Skewing the nation: mobilizing queer citizenship in South Africa

ABSTRACT This article is interested in the national imaging and imagining of non-heteronormative genders and sexual orientations – that is, the way in which citizenship, as a form of belonging, is visually negotiated from an LGBTI (that is lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans and intersex) perspective. Technologies for framing gender and sexuality (such as photography and film) are central for the visual negotiation of LGBTI citizenship within the South African context. Images that speak of/to the nation on the topic of LGBTI citizenship are complex framings, as they encapsulate a marked sense of difference, while they also reveal a sense for solidarity and reconciliation. Based on the contemporary South African context, this article posits that, while LGBTI subjects are encompassed in a national rhetoric of belonging, LGBTI manifestations of subjectivity are in practice often met with severe scorn and violence. As such, the very idea of national citizenship runs counter to queer subjectivities and strategies, which are not primarily invested in the concept of “belonging,” or ascribing to the normative ideals and delineations of a given political space or cultural territory. The complexity arising from the tensions between belonging and dis-identifying, stasis and movement, is the point of departure for this article, in which a series of visual examples are drawn upon to demonstrate how the idea of sexual and gendered citizenship is negotiated by contemporary South African artists and activists. In addition, this article demonstrates how visualizing technologies impact the lives of LGBTI subjects within contemporary South Africa.


Introduction
To belong is not always an easy thing, especially when ideas surrounding a person's ability to fit in, join in and be in, is dependent upon normative codes of gender and sexuality. This is especially true for individuals whose genders and sexualities run counter to those normative ideals that have become cemented in the discourses of state and nation. Departing from this supposition, this article is interested in the national imaging and imagining of variant 1 genders and sexual orientations; that is, the way in which citizenship, as a form of belonging, is visually negotiated from an LGBTI (that is lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans and intersex) perspective. Images that speak of/to the nation on the topic of LGBTI citizenship are complex representational devices, as they encapsulate a marked sense of difference and departure, while they also reveal a profound desire for solidarity and reconciliation.
Based on the South African context, this project posits that, while LGBTI subjects are increasingly encompassed in a national rhetoric of belonging (which is discursively supported, albeit not always practically upheld), LGBTI manifestations of subjectivity are in practice often met with severe scorn and violence. This can be ascribed, to some degree, to the fact that such manifestations frequently reject the ideas of locality, singularity and stability that national citizenship requires of its subjects. As such, the very idea of national citizenshipthat is, the position or status of being a citizen of a particular countryoften runs counter to queer subjectivities and strategies, which are not always invested in the concept of "belonging," or ascribing to the normative ideals and delineations of a given space or cultural territory. 2 Queer manifestations of subjectivity, as a means to relocate or even dislocate identity from a given space, body or institution is, as this article demonstrates, often at odds with a liberal democratic call for LGBTI subjects to belong (insofar as belonging is read as embedded within or arising from a given locality).
The complex issues arising from this tension between belonging and dis-identifying will be the main point of departure for this article, in which I draw on a series of visual examples to demonstrate how the complex idea of citizenship is visually negotiated in South Africa. These examples are all photographic in nature and I strategically deploy them as case studies that can provide insight into questions surrounding queer citizenship. My analysis of these photographs is based on both primary and secondary sources. I draw on interviews that I conducted with both photographers and photographed subjects in order to understand how each image was constructed, displayed and shared. This, in turn, is used to understand how such images function within larger ideological structures, in which academic scholarship, political discourse and popular media play an indelible role in the framing of LGBTI citizenship.
The purpose of this article is to construct what Stuart Hall (1984, 9) refers to as the "inter-discursive space" that arises when "several discourses [work] together: of race, and colour, and sexuality" and, I would add, of gender. Theoretically, my enquiry into such inter-discursive spaces is informed by critical discourse analysis (CDA), which is concerned with the (re)production of ideology in language use and discursive systems. In the words of Teun Van Dijk (2004, 352), CDA is "a type of discourse analysis research that primarily studies the way social power abuse, dominance, and inequality are enacted, reproduced, and resisted by text and talk in social and political contexts." Taking as its point of departure the ideological assumptions and beliefs that are hidden underneath and embedded in the surface structures of image and text (Machin and Mayr 2012;Sriwimon and Zilli 2017), CDA allows for a critical interrogation of, inter alia, sexual, gendered, racial and cultural stereotypes that might pervade a given text-based or visual body of work (Lazar 2005).
Before any such project can commence it is important to take note of exactly what is identified as the normative. I am interested in the normative ideals (that is, the standards and models of practice and thought) that maintain the normality and seeming naturalness of cisgender (that is, non-trans), heterosexual modes of identification, especially as it relates to the South African context. Such models are inherently geared towards a platform for larger public circulation and consumption (from which they draw their power), and while they impact profoundly on the individual, their production is part of a larger socio-political whole. This whole is, as this article demonstrates, also a national onea space where the individual fits (to a greater or lesser degree) into a national framework and where the categories of gender and sexuality (like race, culture, and religion) play a profound role in how an idea of citizenship is negotiated. Various technologies and systems of categorization are at play in the monitoring and rewarding of citizenship, while they also have profound repercussions on the gendered and sexual lives of LGBTI subjects. But then, where are the holes, the routes and the trajectories for escaping or subverting such technologies, for finding a means to identify and renegotiate the terms that are set for belonging and citizenship? These two questionsbelonging (to what?) and escaping (with what means and to where?) are the strands of enquiry that connect the issues surrounding identity, visuality, technology and citizenship that this article unpacks.
These questions resonate with larger debates on the critical role that technology plays in the perpetuation of racial epistemologies (Stoler 2008) and the monitoring and control of the "Other" within a postcolonial world order (Boersma 2016). Of specific importance to this article is scholarship that falls within the field of Science and Technology Studies (or STS) that speaks to the imagining of race and belonging in the fashioning of South African nationalism (Foster 2016), as well as queer challenges to technologies of differentiation (Hofstätter 2012). Such scholarship resonates strongly with Mark Johnson's (2015, 24) call for aesthetics to be seen as "all of the processes by which we enact meaning through perception, feeling, imagination, and bodily movement," as an affective and somatic engagement through the senses. As Latour (1990) reminds us, such sensory engagements with media and its discursive by-products (such as texts and images) are often treated, especially within the sciences, as the authority through which knowledge comes into existence. As Luc Pauwels (2006, 8) also argues, visual representations are not mere "add-ons or ways to popularize a complex reasoning; they are an essential part of scientific discourse." STS engages with the aesthetics of knowledge by specifically investigating how certain visualizing technologies have become enmeshed with Western metanarratives on (inter alia) race, gender and sexuality (see also Breidbach 2005 andFrappier, Meynell, andBrown 2013). By taking such scholarship as its point of departure, this article is sensitive to the role that various visualizing practices and technologies play in the structuring of socio-political relations in South Africa, especially where race, gender and sexuality are concerned.

