By Thelma Vanahí
Today, one of the most widespread forms of conquest fits in the palm of almost anyone’s hand: the cell phone camera. That’s the context from which I’ll organize my ideas. Tourism, and a certain kind of humanitarian reason, operate within the grammar of kindness. They arrive without declaring war and, nonetheless, they extract. They extract images, emotions, and narratives—a brief dose of “reality” for the visitor’s private use, as if another person’s life could be consumed without consequence. In conversation with critical readings on scopic regimes and the moral economy of empathy, this gesture can be interpreted as a form of affective extractivism, transforming—in what’s presented as an act of care—bodies, landscapes, and pain into tangible matter. The problem is not feeling itself, but the fact that feeling functions as a kind of permission; feeling “for” the Caribbean, remaining “with” the Caribbean, without understanding it as a political history in progress.
I find myself in a tourist area of the Dominican Republic: Boca Chica. There, you can feel the saline humidity in the breeze, a layer that clings to you like a second skin. The Caribbean doesn’t enter you at first through an idea; it enters through the body, in sweat and salt, beneath an insistent light. At midday, the sun blazes directly overhead, and a tourist with reddened skin—a product of the Western imaginary—walks toward the shore like someone chasing a promise she learned before she even arrived. She sees a group of local children playing and seems to sense something in them that her world no longer offers her—a glimpse of an unfiltered life she views as intact, as if history hasn’t touched its shore. What she perceives is not only lack or precariousness, but intensity—that vibration of forces that makes the everyday scene seductive, in the vein of what Kathleen Stewart describes as ordinary affects.1 The tourist takes up her phone and captures the moment, confirming the hierarchy. The silhouette of her body casts a shadow on the children’s faces, darkening them, as if the framing revealed the truth her gesture intended to deny.
The photograph was intended as a tribute, but ended up as a confession. The outsider’s presence occupies space and dictates the meaning of a moment. Play becomes evidence; life becomes a narrative device. The selfie doesn’t depict the children but a moralist script in the first person: I was there, I saw, I felt. There, tenderness becomes a method of possession. The desire to feel reality is too similar to the desire to possess that which is real, to keep it, to display it, to appropriate it as part of one’s identity.
To understand this line of thought, we must view intimacy as a technology of power. I recall the way Ann Laura Stoler renders intimacy as a laboratory of the empire, the place where desires, contact, and racial hierarchies are overseen.2 From this framework, a tourist’s benevolence (offering sweets, asking for smiles, touching, hugging) is not pure and innocent. It perpetuates policies rooted in colonial sentiment, in which caring for and dominating are parallel gestures. The other’s body lends itself to the traveler’s emotional education, and this availability is tendered as kindness. Furthermore, this availability relies on a silent framework: whiteness as the norm. As posited by Karen Brodkin, whiteness can be understood as an unmarked category, a universality perceived as neutral.3 The tourist looks and names because a racial order authorizes her to come and go without being bound by history; her passport and her skin function as permission. Even when she appears in the photograph, her symbolic place remains outside of it; she observes without being observed. She classifies without being subjected to classification.
In the Caribbean, the architecture upholding this permission is part of everyday life. Who can enter a hotel lobby without being questioned? Who can be on the beach without a wristband? Who can take a photo without being confronted? Who can be somewhere without being removed? The border is maintained by private security, by roads that run between the resort and the airport without going through the city, by parallel routes for workers and direct routes for vacationers. Paradise must be choreographed: protected mobility for some, controlled exposure for others. This division exerts a certain sense of morality upon life. Didier Fassin’s notion of biolegitimacy can help us think about how one’s life becomes politically valuable when one appears to be suffering.4 Pity overrides justice, and the victim receives help yet is not recognized as a citizen. In the vignette, the Caribbean children become significant when evoking compassion or curiosity, not when demanding rights or causing discomfort, not when disrupting the established order. Local life is acceptable if it fits within a framework that moves the onlooker, not when it questions the framework.
This system becomes more effective yet through staged solidarity. An “ironic spectator” emerges, one who approaches the suffering of others by centralizing their own moral image in it. They don’t observe from a place of neutrality but from a place of protagonism. Here, I look to Lilie Chouliaraki’s idea of the contemporary forms of mediated solidarity, in which compassion operates as moral self-production.5 The question ceases to be “What is transforming in the world?” and becomes “Who am I when I am moved?” and “What kind of person do I appear to be to others and to myself?” The selfie functions as virtue signaling, and the Caribbean is reduced to a mirror in which the visitor is deemed good without altering the order that produced the scene which moved them.
