M. Patterson (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011). This photo exhibit was supposed to move into a new museum called Lugar de la Memoria, but plans no longer appear to support this transfer. 15 Ange-Marie Hancock, ‘When Multiplication Doesn’t Equal Quick Addition: Examining Intersectionality as a Research Paradigm,’ Perspectives on Politics 5(1) (2007): 74. 16 Ibid., 67. 17 Sylvanna M. Falcón, ‘Transnational Feminism and Contextualized Intersectionality at the 2001 World Conference against Racism,’ Journal of Women’s History 24(4) (2012): 101. 18 Sylvanna M. Falcón, Power Interrupted: Antiracist and Feminist Activism inside the United Nations (Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 2016). 19 Julissa Mantilla Falcón, ‘Gender and Human Rights: Lessons from the Peruvian Truth and Reconciliation Commission,’ in Feminist Agendas and Democracy in Latin America, ed. Jane S. Jaquette (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009). 20 Marcia Stephenson, ‘Forging an Indigenous Counterpublic Sphere: The Taller de Historia Oral Andina in Bolivia,’ Latin American Research Review 37(2) (2002): 101. 21 Macarena Gómez-Barris, Where Memory Dwells: Culture and State Violence in Chile (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2009), 5 (emphasis in original). 22 Elizabeth Jelin, ‘Silences, Visibility and Agency: Ethnicity, Class and Gender in Public Memorialization,’ International Center for Transitional Justice research brief, June 2009, https://www.ictj.org/sites/default/files/ICTJ-Identities-Memory-ResearchBrief-2009-English.pdf (accessed 16 October 2017). See also, Elizabeth Jelin, ‘Silences, Visibility, and Agency: Ethnicity, Class, and Gender in Public Memorialization,’ in Identities in Transition: Challenges for Transitional Justice in Divided Societies, ed. Paige Arthur (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011). 23 See, Cynthia Milton, ‘Curating Memories of Armed State Actors in Peru’s Era of Transitional Justice,’ Memory Studies 8(3) (2015): 361–378. 24 Lehrer and Milton, supra n 14 at 6–7. 25 Jelin, in Identities in Transition, supra n 22 at 188. 26 Goshen College, ‘Inside the Artist’s Studio: A Visit with Victor Delfin,’ 25 March 2014, https://www.goshen.edu/peru/2014/03/25/inside-the-artists-studio-a-visit-with-victor-delfin/ (accessed 16 October 2017). 27 See, ibid., for more images of Delfin’s work. 28 Delfin, supra n 1 at 19. 29 Ibid. 30 APRODEH, ‘Misión,’ http://www.aprodeh.org.pe/nosotros/ (accessed 16 October 2017) (author’s translation). 31 Delfin, supra n 1 at 227. 32 Katherine Hite, ‘“The Eye that Cries”: The Politics of Representing Victims in Contemporary Peru,’ A Contracorriente 5(1) (2007): 120–121. 33 Enrique Planas, ‘Lika Mutal murió: lee nuestra entrevista inédita con la artista,’ El Comercio, 8 November 2016, http://elcomercio.pe/luces/arte/lika-mutal-murio-lee-nuestra-entrevista-inedita-artista-noticia-1944982 (accessed 16 October 2017). 34 La República, ‘El ojo que llora: Monumento fue atacado nuevamente y familiares exigen mayor seguridad,’ 3 March 2017, http://larepublica.pe/politica/853467-el-ojo-que-llora-monumento-fue-atacado-nuevamente-y-familiares-exigen-mayor-seguridad (accessed 16 October 2017). 35 Hite, supra n 32. See also, Cynthia Milton, ‘Defacing Memory: (Un)tying Peru’s Memory Knots,’ in Curating Difficult Knowledge: Violent Pasts in Public Places, ed. E. Lehrer, C. Milton and M. Patterson (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011). 36 Paulo Drinot, ‘For Whom the Eye Cries: Memory, Monumentality, and the Ontologies of Violence in Peru,’ Journal of Latin American Cultural Studies 18(1) (2009): 15–32. 37 Hite, supra n 32 at 121–122. 38 Kimberly Theidon, Intimate Enemies: Violence and Reconciliation in Peru (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012). 39 Drinot, supra n 36 at 23. See also, Margarita Saona, Memory Matters in Transitional Peru (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014). 40 Saona, supra n 39 at 88. 41 Hite, supra n 32 at 128. See also, Theidon, supra n 38. 42 Paola Bacchetta, Tina Campt, Inderpal Grewal, Caren Kaplan, Minoo Moallem and Jennifer Terry, ‘Transnational Feminist Practices against War,’ Meridians: Feminism, Race, Transnationalism 2(2) (2002): 305. 43 Jelin, in Identities in Transition, supra n 22 at 210. 44 Saona, supra n 39 at 89. 45 The quotes in this paragraph come from a personal interview with Jorge Miyuigi, Lima, Peru, 27 June 2013. 46 The quotes in the following paragraphs come from a photo I took of the sign at the Museo Itinerante exhibit. The translations are my own. 47 The entire poster series is part of an independent art project by Mauricio Delgado that can be seen at www.undiaenlamemoria.blogspot.com (accessed 25 October 2017). This specific poster was seen during a Museo Itinerante exhibit in Lima. 48 Some of their stories are available at https://interactive.quipu-project.com/#/en/quipu/intro (accessed 16 October 2017). 49 Christina Ewig, ‘Hijacking Global Feminism: Feminists, the Catholic Church, and the Family Planning Debacle in Peru,’ Feminist Studies 32(3) (2006): 632–659. 50 Milton, supra n 3 at 2. © The Author (2017). Published by Oxford University Press. All rights reserved. For Permissions, please email journals.permissions@oup.com http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png International Journal of Transitional Justice Oxford University Press

Intersectionality and the Arts: Counterpublic Memory-Making in Postconflict Peru

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Abstract

Abstract∞ Producing memories through the creation of art has been one of many outcomes of the transnational justice period in Peru by both state and nonstate social actors. Art projects that are independent from state-led transitional justice initiatives convey a perspective about the internal conflict and the state’s legacies of marginalization that is in tension with a dominant discourse that seeks to absolve the state and urban elites of culpability. This article examines three public art projects that are conducive to applying an intersectionality feminist analysis to consider how widespread structural and systemic violence is rooted in a lengthy history of societal exclusions based on a combination of gender, race/ethnicity and socioeconomic class. A Latin American artist cannot remain indifferent to the reality of violence, hunger, misery, abuse and corruption surrounding us.1 The project of memory-making following an internal armed conflict and during the period of transitional justice reveals insights into the politics of social location and the political stakes of remembrance. Which memory is to be preserved for the national and international record? Whose perspective is mainstreamed and which ones are suppressed or dismissed by the state that was complicit in the violence? In the case of Peru, the two decades of internal conflict (1980–2000) resulted in the deaths of nearly 70,000 people and thousands disappeared. Unlike other internal conflicts in Latin American countries such as Guatemala, Argentina and Chile, the Peruvian internal conflict started with the transition to a democratically elected government after decades of military rule and also involved the culpability of nonstate actors in committing egregious human rights violations.2 Producing or documenting memories through creating art, by both state and nonstate social actors, has been one of many outcomes of the transnational justice period in Peru.3 In this article, I consider three art projects that emerged independently from state-led transitional justice initiatives, and which add an important dimension to the production of memory-making