Mutant: The Democracy Podcast Institute for New Global Politics

Mutant’s first episode was an archaeology of democratic anger, and as we publish our 13th, almost midway through the Roman alphabet, we return to our beginnings; to a concept that silently saturates our political condition, bubbling corrosively in the shadow of that which it is too often conflated with, even though they belong to two fundamentally different orders. 
Resentment.
Silence clouds our understanding of resentment no more and no less than it defines it. Because silence is endemic to the seething, destructive force of political and civic resentment.
If anger has democratic potential, it is because, @realaishwarykumar reminds us, “anger has a language, and therefore a certain kind of epistemic clarity to it.” Resentment, on the other hand, is a concentration of an entire moral and psychological universe into the self, “where only the self and its injuries, its defeats — real or imagined, medieval or modern — matter to oneself.”
“We cannot decipher or even fully discern resentment because it does not speak in its own language. It insinuates itself into languages of dignity, into languages of merit, into languages of self-made world-making. And from there on, indignant violence is merely a step away, including violence against one's own and one's self.” To understand resentment, then, is to probe the ambiguous place of self-injury, of self-knowledge, and thus of dignity in politics. “There's a moral impasse between the dignity of selfhood and the logic of resentment,” says Aishwary. “There’s no history of dignity without some resentful sense of defeatism in it.”
We excavate the miasmic political and civic resentments lurking under the modern social contract worldwide, and explore how the Civil Rights tradition has so powerfully forced these resentments out into the open, made them speak, forced their rage into presence, and shined a light on their seething, dark view of the future.  
Art: Cain Slaying Abel by Jacopo Palma il Giovane
R | Right & Resentment #nowstreaming #democracy #mutantpodcast

Few words in our political lexicon are as fragile and as paradoxical as hope. Is hope a privilege of the smug? Or is it the helpless, last resort of the inconsolable? Whatever we might think of it, hope is easy to dismiss and yet impossible to fully leave. In fact, hope acquires its greatest gravity, or what B R Ambedkar might call its greatest force, precisely when the circumstances for its existence seem bleakest. 
This paradox reveals a fundamental truth about the human condition: that while hope may carry an air of smug power, or exemplify the cheap talk of the disengaged charlatan, real (and material) hope is embodied in those we consider weak, those who live at the threshold of the unlivable, those we have deemed most disposable. Hope is, to quote Ambedkar again, a “weak force.”
“Hope seems like a thread you can hang by rather than change your existence with and through,” says Aishwary Kumar. “But precisely because it is a thread one hangs by, precisely because one refuses to let go of it, precisely because there is always hope even when there is not, hope becomes the oxygen of politics.” Its very fragility makes it, arguably, our greatest political and social commitment. 'Commitment' because hoping takes arduous, virtuous work; it requires the tilling of desolate lands.
“Hope is not transcendent, it does not belong to the order of the miracle. It is a political virtue, perhaps the most human, most immanent one, divorced from any sense or solace that help will come from elsewhere,” says Aishwary. 
“Such hope cannot be individualistic. Hope becomes political, and politics becomes hopeful, only when there is a collective commitment to changing the world, and sometimes to simply surviving the world as we find it.”
To think the Human, as we did in our last episode, means to think of—and with—hope, that we can bring another world into existence. “Surrounded by desolation, confronted with our greatest barbarisms, to have hope is to commit ourselves to movement, to getting back up again without being apologetic about our disappointment with humanity itself.”

What does it mean to be human? This is a question at once timeless, yet often posited as an abstraction: as though being human and living as humans in the world can be disentangled from each other. But man's humanity is not something that exists in isolation from other species, from other human beings. “In that sense, the idea of the human rests fundamentally on the belief that to be human is to both be political and social,” says Aishwary Kumar. “If you were to be marooned in the middle of an island with absolutely no one, it would not matter whether you are human or not. In fact such a shipwreck of a solitude might blur the very boundary between the human and nonhuman, or starker still, between the human and inhuman.”In this age of desire to transcend the human — whether through the fetishistic pursuit of artificial intelligence or extravagant plans to leave earth in pursuit of life on a new planet — the question of what it means to be human returns to us not only with powerful moral urgency but as one that inflects our planetary future.Is there more to being human, Mutant asks, than the fact of being born human? Or have we surrendered our imagination to the idea of the human as a bare biological fact, subject to infinite mutations and yet capable of very finite morality? Enamored by artificial intelligence and dismissive of moral judgment? How do we today think about the abandonment of humans by other humans, in which technologies bring back the archaic with a new zeal — archaic because we have been here before — and yet are unprecedented in how they are fuelling a mutation of our political life, our moral capacities, and of the human itself?This is a dialogue foundational to the very idea of Mutant. “What is more irretrievably mutant, after all, than the human condition?”“At stake in this question,” says Aishwary, “is not only the mutating shape of our humanity — and our responsibility to it — but the forms of our coming barbarism too.”
Art: Guernica, by Pablo PicassoH | HUMAN #nowstreaming
 