For that confirmation to be possible, paradise can’t rely on chance; it must happen by design. The Caribbean postcard must erase its contradictions, presenting pristine beaches while hiding poverty behind the scenes, outside of the tourist’s framing. Reading Mimi Sheller, one can explore how the Caribbean is being rescaled through enclaves supported by global capital and separated from local life: private docks, cruise ships, resorts, free trade zones, and securitization.6 In this rescaling, the tourist’s gaze shapes the landscape into an object of visual consumption. Authenticity can be purchased as an antidote to alienation, yet that authenticity is manufactured as a commodity and cordoned off from history so that leisure does not have to be held accountable.
Here Frantz Fanon reminds us of the importance of discomfort. He describes the colonial world as a compartmentalized one, divided into adjoining zones that never mix: the illuminated and satiated zone versus the zone of nonbeing.7 The resort reframes that division in the language of hospitality: all-inclusive also means all-curated. The tourist who searches for authenticity doesn’t break out of that compartmentalization; they consume “reality” for a few hours, validated by the very structure that produces it. Alejandro J. de Oto demonstrates how the politics of the postcolonial subject also play out in what cannot be captured by the dominant gaze, in how this subject refuses to become a passive object.8 In that system, even light becomes a commodity. Krista A. Thompson proposes a visual economy of light, the shine that illuminates bodies and surfaces for global consumption within the aesthetic of tropical availability.9 This shine promises access, but it also dazzles. It turns the Caribbean into a reflective surface while obscuring its historical depth. This carefully managed light doesn’t reveal anything; it imposes order on appearances, so that structural issues don’t stop the party, and conflict doesn’t disrupt sales.
This machinery weighs particularly heavily on Caribbean women, reducing them to images for consumption, victims demanding ransom, or fantasies guaranteeing pleasure. In conversation with the classic frameworks of political economy and gender compiled by Helen Icken Safa, the West tends to homogenize women of the so-called Third World, erasing their labor strategies and situated resistances.10 And Omise’eke Natasha Tinsley exposes the eroticisms and bonds between women in the Caribbean that transcend the logic of the plantation and of tourism, lives that do not exist to be interpreted as a moral lesson or as a spectacle.11
These tourist and gender dynamics have also been explored in film. Laurent Cantet’s Vers le Sud [Heading South] (2005) follows a group of white European women who travel to Haiti in search of male companionship. The Caribbean becomes the setting for their fantasies, and inequality becomes an intimate language.12 In another vein, Dólares de arena [Sand Dollars] (2014) by Laura Amelia Guzmán and Israel Cárdenas portrays the relationship between a wealthy French woman and a young Dominican woman in a coastal town. The film reveals a mixture of affection and transaction—how the traces of the economic and colonial power that shape the tropical paradise as a consumable product exist even in a seemingly intimate relationship.13
Cloaking the appropriation of local bodies in the liberal feminist discourse exacerbates the problem, because this act is presented as a virtue. According to María Lugones, arrogant perception refers to a gaze that believes it understands the other without being affected by their complexity.14 Transparency becomes a mandate: The other must explain, confess, make themselves legible, become proof. But that legibility often operates as extractivsm—turning experiences into consumables, pain into arguments, and precarity into mobilizable material, leaving the architecture that produces that precarity intact. Ochy Curiel reminds us that one cannot think of a woman in Boca Chica solely in terms of gender; it’s also necessary to understand how race, class, migration, geopolitics, the state, and the global care economy shape her reality.15 There’s a global order that dictates who will serve a cocktail and who will drink it, and that scene can’t be dismantled with compassion. True solidarity means challenging the structure, not simply accumulating polite gestures.
Amid this clash of perspectives, the Caribbean resists in ways that are not always legible to outsiders. Édouard Glissant proposes the right to opacity, which can be understood as an ethical refusal to be understood, translated, and explained for the sake of Western peace of mind.16 Opacity exudes meaning with an intensity that overwhelms the simplistic gaze and protects the interiority of the local subject. Michel-Rolph Trouillot makes it clear that power is also exercised through silence, by deciding what is included or left out of the narrative.17 There are imposed silences, but opacity can act as a boundary. Respecting these silences means acknowledging that not every trauma or cultural practice is available for tourist catharsis or photo albums.