in the public sphere. These artworks seek a deep reckoning of a difficult and conflict-ridden past. By providing an alternative or expanded perspective to that of the state about the internal conflict, these art projects and, by extension, the artists themselves, serve as a type of interlocutor with distant communities, such as politically adverse constituencies and between those who experienced routine terror and those who were exempt from living with that quotidian fear. These distant communities come to represent different publics – in this instance, a dominant public that is recognized, supported or emboldened by the state, and a counterpublic which seeks to challenge its exclusion.4 Counterpublics are essential to participatory democratic politics because this sphere can be ‘understood as critical oppositional forces within the society of late capitalism.’5 In the case of Peru, the counterpublic aims to rupture a national narrative that absolves the state and the dominant public of its complicity in the violence. The transitional justice art discussed in this article is a visual representation of the counterpublic’s perspective about the internal conflict and the state’s legacies of marginalization. An intersectionality theoretical approach underscores how the combination of racism and patriarchy is co-constitutive of realities that should be viewed as interconnected.6 It is a feminist approach that mandates attention be given to the relationship between power and social location. Its political objectives are to make visible and recognize communities and their struggles that have been overlooked or even dismissed, as well as to destabilize fixed social categories of identity (from race/ethnicity to victim/oppressor). I examine how the art projects engage with an intersectionality approach that considers how widespread structural and systemic violence is rooted in a lengthy history of societal exclusions based on a combination of gender, race/ethnicity, socioeconomic class, sexuality and so forth. This combination contributes to a far more complicated reality than can be contained in a narrow narrative about the internal conflict and its causes as temporally limited to the two decades in this case. I stress my interest in the counterpublic’s perspective because this view seeks to augment or challenge the dominant public, which has largely supported a discourse in which they and the state have been released of wrongdoing. In this dominant discourse, the fault overwhelmingly lies with the extremist terrorist guerilla groups, putting the state in a position where it had to respond with power-over violence and terror. This article focuses on three artistic interventions that are visual representations of a counterpublic: a mural by the famous political artist Victor Delfin outside the office of the Asociación Pro Derechos Humanos (Association for Human Rights, or APRODEH) depicting a mosaic of past and future Peru; a memorial called El Ojo Que Llora (The Eye That Cries), representing lives lost during the internal conflict; and Museo Itinerante: Arte Por La Memoria, a travelling art museum organized by Lima-based artists that tours throughout the country. I selected these three art projects because of the role the counterpublic played in supporting their creation and because they are in publicly accessible spaces. APRODEH, which is based in a local neighbourhood, asked Delfin to paint the mural; El Ojo Que Llora relied on community volunteers in its development and is located in a large public park; and Museo Itinerante travels throughout the country and is viewed in parks, plazas and community centres. The limitation of this research is that it only discusses art projects based in Lima or from Lima-based artists; examining transitional justice art projects produced outside of Lima would enhance this research. I conducted the research in the capital city of Lima in 2013 and 2015. As part of my qualitative study, the research design included in-depth interviews with artists, online research, photos and participant observation. The centralized nature of the Peruvian state means that political power remains in Lima. Thus, outcomes of transitional justice efforts from the state stem from and are controlled by this locale. Residents of Lima, known as Limeños, are deeply divided along a political spectrum that ranges from outright contempt for the legitimate concerns raised by the human rights community about this violent period to complete indifference and apathy about the past. I first conducted in-depth interviews with human rights artists affiliated with Museo Itinerante in 2013, with follow-up interviews in 2015. I viewed the artwork associated with the Museo Itinerante in August 2015 at a conference called ENCUENTRO Cultura, Arte y Cambio Social in Lima. I also viewed the APRODEH mural and visited El Ojo Que Llora in 2013 and 2015. Scholars argue it can take up to three decades to grapple with the ramifications of an internal conflict;7 Peru is nearing the start of its third postconflict decade. Peru is an especially rich site in which to explore transitional justice matters because it has been largely successful in comparison to other Latin American countries (the conviction of ex-president Alberto Fujimori for human rights violations, the issuance of national apologies and a modest reparations programme for those harmed during the internal conflict). However, scholars such as Rebecca Root contend that the achievements have been more symbolic than material.8 But for Dr Salomon Lerner, philosophy professor and chair of the Peruvian Truth and Reconciliation Commission (Commission de la Verdad y Reconciliacion, or CVR), the symbolic is about recognizing that someone’s life, deemed insignificant since the early formation of the Peruvian state, is now viewed with value and importance to the country’s history and even its recovery.9 For Lerner, symbolism is also about morality and not just representation. ABOUT THE CVR PROCESS AND TRANSITIONAL JUSTICE The Peruvian internal conflict period can be contextualized in two key stages. The first period started when the terrorist guerrilla group Sendero Luminoso (The Shining Path) officially declared war against the state on 17 May 1980 in Chuschi by overtaking a voter registration office and burning the ballot boxes. It continued until the national counterterrorism police unit captured Abimael Guzmán, the main leader of Sendero Luminoso, without exchanging gunfire, on 12 September 1992.10 The second period began when former president Fujimori initiated a coup d’état on 5 April 1992 so that he could govern the country by executive decrees until he fled to Japan to escape prosecution for corruption and human rights violations. Valentín Paniagua, a member of the Peruvian congress at the time, became the country’s interim president in 2000. Paniagua facilitated the transition back to democratic governance. Democratic elections followed later that year and resulted in the election of Alejandro Toledo in April 2001, the first national president of indigenous ancestry in a majority indigenous country. President Toledo continued the work started by interim president Paniagua by formalizing the CVR. Initially referred to as the Truth Commission, Toledo advocated for the inclusion of the term ‘reconciliation’ to the formal title. The inclusion of reconciliation as part of the official process made it enormously challenging to assemble and grapple with different, and sometimes competing or conflicting, versions of the truth. But adding reconciliation to the CVR’s mandate and imposing a restricted timeframe of two years expedited the process and compromised the