The Grey Area – Nuances of sex, Consent and Power

Linda Martín Alcoff, 2018. Rape and Resistance: Understanding the Complexities of Sexual Violation. Cambridge, Polity Press. Available Online: https://www.wiley.com/en-us/Rape+and+Resistance-p-9780745691916

In 1977, Foucault made the controversial proposition that there is no meaningful difference between rape and a punch in the face, and that sexual violence is ‘nothing more than an act of aggression’ (Foucault 1988, 200). This claim is grounded in his critique of the discourses and practices that work to scrutinise and regulate human sexuality, affording sexual relations a privileged social position. As a result, there is a dominant tendency to regard sexual violence differently to other forms of violence: as inherently sexual, rather than as a comparable manifestation of power.

Foucault’s claim is striking—and, on the surface, rather objectionable in the way that it seems to collapse sexual violence into just another form of bodily violence, erasing the specific forms of violation felt in and beyond instances of rape. However, we can also see it echoed in the contemporary feminist understanding of rape as always and only a matter of power, rather than one of sexuality. This position clearly demarcates sex from rape, with the presence or absence of consent taken to be the differentiating factor. It is this clean-cut distinction that Linda Martín Alcoff takes issue with in her recently released book, Rape and Resistance. She contends that ‘there is no easy way to establish the dividing line between harmful and harmless sex’, and thus asserts that we need a theoretical analysis of ‘gray rape’ to give voice to experiences which cannot be adequately described within our existing categories of rape and not-rape (Alcoff 2018, 77).

This is indeed a provocative claim. Read one way, it might be taken to echo the much-maligned Robin Thicke song ‘Blurred Lines’, suggesting that the harm of rape is merely a matter of perspective, or that survivors are distorting ‘messy’ situations by applying the definitive label of sexual assault. But through her careful phenomenological and epistemological exploration of the experience of sexual violation, including reflections on her own experiences, Alcoff makes a compelling case for the need for more nuance in our discussions of the topic. Survivors themselves have highly heterogeneous experiences of violation—if we are to honour the reality of these experiences and testimonies, Alcoff suggests, then we must go beyond the universalising language that we currently employ in discussing them.

She argues that consent is an insufficient standard for defining sexual violation, as consent can be ‘a very poor indicator of desire or will’, too commonly indicating mere resignation rather than enthusiasm (Alcoff 2018, 79). Alcoff follows Foucault in suggesting that instead of seeking to enforce the rather contractual framework of consent, we should consider how to reshape sexual subjectivity on a more fundamental level. How, then, might we rethink sexual agency and sexual ethics in a way that centres reciprocity and care? And what are the appropriate sites for such a rethinking?

The current debate around consent laws in New South Wales and Queensland seems to me to reveal the inadequacy of the legal and juridical domain for this task. Courtrooms remain inevitably trapped in the positivist logic of fact-finding, and can only ever address individual cases of violation, rather than the structural factors that underpin sexual violence. Moreover, the punitive and carceral approach taken by the ‘justice’ system works to reinforce the subjugation of poor and non-white communities, redressing one form of violence with another. In this vein, Alcoff argues for the need to decolonise our approach to sexual violence, problematising the meaning of terms like ‘consent’ and ‘victim’ through a post-colonial feminist framework.

However, Alcoff’s treatment of sex work is disappointingly one-dimensional. At various points in the text, she conflates sex work with sex trafficking, portraying all sex workers as unhappy victims of coercion (p. 110, 127, 155-157). Her critique of consent would leave her well-placed to situate sex work within a broader material context of exploitation, acknowledging that transactional sex can and does occur whether or not there are monetary payments being made. Instead, she groups sex work with child sex abuse and sexual torture, failing to engage with the voices and experiences of sex workers themselves (or at least, those whose perspectives contradict her narrative of victimhood).

This is a surprising oversight, given the care which Alcoff takes in other parts of the book to ensure that the voices and experiences of survivors are at the heart of her text, such as through her self-reflexive analysis of her own experiences of violation. Despite this, however, I believe there are still important insights to be gained from Rape and Resistance for scholars and activists alike. At a time when the voices of survivors (and other voices, in defense of perpetrators) are rising to the fore, Alcoff shows us adeptly how philosophical resources can be put to good use to critically examine and productively disrupt dominant narratives of sexual violence.