Thus, the question shifts: It’s not about how to represent the Caribbean well, but how to avoid further engendering the act of capture inherent to the tourist gaze. Speaking nearby instead of speaking about, as Trinh T. Minh-ha proposes, is about approaching without seeking ownership, narrating without turning people and territory into objects that can be explained.18 Speaking nearby implies recognizing that there is always a distance between the observer and the observed, and that this distance cannot be bridged by narrative skill or good intentions. This ethic renounces the fantasy of meaning-making and prefers careful closeness over description that limits meaning. As such, representation ceases to be an act of conquest and becomes an act of responsibility.
Taking an explicit position and situating oneself nearby the Caribbean implies recognizing the limits of one’s own perspective so as not to turn it into narrative raw material. According to Donna J. Haraway, situated knowledge and the invitation to stay with the trouble force us to renounce the fantasy of ethical purity and to acknowledge how relationships are marked by asymmetries.19 The challenge is not to resolve the tension through a moral gesture, but to remain lucid within it, identifying what gets reproduced when we perform and what gets reframed when we question. The only ethically plausible way out is to inhabit the discomfort of our own shadows, accepting them as the imprints of power we project when we observe. We must do this without attempting to transform those shadows into the contours of performative guilt, instead diminishing our interpretive narcissism and restoring the political weight of the encounter. Within this framework, the Caribbean functions not as a stage for the observer’s healing, but as a living world that breathes, resists, and, if listened to attentively, also returns the gaze.
1. Kathleen Stewart, Ordinary Affects (Duke University Press, 2007).
2. Ann Laura Stoler, Carnal Knowledge and Imperial Power: Race and the Intimate in Colonial Rule (University of California Press, 2002).
3. Karen Brodkin, How Jews Became White Folks and What That Says About Race in America (Rutgers University Press, 1998).
4. Didier Fassin, “Another Politics of Life Is Possible,” Theory, Culture & Society 26, no. 5 (2009).
5. Lilie Chouliaraki, The Ironic Spectator: Solidarity in the Age of Post-Humanitarianism (Polity, 2013).
6. Mimi Sheller, Consuming the Caribbean: From Arawaks to Zombies (Routledge, 2003); Mimi Sheller, “The New Caribbean Complexity: Mobility Systems, Tourism and the Re-Scaling of Development,” The Singapore Journal of Tropical Geography 30, no. 2 (2009).
7. Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. Richard Philcox (Grove Press, 2004).
8. Alejandro J. de Oto, Frantz Fanon: The Politics and Poetics of the Postcolonial Subject, trans. Karina Alma (Bloomsbury, 2022).
9. Krista A. Thompson, Shine: The Visual Economy of Light in African Diasporic Aesthetic Practice (Duke University Press, 2015).
10. June Nash and Helen Icken Safa, Sex and Class in Latin America: Women’s Perspectives on Politics, Economics, and the Family in the Third World (Praeger, 1976).
11. Omise’eke Natasha Tinsley, Thiefing Sugar: Eroticism Between Women in Caribbean Literature (Duke University Press, 2010).
12. Vers le Sud [Heading South], directed by Laurent Cantet (2005).
13. Sand Dollars, directed by Laura Amelia Guzmán and Israel Cárdenas (2014).
14. María Lugones, “Playfulness, ‘World’-Travelling, and Loving Perception,” Hypatia 2, no. 2 (1987).
15. Ochy Curiel, “Descolonizando el feminismo: una perspectiva desde América Latina y el Caribe,” paper presented at Primer Coloquio Latinoamericano sobre Praxis y Pensamiento Feminista, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2009, https://repositorio.unal.edu.co/handle/unal/75231.
16. Édouard Glissant, Poetics of Relation (University of Michigan Press, 1997).
17. Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (Beacon Press, 1995).