investigation at the same time. These types of investigations are deeply political, leaving nearly everyone with some level of dissatisfaction with the final outcome report, including the commissioners themselves. A 2013 poll revealed that only 34 percent of Peruvians knew about the CVR process, indicating that the vast majority have remained ambivalent or disinterested in learning about the internal conflict.11 The CVR’s final report cited the legacies of racism as a contributing factor that led to the internal conflict’s longevity and brutality. These racial legacies are about an elite dominant public that viewed indigenous peoples as unworthy of citizenship because elites considered their way of life to be ‘backward.’12 Patriarchy also played a role, especially in terms of gender-based and sexual violence, accounts that were painfully revealed during public testimonies. The CVR process and final report were critical for providing some context for the internal conflict and bringing 47 cases for prosecution, two of which were rape cases.13 In addition, a powerful photo exhibit called Yuyanapaq (Quechua word meaning ‘to remember’) accompanied the report, which is featured at Museo de la Nation.14 Although Yuyanapaq is an important transitional justice art photography project, it is a state-led initiative and falls outside the scope of this article. USING INTERSECTIONALITY TO UNDERSTAND COUNTERPUBLIC ART PROJECTS Unlike a museum, where people make a special trip to view art exhibits, the artworks discussed in this article appear in spaces where the public at large can see them, even unexpectedly, as they go about the routine of their daily lives. As these artists seek to unsettle and disrupt complacency, provoke dialogue and compellingly portray aspects of the internal conflict for public consumption, these art projects have been met with resistance by the power of the dominant public that seeks to invalidate, systematically erase, ignore, disregard, reimagine and/or rewrite the complicated narrative regarding the internal conflict. The dominant public wields a power that is political and discursive. Intersectionality facilitates an understanding about this exertion of power that is ‘structural and interpersonal.’15 Intersectionality is about ‘an analytical approach for understanding between-category relationships’ (race, class, gender, age, sexuality), where these ‘between-category relationships’ shape political institutions and social actors, and unsettle the social categories themselves.16 Since ‘identity categories of race, gender, and class are shaped by distinct (national) histories and regional contexts,’ the use of intersectionality must be contextualized.17 In the context of memory-making in postconflict Peru, intersectionality is associated with social location, revealing who has the privilege to not remember and whose voices and perspectives are rendered invisible. Intersectionality acknowledges the confluence and convergence of identities and social realities that structure sociopolitical hierarchies. It seeks to understand the role of multidirectional power to address overlooked insights when it comes to social location, privilege and the shifting nature of oppressive regimes and logics.18 Intersectionality enhances and produces knowledge about a social issue, problem or conflict based on the experiences of subordinated groups. The use of an expanded approach to determine what is missing or excluded from an understanding of, in this case, the internal armed conflict is essential for the construction of memories in the postconflict context. Indeed, the Peruvian CVR designated a separate gender programme to directly address the issue of widespread sexual violence during the internal conflict.19 To this end, when ‘subordinated groups become subjects rather than objects of discourse,’ they embody the counterpublic sphere.20 Therefore, the artworks that represent a counterpublic view ‘challenge and cast doubt’ on any mediation of memory works that ‘selectively manage history in ways that reproduce state hegemony, reinscribing national identity in the fragility after collective violence.’21 The intersectionality analysis advanced in this article aims to understand the visual representations or themes depicted in the art itself to reveal the terrain of power and social location. As Elizabeth Jelin contends, ‘identity criteria (ethnicity, race, class, gender) of broadly defined “victims” become significant in understanding memorialization processes,’ in part because ‘historically entrenched cultural domination by other groups result in a lack of autonomous capacity to act in the public sphere.’22 The process of memory-making through the creation of art projects is about curating memories, which in and of itself is incredibly fraught.23 As Erica Lehrer and Cynthia E. Milton state, We may legitimately ask how much – and what kind – of debate and contention we want, recognizing that the curation of difficult knowledge can exacerbate conflict, or keep wounds traumatically open when they might otherwise heal. Yet curating ‘reconciliation’ risks other erasures, neglects, and negations, potentially inflicting further harm by silencing those living with scars, still-open wounds, or ongoing injustice. There is a need for curatorial work that can both reveal and contain tensions, highlighting the ways that aggrieved parties live in ‘contentious coexistence’ in the aftermath of violence, while also creating spaces for more robust ‘dissensual community’ to emerge.24 The ‘curation of difficult knowledge’ through the production of art must then consider how to navigate the tensions between the dominant public and the counterpublic while also recognizing that ‘difficult knowledge’ is not singular or universal and is linked to social location. In other words, the intimate knowledge that someone has about the effects of the internal conflict is reflective of their social location within Peruvian society, and to understand the knowledge produced from this social location requires an intersectionality analysis that makes them and their experiences visible in all their complexity. Moreover, as Jelin argues, ‘silences or hidden ethnic, cultural, or gender dimensions come to light in the course of the unfolding of violent conflicts and in their aftermaths.’25 In this exercise of coming to light, an intersectionality approach seeks to acknowledge these various hidden dimensions. VICTOR DELFIN: HUMAN RIGHTS ARTIST AND THE APRODEH MURAL When I first arrived at the office of APRODEH in the district of Jesús María in July 2013, I was taken aback to see that the beautiful mural by Delfin outside their building had been defaced with slabs of black paint (Figure 1). I had gone to the office to interview Rosario ‘Charro’ Navarez and to arrange a visit to El Ojo Que Llora (APRODEH staff manage access to the memorial site). As I rang the bell to the office building located on a semi-quiet street in Lima, I could not help but feel troubled and disturbed by the ruined mural. The destruction of the mural happened in response to APRODEH’s support for bringing Fujimori to justice in criminal court for human rights violations. He had fled to Japan in November 2000 but went to Chile in 2005 in an effort to possibly run for another presidential election. From there he was extradited to Peru and then found guilty of human rights abuses. His supporters, known as Fujimoristas, were angry and are believed to have vandalized the mural as well as El Ojo Que Llora. Figure 1. View largeDownload slide Delfin’s mural outside APRODEH’s office in Lima Figure 1. View largeDownload slide Delfin’s mural outside APRODEH’s office in Lima Figure 2. View