Nothing frames our thinking at Mutant — the very name we have given this dictionary of concepts — more fundamentally than the human drive for purity. After all, by its very constitution, the figure of the mutant — the bearer of our mutations, our mixing, our transgressions, our struggle with finitude — is an antidote to the violence unleashed by political and moral purists. As we begin a decisive year for democracy worldwide, Mutant turns to this pernicious antithesis of our democratic faith: purity and its army of antipolitical high priests who today ransack the corridors and seats of democratic hope.Always sought in the abstract yet waged through sacrificial, sometimes silent practice on the body, purity is, in the words of Aishwary Kumar, “the great conceptual unsaid of the modern political tradition.” It is also, arguably, its most malevolent. Feverishly seeking a return to a past it imagines to be pure, the drive for purity is a steady, persistent, and predatory delusion that defaces everything it touches, including the future.This delirium for purity is not new. Instead, purity is the site of a timeless, archaic convergence between religion (which brings a theological charge to politics through its imagining of a human world that never existed and will never come to be), on the one hand, and technology, on the other, as we search for new planets on which to begin the human enterprise afresh, uncontaminated, pure. On earth meanwhile, we succumb to punishing obsessions with detoxification and purification of blood and nations, the desire to rid our bodies and our societies of ‘impurities’ brought by others. "Purity is the refusal of mutation, which is the only truth that marks our biological existence. Mutant — this dialogue at the end of democracy — is both our ode to human mutation and a task we must undertake in order to ask why theologians and demagogues of purity — those who love purity tests — are so afraid of it," says Aishwary.Photo: Sunderwala Mahal, 16th century mausoleum at Sunder Nursery, New Delhi, India by Payal Puri
 

“There is nothing mere about symbols”, says the writer Ta-Nehisi Coates. And “there is nothing mere about the struggle for architecture, about the strife over monuments. They are arenas of war over memory itself,” says Aishwary Kumar, as we undertake an unflinching examination of the event that marked the beginning of an irreversible torsion in the world’s largest democracy: the demolition of the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya, India, on December 6, 1992. It was not just a matter of a medieval relic or a place of worship. It was the matter of political faith and its slow end. "Two defacements came in one stroke with the demolition,” Aishwary reminds us, “they desecrated the site and the date.” For December 6 is also the death anniversary of India’s majisterial constitutional architect and moral philosopher BR Ambedkar.
To think about the demolition of the Babri Masjid today is to think about the use and abuse of bodies and memory. It is to think about democracy’s symbolic and real suicides. It is to think about our pact with Brutalism. At once a name for an architectural technique and a mode of total bodily domination, Brutalism today is the very language in which majorities worldwide deface the faith in democracy.
In the unfolding history of that brutal defacement, Babri is not mere event. It is a political paradigm and parable of our time.
An urgent and timeless dialogue continues.

Not only does violence have the capacity to become normative, we also seem to wholly lose our capacity for moral judgement in its wake. So that the moment it appears in front of us, violence immediately destroys all social and political alternatives, as if it were the only choice available to exercise, an inevitable path waiting to be taken.This is why we fail to ever judge violence; we judge only its perpetrator. We fail to call out militarized rage; we choose instead to mourn its victims after the fact, thereby reproducing the inequality of which violence is an effect. What else explains our refusal to recognise the inviolability of all lives, our trafficking in the value of one life versus another? How else do we understand the abuse of the idea of resistance, in the name of which violence and counter-violence are waged on civic populations by governments?“Resistance is what we bring to bear not on the enemy, but on those who rule us and those we elect,” says Aishwary Kumar. “It is the refusal of citizens to surrender to the fabrications and perjuries of their government, to refuse the economy of violence into which their government will pull them again and again. Resistance is a critique of violence. Resistance is the critique of the lethal inevitability with which we accept violence.”We continue an electrifying dialogue on violence — and clear the ground for a radical new understanding of non-violence.