18. Nancy N. Chen, “Speaking Nearby: A Conversation with Trinh T. Minh-ha,” Visual Anthropology Review 8, no. 1 (1992).
19. Donna J. Haraway, Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene (Duke University Press, 2016).
Photo by Danna Martínez
Today, one of the most widespread forms of conquest fits in the palm of almost anyone’s hand: the cell phone camera. That’s the context from which I’ll organize my ideas. Tourism, and a certain kind of humanitarian reason, operate within the grammar of kindness. They arrive without declaring war and, nonetheless, they extract. They extract images, emotions, and narratives—a brief dose of “reality” for the visitor’s private use, as if another person’s life could be consumed without consequence. In conversation with critical readings on scopic regimes and the moral economy of empathy, this gesture can be interpreted as a form of affective extractivism, transforming—in what’s presented as an act of care—bodies, landscapes, and pain into tangible matter. The problem is not feeling itself, but the fact that feeling functions as a kind of permission; feeling “for” the Caribbean, remaining “with” the Caribbean, without understanding it as a political history in progress.
I find myself in a tourist area of the Dominican Republic: Boca Chica. There, you can feel the saline humidity in the breeze, a layer that clings to you like a second skin. The Caribbean doesn’t enter you at first through an idea; it enters through the body, in sweat and salt, beneath an insistent light. At midday, the sun blazes directly overhead, and a tourist with reddened skin—a product of the Western imaginary—walks toward the shore like someone chasing a promise she learned before she even arrived. She sees a group of local children playing and seems to sense something in them that her world no longer offers her—a glimpse of an unfiltered life she views as intact, as if history hasn’t touched its shore. What she perceives is not only lack or precariousness, but intensity—that vibration of forces that makes the everyday scene seductive, in the vein of what Kathleen Stewart describes as ordinary affects.1 The tourist takes up her phone and captures the moment, confirming the hierarchy. The silhouette of her body casts a shadow on the children’s faces, darkening them, as if the framing revealed the truth her gesture intended to deny.
The photograph was intended as a tribute, but ended up as a confession. The outsider’s presence occupies space and dictates the meaning of a moment. Play becomes evidence; life becomes a narrative device. The selfie doesn’t depict the children but a moralist script in the first person: I was there, I saw, I felt. There, tenderness becomes a method of possession. The desire to feel reality is too similar to the desire to possess that which is real, to keep it, to display it, to appropriate it as part of one’s identity.
To understand this line of thought, we must view intimacy as a technology of power. I recall the way Ann Laura Stoler renders intimacy as a laboratory of the empire, the place where desires, contact, and racial hierarchies are overseen.2 From this framework, a tourist’s benevolence (offering sweets, asking for smiles, touching, hugging) is not pure and innocent. It perpetuates policies rooted in colonial sentiment, in which caring for and dominating are parallel gestures. The other’s body lends itself to the traveler’s emotional education, and this availability is tendered as kindness. Furthermore, this availability relies on a silent framework: whiteness as the norm. As posited by Karen Brodkin, whiteness can be understood as an unmarked category, a universality perceived as neutral.3 The tourist looks and names because a racial order authorizes her to come and go without being bound by history; her passport and her skin function as permission. Even when she appears in the photograph, her symbolic place remains outside of it; she observes without being observed. She classifies without being subjected to classification.
In the Caribbean, the architecture upholding this permission is part of everyday life. Who can enter a hotel lobby without being questioned? Who can be on the beach without a wristband? Who can take a photo without being confronted? Who can be somewhere without being removed? The border is maintained by private security, by roads that run between the resort and the airport without going through the city, by parallel routes for workers and direct routes for vacationers. Paradise must be choreographed: protected mobility for some, controlled exposure for others. This division exerts a certain sense of morality upon life. Didier Fassin’s notion of biolegitimacy can help us think about how one’s life becomes politically valuable when one appears to be suffering.4 Pity overrides justice, and the victim receives help yet is not recognized as a citizen. In the vignette, the Caribbean children become significant when evoking compassion or curiosity, not when demanding rights or causing discomfort, not when disrupting the established order. Local life is acceptable if it fits within a framework that moves the onlooker, not when it questions the framework.
This system becomes more effective yet through staged solidarity. An “ironic spectator” emerges, one who approaches the suffering of others by centralizing their own moral image in it. They don’t observe from a place of neutrality but from a place of protagonism. Here, I look to Lilie Chouliaraki’s idea of the contemporary forms of mediated solidarity, in which compassion operates as moral self-production.5 The question ceases to be “What is transforming in the world?” and becomes “Who am I when I am moved?” and “What kind of person do I appear to be to others and to myself?” The selfie functions as virtue signaling, and the Caribbean is reduced to a mirror in which the visitor is deemed good without altering the order that produced the scene which moved them.