largeDownload slide El Ojo Que Llora, Lima Figure 2. View largeDownload slide El Ojo Que Llora, Lima Delfin, who is nearly 90 years old and still creating art, is originally from a small community in northwestern Peru. Raised in a poor family, he studied fine arts in Lima in the 1950s. He has earned a reputation for being committed to social justice through his work and uses a range of mediums for his artistic productions – ‘wood, metal, canvas, polychrome acrylics and aluminum.’26 One of his massive 1993 sculptures, located in the Parque del Amor (Love Park) in Miraflores, an upper-class district overlooking the Pacific Ocean, is called ‘El Beso’ (The Kiss). The sculpture shows a couple kissing in a warm and loving embrace. It is a visually stunning piece surrounded by colourful mosaic tiles, affirming love in a city that can sometimes feel heartless.27 Delfin is also well known for his embrace of birds and other animals. Christopher B. Condon, director of the Bayard Gallery in New York City, wrote that Delfin does not make sculptures about ‘subjects of animals,’ his sculptures of animals speak of him himself, of his Indian and Spanish heritage, and of his own personal mythology, the spirit of which is the archetype of what these animals represent.28 Delfin stood in strong opposition to Peruvian president Fujimori, along with numerous other artists, including those involved with Museo Itinerante. They denounced Fujimori’s self-coup in 1992 (in his effort to dismantle the Congress and govern by executive decrees) and later also his daughter Keiko Fujimori during her 2011 and 2016 presidential campaigns. Delfin has also been known to open his home in Barranco, the artist district in Lima, to human rights activist gatherings. Delfin’s mural depicts a genealogy of pain that dates back to the colonial period, but also hope, love, healing and peace. The top left-hand side of the mural shows an image of the sun and the bottom left-hand corner includes an excerpt of articles from the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR). The portraits of women in different poses (upright, lying down in cradled position) have a range of emotional expressions (sadness, pain, stoicism). A woman reading a book and a child are situated next to the UDHR image. A cross is situated prominently in the centre of the mural. The depiction of what appears to be a military officer searching the body of a similarly brown-skinned person to the right as another person looks on is a nod to the surveillance of certain racialized bodies that has become normalized in Peru. As is common in Delfin’s portfolio, prominent depictions of birds are central to this mural: a condor makes up about a quarter of the mural, and is the least damaged; a white bird symbolizing peace at the top right of the mural is untouched. Delfin’s affection for and connection to birds in particular speaks not only to ‘the animals in whose spirit Delfin lives,’ but is also an acknowledgement of the level and capacity of human cruelty.29 For instance, in one of Delfin’s earlier paintings depicting a tuberculosis outbreak in a Lima shantytown, text near the bird states, ‘I renounce humans. I request a bird’s passport.’ Viewing the images of the mural from an intersectionality perspective brings to the fore the importance of centring multiple subjectivities. In this case, Delfin portrays women outside of a predominantly ‘victim’ imaginary. The images represented in the mural in essence recognize the various depictions of power – of legacies of repression over human rights, women, children and Andean people. The message seems to be about how a colonial legacy and racist patriarchal power affected people, human rights and even birds. By depicting women so prominently in the mural, Delfin seems to signal a necessary disruption to their marginalization, and suggest that women’s energy and presence may be a way forward out of the darkness (note the large image of a woman next to the sun on the left). In addition to the mural acknowledging the relevance of human rights, a fitting recognition given the organization that commissioned it, the artwork also takes us beyond a notion of rights as inherently ‘human’ because of the inclusion or respect Delfin shows to birds. Established in 1983, APRODEH is an organization that has been advancing human rights causes since the early years of the internal conflict. The vision statement on their website, which also gets routinely hacked and shut down, reads as follows: APRODEH hopes that in Peru, human rights inspires ethics transformed by protests, cultural expressions, and inclusive public policies that express all aspects of social, cultural, and political life in a manner in which our rights are equally valid for all.30 Created in October 2001, the mural has been damaged twice. When I asked Rosario why they did not fix it again, she said that not fixing it is another way to send a defiant message that, as a human rights organization, they will not be deterred from their work. But what does the destruction of the mural mean beyond the mere fact of just ruining it? What messages are those who defaced it sending? APRODEH’s decision to not restore the mural is, on a practical level, financial, but it is also important on a political level. Given the street location of this mural, violence that would otherwise go unseen now becomes visible to the public. The targeting of the mural can be read in two ways. First, using black paint represents a blacking out and a violent systematic erasure of the narratives and images conveyed in the mural. It is a representation of the violence inflicted on Andean citizens in particular, with the streaks resembling a whipping motion. Secondly, the reaction of damaging the mural underscores the power of art in public spaces to disrupt. Such art, depending on the content and message, can awaken individuals out of complacency and make them reactionary rather than pensive. The image effectively reflects the hopes and human rights aspirations of those who have been on the margins of dominant power in Peru – women and/or Andean/indigenous peoples, for example. There is a spatial distance between those who damaged the mural and those whose bodies and histories are depicted in this work. Whoever destroyed the mural did so out of a visceral reaction to the work of APRODEH upon viewing this art. The ability to intentionally damage artwork in this way is about an exertion of power-over that stems from a privileged social location, by people who perhaps have never experienced a denial of their human rights or had their humanity questioned. They are part of a dominant public that seeks to silence the counterpublics represented in this mural through their act of defacing it. The Delfin mural outside APRODEH’s building reflects a history of Peruvian society that is painful and complicated yet aspirational in that the sun, the birds and human rights will somehow rise and be the way forward. Though the defacement of the mural is a setback and disheartening to view, the decision by APRODEH to keep it as is sends an equally powerful message. According to Delfin, ‘Nothing is more edifying than going into the streets, joining the clamor of the poor and demanding a more dignified quality of life for my fellow-citizens.’31 EL OJO QUE LLORA: A SPACE OF GRIEVANCE AND BACKLASH El Ojo Que Llora is a memorial representing tens of thousands of victims of the internal conflict, designed by the late Dutch-born artist Lika Mutal, a long-time resident (40+ years) of Lima. She told US political scientist Katherine Hite that she wished for her memorial to be understood as a humanistic effort to awaken the consciences of all Peruvians