For that confirmation to be possible, paradise can’t rely on chance; it must happen by design. The Caribbean postcard must erase its contradictions, presenting pristine beaches while hiding poverty behind the scenes, outside of the tourist’s framing. Reading Mimi Sheller, one can explore how the Caribbean is being rescaled through enclaves supported by global capital and separated from local life: private docks, cruise ships, resorts, free trade zones, and securitization.6 In this rescaling, the tourist’s gaze shapes the landscape into an object of visual consumption. Authenticity can be purchased as an antidote to alienation, yet that authenticity is manufactured as a commodity and cordoned off from history so that leisure does not have to be held accountable.
Here Frantz Fanon reminds us of the importance of discomfort. He describes the colonial world as a compartmentalized one, divided into adjoining zones that never mix: the illuminated and satiated zone versus the zone of nonbeing.7 The resort reframes that division in the language of hospitality: all-inclusive also means all-curated. The tourist who searches for authenticity doesn’t break out of that compartmentalization; they consume “reality” for a few hours, validated by the very structure that produces it. Alejandro J. de Oto demonstrates how the politics of the postcolonial subject also play out in what cannot be captured by the dominant gaze, in how this subject refuses to become a passive object.8 In that system, even light becomes a commodity. Krista A. Thompson proposes a visual economy of light, the shine that illuminates bodies and surfaces for global consumption within the aesthetic of tropical availability.9 This shine promises access, but it also dazzles. It turns the Caribbean into a reflective surface while obscuring its historical depth. This carefully managed light doesn’t reveal anything; it imposes order on appearances, so that structural issues don’t stop the party, and conflict doesn’t disrupt sales.
This machinery weighs particularly heavily on Caribbean women, reducing them to images for consumption, victims demanding ransom, or fantasies guaranteeing pleasure. In conversation with the classic frameworks of political economy and gender compiled by Helen Icken Safa, the West tends to homogenize women of the so-called Third World, erasing their labor strategies and situated resistances.10 And Omise’eke Natasha Tinsley exposes the eroticisms and bonds between women in the Caribbean that transcend the logic of the plantation and of tourism, lives that do not exist to be interpreted as a moral lesson or as a spectacle.11
These tourist and gender dynamics have also been explored in film. Laurent Cantet’s Vers le Sud [Heading South] (2005) follows a group of white European women who travel to Haiti in search of male companionship. The Caribbean becomes the setting for their fantasies, and inequality becomes an intimate language.12 In another vein, Dólares de arena [Sand Dollars] (2014) by Laura Amelia Guzmán and Israel Cárdenas portrays the relationship between a wealthy French woman and a young Dominican woman in a coastal town. The film reveals a mixture of affection and transaction—how the traces of the economic and colonial power that shape the tropical paradise as a consumable product exist even in a seemingly intimate relationship.13
Cloaking the appropriation of local bodies in the liberal feminist discourse exacerbates the problem, because this act is presented as a virtue. According to María Lugones, arrogant perception refers to a gaze that believes it understands the other without being affected by their complexity.14 Transparency becomes a mandate: The other must explain, confess, make themselves legible, become proof. But that legibility often operates as extractivsm—turning experiences into consumables, pain into arguments, and precarity into mobilizable material, leaving the architecture that produces that precarity intact. Ochy Curiel reminds us that one cannot think of a woman in Boca Chica solely in terms of gender; it’s also necessary to understand how race, class, migration, geopolitics, the state, and the global care economy shape her reality.15 There’s a global order that dictates who will serve a cocktail and who will drink it, and that scene can’t be dismantled with compassion. True solidarity means challenging the structure, not simply accumulating polite gestures.
Amid this clash of perspectives, the Caribbean resists in ways that are not always legible to outsiders. Édouard Glissant proposes the right to opacity, which can be understood as an ethical refusal to be understood, translated, and explained for the sake of Western peace of mind.16 Opacity exudes meaning with an intensity that overwhelms the simplistic gaze and protects the interiority of the local subject. Michel-Rolph Trouillot makes it clear that power is also exercised through silence, by deciding what is included or left out of the narrative.17 There are imposed silences, but opacity can act as a boundary. Respecting these silences means acknowledging that not every trauma or cultural practice is available for tourist catharsis or photo albums.
Thus, the question shifts: It’s not about how to represent the Caribbean well, but how to avoid further engendering the act of capture inherent to the tourist gaze. Speaking nearby instead of speaking about, as Trinh T. Minh-ha proposes, is about approaching without seeking ownership, narrating without turning people and territory into objects that can be explained.18 Speaking nearby implies recognizing that there is always a distance between the observer and the observed, and that this distance cannot be bridged by narrative skill or good intentions. This ethic renounces the fantasy of meaning-making and prefers careful closeness over description that limits meaning. As such, representation ceases to be an act of conquest and becomes an act of responsibility.
Taking an explicit position and situating oneself nearby the Caribbean implies recognizing the limits of one’s own perspective so as not to turn it into narrative raw material. According to Donna J. Haraway, situated knowledge and the invitation to stay with the trouble force us to renounce the fantasy of ethical purity and to acknowledge how relationships are marked by asymmetries.19 The challenge is not to resolve the tension through a moral gesture, but to remain lucid within it, identifying what gets reproduced when we perform and what gets reframed when we question. The only ethically plausible way out is to inhabit the discomfort of our own shadows, accepting them as the imprints of power we project when we observe. We must do this without attempting to transform those shadows into the contours of performative guilt, instead diminishing our interpretive narcissism and restoring the political weight of the encounter. Within this framework, the Caribbean functions not as a stage for the observer’s healing, but as a living world that breathes, resists, and, if listened to attentively, also returns the gaze.
1. Kathleen Stewart, Ordinary Affects (Duke University Press, 2007).
2. Ann Laura Stoler, Carnal Knowledge and Imperial Power: Race and the Intimate in Colonial Rule (University of California Press, 2002).
3. Karen Brodkin, How Jews Became White Folks and What That Says About Race in America (Rutgers University Press, 1998).
4. Didier Fassin, “Another Politics of Life Is Possible,” Theory, Culture & Society 26, no. 5 (2009).
5. Lilie Chouliaraki, The Ironic Spectator: Solidarity in the Age of Post-Humanitarianism (Polity, 2013).
6. Mimi Sheller, Consuming the Caribbean: From Arawaks to Zombies (Routledge, 2003); Mimi Sheller, “The New Caribbean Complexity: Mobility Systems, Tourism and the Re-Scaling of Development,” The Singapore Journal of Tropical Geography 30, no. 2 (2009).
7. Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. Richard Philcox (Grove Press, 2004).
8. Alejandro J. de Oto, Frantz Fanon: The Politics and Poetics of the Postcolonial Subject, trans. Karina Alma (Bloomsbury, 2022).
9. Krista A. Thompson, Shine: The Visual Economy of Light in African Diasporic Aesthetic Practice (Duke University Press, 2015).
10. June Nash and Helen Icken Safa, Sex and Class in Latin America: Women’s Perspectives on Politics, Economics, and the Family in the Third World (Praeger, 1976).
11. Omise’eke Natasha Tinsley, Thiefing Sugar: Eroticism Between Women in Caribbean Literature (Duke University Press, 2010).
12. Vers le Sud [Heading South], directed by Laurent Cantet (2005).
13. Sand Dollars, directed by Laura Amelia Guzmán and Israel Cárdenas (2014).
14. María Lugones, “Playfulness, ‘World’-Travelling, and Loving Perception,” Hypatia 2, no. 2 (1987).
15. Ochy Curiel, “Descolonizando el feminismo: una perspectiva desde América Latina y el Caribe,” paper presented at Primer Coloquio Latinoamericano sobre Praxis y Pensamiento Feminista, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2009, https://repositorio.unal.edu.co/handle/unal/75231.
16. Édouard Glissant, Poetics of Relation (University of Michigan Press, 1997).
17. Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (Beacon Press, 1995).
18. Nancy N. Chen, “Speaking Nearby: A Conversation with Trinh T. Minh-ha,” Visual Anthropology Review 8, no. 1 (1992).
19. Donna J. Haraway, Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene (Duke University Press, 2016).