to the violence and suffering of the recent past, as well as to encourage reflection regarding the relationships between painful memories and a more just, solidaristic Peru.32 Unexpectedly passing away from a stroke at the age of 77 in 2016, Mutal set out to create a space to memorialize lives lost that could be open to all Peruvians.33 Just like the Delfin mural, this memorial has been damaged numerous times, most recently in January 2017.34 I was able to see the memorial in 2013 and returned in 2015 to assist APRODEH with the logistics for two events: one in honour of a disappeared husband and father in 2013 and one as part of a school field trip in 2015. For security reasons, a fence surrounds the memorial and a security guard staffs the only entrance to it during the day. Yet, if people are determined to destroy the memorial, they will still find a way to do so by jumping the fence. The memorial has been embroiled in controversy since the beginning, ranging from its funding, to its location, to artistic autonomy, and to what the memorial symbolizes about culpability and victimization. Who is the legitimate victim in this internal conflict? Does the killing of Senderistas merit the same recognition and mourning in this space? These questions came to the fore in November 2006 after the Inter-American Court of Human Rights found the Peruvian government at fault in a 1992 raid involving bullets, teargas and bombing of the cells in Lima’s notorious Miguel Castro Castro prison, which left 41 Senderista women dead.35 With the court declaring the Peruvian government culpable of wrongdoing, the judges stipulated, among other things, that these Senderistas should be part of El Ojo Que Llora. In this section, I apply an intersectionality analysis to this artwork to discuss the symbolism associated with the materials used for this memorial. I also discuss how intersectionality complicates the notions of ‘victim’ and ‘perpetrator’ in this case. Regarding what I refer to as ‘deserving victim status,’ the controversy surrounding the inclusion of Senderista victims in the memorial resulted in Mutal stating that the Senderistas should not be part of the memorial as they were not true victims.36 When you arrive at the memorial, your eyes go directly to the upright stone in the middle. From the main entrance, you do not notice the eye-crying feature of the stone sculpture in the middle of the water until you walk all the way around to the other side. As detailed by Hite, Mutal demonstrated layers of thoughtfulness in this design: To center her piece, Mutal sculpted a representation of the ancestral goddess Pachamama, Mother Earth. Mutal shaped Pachamama from an ancient, pre-Inca stone she had found on a trek in northern Peru years before, and in the stone she affixed another rock as an eye. A trickle of water runs continually from the rock, as an eye that cries, that mourns the violence. The stone of Pachamama conveys a maternal quality of the familiarity and ongoing duress of suffering, implicitly against a notion of a masculine inflicting of violence. The representation also projects an eternal sense of victimization, neither periodizing nor romanticizing a ‘pre-violence’ or ‘pre-conflict’ historical moment. Mutal represents the genealogy of the victims as long and deep.37 This stone centrepiece sits in the middle of a path shaped like a labyrinth. As you walk on this path, stones guide you through the memorial. Many stones are blank, some engravings have been erased over time by the sun, and other engravings are vivid. The stone engravings, done entirely by volunteers, contain the names of the dead and the disappeared. There are also several upright stones in one row of the memorial – these stones have the names of significant massacres during the internal conflict engraved on them, such as the Barrios Altos massacre (a poor district in Lima) when the Fujimori administration ordered a secret military police unit to kill residents suspected of having ties to Sendero Luminoso. Mutal’s artistic decisions reflect a centring of women’s energy in response to an exertion of hypermasculine violence. Mutal associates violence from the internal conflict with the pain inflicted on Mother Earth to such a degree that the earth weeps. In other words, this masculine violence from the internal conflict period is familiar and even felt by Pachamama, by Mother Earth, because indigenous ancestors have been victims of violence for centuries. Acknowledging the erasures of the histories of violence targeting indigenous/Andean peoples reveals the entrenched social hierarchies in Peru, based on ethnicity, class and gender. These erasures rendered indigenous peoples disproportionately vulnerable to violence during the internal conflict. Thus, this artwork facilitates an intersectionality analysis that recognizes violence as historical, systemic and intentional, and renders visibility to the disproportionate targeting of indigenous communities. It is sobering to walk the labyrinth’s path and see the thousands of names of unknown people, years of birth and death, or else just years of birth, since they are part of the disappeared. Viewers are left questioning: Who is this person? What happened to them? Why did this happen to them? And is this memorial enough? As you walk through the site, collecting unanswerable questions, you eventually make your way to the Pachamama stone. Mutal’s design is such that a deceptively modest-sized memorial takes time to walk through; its layout forces you to slow down. The path is designed so that you zigzag through to one end of the memorial and then turn to go back in the direction from which you just walked. In my view, this walking back and forth mirrors the nonlinear nature of transitional justice. Just when you think you have made it to the end of a row, you have to make your way back to the other side. After several minutes have passed, you eventually arrive at the Pachamama stone. When I first walked along the stone path, I saw that some of the rocks had been harmed with orange paint, now largely faded. Repairing the stones can be expensive, and funds are hard to acquire because they have to be privately solicited since the government will not contribute financially to the memorial. Yet seeing so many stones ruined, I wonder what someone gains, psychologically or politically, from this kind of destruction? Each rock represents a loved one to someone, and ruining the rock is just another form of violence directed at those who are among the living. During my first trip to the memorial, Rosario told me that stepping on the stones is unacceptable and that visitors must stay on the path the entire time once they have entered the memorial. It would be like ‘stepping on the dead,’ she told me, and they have suffered enough. The purpose of El Ojo Que Llora is to provide a space for contemplation, reflection and grief for disparate communities, where demarcations between victim and perpetrator are somewhat blurred. Families and community members who have loved ones as part of the sculpture arrive there seeking some comfort and validation. Others, like myself, a member of a transnational family connected to Peru, are forced to contemplate complicity and the enormity of the tragedy. Mutal’s reasoning for excluding Senderistas as legitimate victims of the violence, as ‘deserving victim status,’ despite the Inter-American Court’s controversial decision, lacks an intersectional perspective and contradicts her stated intent of a ‘solidaristic Peru.’ This view reinscribes a stifling binary of ‘victim’ and ‘perpetrator’ that does not align with the work of scholars.38 More importantly, given the controversies exposed by the Court’s decision, deciphering who embodies ‘deserving victim’ status for inclusion in the memorial becomes critical to challenge. Paulo Drinot asks, ‘under what circumstances could victimizers be victims?’ He connects the naming of victims to the interpretation of violence, specifically the perpetrators of violence, or to ‘the ontologies of violence.’39 Further, as Margarita Saona points out, this remembrance of the victims of violence, particularly when their names are displayed, get tangled in the memory battles about innocence and responsibility. Those who have studied the communities who have suffered the most in the armed conflict know that categorizing victims and perpetrators is a complex issue.40 As Hite states, ‘Victims, perpetrators, resisters, and survivors come from many sides of the conflict and can often be read as all of the above and more.’41 In the case of the categories delineated by Hite – victim, perpetrator, resister and survivor – an intersectionality analysis probes how one person can occupy one or more of these categories simultaneously. To understand why in one instance an Andean villager is an innocent victim and in another context a perpetrator, one has to consider the circumstances and social conditions in which those categories are utilized and to what benefit. After the terrorist attacks in the USA on 11 September 2001, transnational feminist scholars urged a recognition of ‘the gendered and ethnocentric history of sentimentality, grief, and melancholy that have been mobilized.’42 This same perspective can apply to transitional justice in Peru given the reaction to the creation of this particular memorial and the debates regarding who is deserving of victim status in the aftermath and who merits grief. Intersectionality challenges fixed categories and identities, in particular because, as Jelin argues, ‘identities have to be conceived as historical constructs, with blurred and changing boundaries’ because ‘no community will be homogenous.’43 Thus, neither the victims nor the perpetrators should be homogenized because reifying a deserving victim status will result in the impossible task of identifying innocence that is in tension with complex subjectivity. This tense and awkward, but necessary, convergence of people affected by state and terrorist violence and those on the margins of that violence becomes possible through this memorial. Those who stand against what the memorial represents are members of a dominant public that is unwilling or unprepared to process the internal conflict in a way that is fundamentally healing. As Saona states, A monument conceived as a symbol for peace revealed how truth and reconciliation are not achieved by decree. The names on the stones bring together the innocent ones and the ones who were agents of violence, and this, in fact, might lead its visitors to reexamine the past.44 I would also argue that in this reexamination, this kind of framing of the stones – ‘innocent ones’ and the ‘agents of violence’ – should be challenged as well because the criteria for determining the status of innocence and perpetrator belie the realities of the internal conflict itself and of intersectionality. MUSEO ITINERANTE: ARTE POR LA MEMORIA AND THE PRESERVATION OF MEMORY EVERYWHERE Museo Itinerante: Arte Por la Memoria is a travelling museum organized by several Lima-based artists committed to representing a counterpublic view of the internal conflict. The artworks are a condemnation of complicity, from those at the top of multiple presidential administrations to those who looked the other way. A group of artists felt compelled to get organized during a 2009 commemoration event of Fujimori’s self-coup. Their first project was ‘a street exhibit just with artworks that denounced the crimes of Fujimorismo.’45 To their surprise, ‘people debated right there, they fought, they commented’ upon coming across this exhibit in the city. As the artists debriefed about the experience, the strong potential of art to address human rights issues became crystallized. They concluded, ‘why don’t we formalize this project and do itinerant exhibits in different places, in public spaces, talking about human rights?’ These artists continue with this travelling museum today, ‘taking an art exhibit that deals with human rights violations or with the history of political violence in this country to different parts of the country.’ Museo Itinerante has become a point of departure for other artistic projects as well, such as community murals. This same group also conceptualized a separate project called Lugar de Memorias (‘Place of Memories’), where they mark a site with a sign to inform the public that human rights violations occurred there. Their intent is to use art for the purpose of raising awareness, provoking discussion and enacting social justice as part of their contribution to transitional justice efforts. A large sign is posted at the entrance before you walk through Museo Itinerante. This sign describes the exhibit as a travelling museography without form, without defined space, without doors or walls, a space that collects the different memories that from art – in its diverse technologies and formats – [produced] about the years of violence in Peru.46 Given its mobility, this museum can appear in diverse locations, from ‘a plaza, a park, a classroom, a cultural centre or in any place.’ The artists’ desire for this kind of flexibility is a way to ‘activate in the ordinary citizen, reflections, discussions, and opinions about a painful period of our history that has left large debts outstanding from the state and society to those who were victims.’ The artists extend an invitation to look and feel the stories and the diverse memories contained in the drawings, the artistic boards from Sarhua, graphics, installations, photographs and paintings, as these stories are testimonies that bring us closer to understanding our history and reconstruction of our own memory. It is through this invitation that the artists of Museo Itinerante hope to create an exhibit space for ‘an intercultural dialogue that brings together the memories of popular artists, urban artists, victims and activists who have made use of the symbolic resource to resist forgetting.’ Museo Itinerante is about a convergence of memories, from those affected in remote communities to those impacted by violence in Lima. These artists are striving to reach an understanding of this difficult history by maintaining a sustained critique of social exclusion that reflects an intersectionality approach. In seeking to bring communities together in an intercultural dialogue, the travelling nature of this museum is conducive to ensuring these dialogues are decentralized (i.e., do not only take place in Lima). When I toured the exhibit at a conference in Lima, I was struck by how all the different features of this travelling museum – the photos, retablos, paintings, clay projects and posters – came together in a type of beautiful and powerful montage. It felt like an intercultural dialogue through the heart, viewing work produced by a range of people using different aesthetic mediums and methods. One of the most compelling aspects of this counterpublic is its artistic heterogeneity. Drawing from different art mediums and incorporating multiple memories, the travelling museum and its affiliated artists are part of a counterpublic that understands multiple forms of artistic engagements are needed to reach the widest possible viewership. For example, while photography may resonate with one set of viewers, perhaps the narrative quilts resonate with another. In either case, the best kind of art provokes overdue discussions. By bringing together diverse artists and activists in a travelling exhibit as the basis for an intercultural dialogue, Museo Itinerante is advancing the idea that transitional justice art belongs everywhere. Another important aspect of this art project is its engagement with different memories, which acknowledges that multiple intercultural dialogues must occur as part of transitional justice. This point is especially relevant when we consider that those impacted by the violence are extremely varied – from the rural campesino farmer to the urban union activist to the leftist student. The importance of sustaining multiple conversations about the internal conflict suggests that resisting the desire to forget means having to navigate these various strands without producing a hierarchy for the dialogue. Put differently, it would be simpler to just focus on former president Fujimori’s regime or the disproportionate level of violence by Sendero Luminoso, but the artists and artwork affiliated with Museo Itinerante manage various conversations, including about Fujimori and Sendero Luminoso, simultaneously and in tension. Applying an intersectionality analysis in this case is a compelling reminder about the role of recovering and uncovering memories from a counterpublic perspective because of the new issues or insights that are to be gained through that process. Consider, for example, posters designed by artist Mauricio Delgado called ‘Un Dia Como Hoy’ (‘A Day Like Today’) that were part of Museo Itinerante when I viewed the museum.47 These powerful posters highlight events of significance that correspond to the internal conflict period. As Delgado describes it, this project is an intervention for Limeños that serves as a virtual calendar within the space of ‘non-physical memory’ as a way of recovery, and of rejecting indifference and a desire to forget the atrocities of the internal conflict. The poster in Figure 3 documents the day when 12 women from Cusco arrived in Lima to denounce the forced sterilization campaign targeting Andean women under the Fujimori regime. Figure 3. View largeDownload slide ‘A Day Like Today’ poster on display with Museo Itinerante. Image courtesy of Mauricio Delgado Figure 3. View largeDownload slide ‘A Day Like Today’ poster on display with Museo Itinerante. Image courtesy of Mauricio Delgado Importantly, Delgado engages in a significant exercise of visibility, which is a core tenet of intersectionality – the poster includes the names of the 12 women who arrived in Lima to demand justice on 6 September 2001. The sterilization campaigns under Fujimori are believed to have affected close to 300,000 women and about 21,000 men.48 They occurred during the 1990s, specifically from 1996 to 1998.49 Delgado’s work highlights this state campaign of gender-based violence which, upon first glance, might seem disconnected from the internal conflict. However, the state waged the sterilization campaign against rural and isolated Andean communities, disproportionately targeting women, as a component of their multiple and aggressive strategies during the internal conflict. Through an intersectionality analysis of power, the forcible sterilization campaign becomes another dimension to the internal conflict, rooted in social hierarchies of race, gender and class that interact with a confluence of racism and patriarchy and that overly affect poor communities. The description accompanying the poster not only engenders an image of these women as victims, but also recognizes their agency in denouncing the state and forming an association for forcibly sterilized women in search of accountability. Due to the artists’ stated intention of including diverse art creators, Museo Itinerante strives for memory portraits from a counterpublic perspective. It grapples with the multiple social actors and deep layers of state complicity that portray state violence, including the forcible sterilization campaign, as necessary during these years of political upheaval. An intersectionality approach recognizes the importance of holistic representations that engage with the messiness of the internal conflict, and sheds light on events, social actors and trauma associated with the internal conflict that might otherwise be overlooked. An intercultural dialogue between viewer and artworks and between artist and the reclamation of the right to memory is fundamental to the creation of transitional justice art. CONCLUSION As Milton argues in the case of Peru, ‘art offers a powerful means for recounting the past and for reaching a kind of understanding.’50 Intersectionality theory is illustrative for acknowledging the differential experiences with violence and trauma in the journey to reaching this understanding. Delfin’s mural on APRODEH’s building depicts the determining power of social location when it comes to reckoning with gender-based colonial violence, respect for human rights and the legacy effects of authoritarian rule dating back to the colonial period. The mural’s destruction with streaks of black paint indicates that the road to healing and peace remains distant. The controversies surrounding the inclusion of Senderista victims – who did not meet some arbitrary criteria of ‘deserving victim’ status in the court of the dominant public’s opinion – in El Ojo Que Llora reify a narrow construction of victim that elides complex subjectivity. Lastly, the Museo Itinerante travelling exhibit’s inclusion of multiple memories results in diverse representations and the inclusion of various counterpublics impacted by violence. These different types of art projects afford viewers the perspectives of people from across a spectrum of social locations. In the postconflict context of Peru, art depicting some aspect of the internal conflict is meant to offer a critique or layered commentary on what happened, as well as provide a moment of pause about the breadth, depth and extent of the violence. These dissident artistic engagements occur within a context in which powerful and elite forces from the dominant public converge to stymie holistic transitional justice representations by the counterpublic. This article explored three art projects that are the visual representation of the counterpublic. The artworks, and by extension the artists, become interlocutors that can be viewed as a bridge between counterpublics and dominant publics. However, the defacing of two of the artworks – the APRODEH mural and El Ojo Que Llora – is a reminder that art is provocative. The very reasons why the artworks are attacked remind us of their importance. Efforts to memorialize the internal conflict through art, or to delegitimize those artistic endeavours through acts of violence, are about the stakes involved in representing the internal conflict period beyond a state-dominated narrative. By focusing on art that is accessible to the public at large and that represents a counterpublic point of view, this article used intersectionality as an approach to examine the artworks. These art projects, and ones that still have to be envisioned, could become part of a democratic project of inclusivity in which intersectionality is used as a core lens through which to continue producing and analyzing wide-ranging representations of the internal conflict that aim for increased visibility and accountability. Footnotes 1 Victor Delfin, Delfin: Paintings and Sculptures (Lima: IMADIS Comunicadores, 2000), 227. 2 Comisión de la verdad y reconciliación, ‘Informe Final,’ 2003, http://www.cverdad.org.pe/ifinal/index.php (accessed 16 October 2017). 3 Cynthia Milton, ed., Art from a Fractured Past: Memory and Truth-Telling in Post-Shining Path Peru (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014); Víctor Vich, Poéticas Del Duelo: Ensayos sobre arte, memoria y violencia política en el Perú (Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 2015). 4 Nancy Fraser, ‘Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy,’ Social Text 25(26) (1990): 56–80. 5 Rita Felski, Beyond Feminist Aesthetics: Feminist Literature and Social Change (Boston, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989), 166. 6 Ange-Marie Hancock, Intersectionality: An Intellectual History (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016); Sumi Cho, Kimberlé Williams Crenshaw and Leslie McCall, ‘Toward a Field of Intersectionality Studies: Theory, Applications, and Praxis,’ Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 38(4) (2013): 785–810; Hae Yeon Choo and Myra Marx Ferree, ‘Practicing Intersectionality in Sociological Research: A Critical Analysis of Inclusions, Interactions, and Institutions in the Study of Inequalities,’ Sociological Theory 28(2) (2010): 129–149. 7 Kirsten Weld, Paper Cadavers: The Archives of Dictatorship in Guatemala (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014). 8 Rebecca Root, Transitional Justice in Peru (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012). 9 Personal interview, Dr Salomon Lerner, Lima, Peru, 12 August 2015. 10 Miguel La Serna, The Corner of the Living: Ayacucho on the Eve of the Shining Path Insurgency (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2012). 11 La República, ‘Solo 34% de peruanos conoce la comisión que investigó violencia terrorista,’ 18 November 2013, http://larepublica.pe/18-11-2013/solo-34-de-peruanos-conoce-la-comision-que-investigo-violencia-terrorista (accessed 16 October 2017). 12 See, Paulo Drinot, The Allure of Labor: Workers, Race, and the Making of the Peruvian State (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011). 13 Pascha Bueno-Hansen, Feminist and Human Rights Struggles in Peru: Decolonizing Transitional Justice (Chicago, IL: University of Illinois Press, 2015). 14 Erica Lehrer and Cynthia E. Milton, ‘Introduction: Witnesses to Witnessing,’ in Curating Difficult Knowledge: Violent Pasts in Public Places, ed. E. Lehrer, C. Milton and M. Patterson (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011). This photo exhibit was supposed to move into a new museum called Lugar de la Memoria, but plans no longer appear to support this transfer. 15 Ange-Marie Hancock, ‘When Multiplication Doesn’t Equal Quick Addition: Examining Intersectionality as a Research Paradigm,’ Perspectives on Politics 5(1) (2007): 74. 16 Ibid., 67. 17 Sylvanna M. Falcón, ‘Transnational Feminism and Contextualized Intersectionality at the 2001 World Conference against Racism,’ Journal of Women’s History 24(4) (2012): 101. 18 Sylvanna M. Falcón, Power Interrupted: Antiracist and Feminist Activism inside the United Nations (Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 2016). 19 Julissa Mantilla Falcón, ‘Gender and Human Rights: Lessons from the Peruvian Truth and Reconciliation Commission,’ in Feminist Agendas and Democracy in Latin America, ed. Jane S. Jaquette (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009). 20 Marcia Stephenson, ‘Forging an Indigenous Counterpublic Sphere: The Taller de Historia Oral Andina in Bolivia,’ Latin American Research Review 37(2) (2002): 101. 21 Macarena Gómez-Barris, Where Memory Dwells: Culture and State Violence in Chile (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2009), 5 (emphasis in original). 22 Elizabeth Jelin, ‘Silences, Visibility and Agency: Ethnicity, Class and Gender in Public Memorialization,’ International Center for Transitional Justice research brief, June 2009, https://www.ictj.org/sites/default/files/ICTJ-Identities-Memory-ResearchBrief-2009-English.pdf (accessed 16 October 2017). See also, Elizabeth Jelin, ‘Silences, Visibility, and Agency: Ethnicity, Class, and Gender in Public Memorialization,’ in Identities in Transition: Challenges for Transitional Justice in Divided Societies, ed. Paige Arthur (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011). 23 See, Cynthia Milton, ‘Curating Memories of Armed State Actors in Peru’s Era of Transitional Justice,’ Memory Studies 8(3) (2015): 361–378. 24 Lehrer and Milton, supra n 14 at 6–7. 25 Jelin, in Identities in Transition, supra n 22 at 188. 26 Goshen College, ‘Inside the Artist’s Studio: A Visit with Victor Delfin,’ 25 March 2014, https://www.goshen.edu/peru/2014/03/25/inside-the-artists-studio-a-visit-with-victor-delfin/ (accessed 16 October 2017). 27 See, ibid., for more images of Delfin’s work. 28 Delfin, supra n 1 at 19. 29 Ibid. 30 APRODEH, ‘Misión,’ http://www.aprodeh.org.pe/nosotros/ (accessed 16 October 2017) (author’s translation). 31 Delfin, supra n 1 at 227. 32 Katherine Hite, ‘“The Eye that Cries”: The Politics of Representing Victims in Contemporary Peru,’ A Contracorriente 5(1) (2007): 120–121. 33 Enrique Planas, ‘Lika Mutal murió: lee nuestra entrevista inédita con la artista,’ El Comercio, 8 November 2016, http://elcomercio.pe/luces/arte/lika-mutal-murio-lee-nuestra-entrevista-inedita-artista-noticia-1944982 (accessed 16 October 2017). 34 La República, ‘El ojo que llora: Monumento fue atacado nuevamente y familiares exigen mayor seguridad,’ 3 March 2017, http://larepublica.pe/politica/853467-el-ojo-que-llora-monumento-fue-atacado-nuevamente-y-familiares-exigen-mayor-seguridad (accessed 16 October 2017). 35 Hite, supra n 32. See also, Cynthia Milton, ‘Defacing Memory: (Un)tying Peru’s Memory Knots,’ in Curating Difficult Knowledge: Violent Pasts in Public Places, ed. E. Lehrer, C. Milton and M. Patterson (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011). 36 Paulo Drinot, ‘For Whom the Eye Cries: Memory, Monumentality, and the Ontologies of Violence in Peru,’ Journal of Latin American Cultural Studies 18(1) (2009): 15–32. 37 Hite, supra n 32 at 121–122. 38 Kimberly Theidon, Intimate Enemies: Violence and Reconciliation in Peru (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012). 39 Drinot, supra n 36 at 23. See also, Margarita Saona, Memory Matters in Transitional Peru (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014). 40 Saona, supra n 39 at 88. 41 Hite, supra n 32 at 128. See also, Theidon, supra n 38. 42 Paola Bacchetta, Tina Campt, Inderpal Grewal, Caren Kaplan, Minoo Moallem and Jennifer Terry, ‘Transnational Feminist Practices against War,’ Meridians: Feminism, Race, Transnationalism 2(2) (2002): 305. 43 Jelin, in Identities in Transition, supra n 22 at 210. 44 Saona, supra n 39 at 89. 45 The quotes in this paragraph come from a personal interview with Jorge Miyuigi, Lima, Peru, 27 June 2013. 46 The quotes in the following paragraphs come from a photo I took of the sign at the Museo Itinerante exhibit. The translations are my own. 47 The entire poster series is part of an independent art project by Mauricio Delgado that can be seen at www.undiaenlamemoria.blogspot.com (accessed 25 October 2017). This specific poster was seen during a Museo Itinerante exhibit in Lima. 48 Some of their stories are available at https://interactive.quipu-project.com/#/en/quipu/intro (accessed 16 October 2017). 49 Christina Ewig, ‘Hijacking Global Feminism: Feminists, the Catholic Church, and the Family Planning Debacle in Peru,’ Feminist Studies 32(3) (2006): 632–659. 50 Milton, supra n 3 at 2. © The Author (2017). Published by Oxford University Press. All rights reserved. For Permissions, please email journals.permissions@oup.com

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International Journal of Transitional JusticeOxford University Press

Published: Mar 1, 2018

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