Citizenship and nationality in movement
Such questions call for a broad understanding of nationality, especially for the functions of congregation and dissent that it simultaneously underscores. While a state can be identified as a political unit that has sovereign power over a given piece of land (and hence exists as a geopolitical entity), a nation speaks of a group of people who share some bond (be it socio-cultural, linguistic, religious, etc.) because of a shared history and/or geographical boundaries. The very idea of the nation speaks, at an etymological level, of relating to or deriving from a sovereign state (with its people, its land and its culture), and of thus being characteristic of a larger whole. In addition, it speaks of citizenship, of being a subject of and claiming allegiance to this given ideological and physical territory. In the South African context, the confluence of state and nation was exemplified in the implementation of the apartheid state in 1948, when the political entity of a state and the cultural entity of a nation were joined. From this unity of the nation state, the South African apartheid government derived its political legitimacy to rule over the inhabitants of a given territory. The rule of this regime saw the deliberate and systematic exertion of nationalist ideals (centered around, inter alia, race, culture, religion and sexuality) at a state level. With the fall of apartheid in the early 1990s, the apartheid nation state was rendered obsolete, and, with the establishment of South Africa's democratic government in 1994, the power of any singular cultural and/or racial entity, of a homogenous nation, to determine the geopolitical reach of the state was radically reconfigured. The nationalist control over and imagining of race and culture was severely unsettled, and one response to this opening-up of the very category of "the nation" was the concept of the South African "rainbow nation." Coined by Archbishop Desmond Tutu, the term was meant to encapsulate the multi-culturalism (in response to the mono-culturalism propagated by the apartheid government) and the unity of people of many different nations within one state (Ngoasheng and Gachago 2016). Viewed with increasing suspicion in South Africa for sugar-coating apartheid and colonial legacies of racism and inequality (see, for example, Cronin 1999 andBullington 2005), "rainbowism" as a nation-building enterprise that underscores diversity and plurality has proven to be more difficult than initially imaginedan issue that I will return to later in this article.
These developments within the South African context resonate with larger global discourses on nationality, in particular with contemporary scholarship where the inventive and invented nature of nationalityhow it operates on a discursive and symbolic level has been increasingly highlighted. The symbolic aspect of nationality is an idea echoed in the much-cited work of Benedict Anderson (1992), whose study of nationality emphasizes the idea of nations as constructions, imaginings and shared forms of signification. As Anderson argues, "nationality, or, as one might prefer to put it in view of that word's multiple significations, nationness, as well as nationalism are cultural artefacts of a particular kind" (1992,4). Subsequent studies have elaborated on this idea by emphasizing that the very power of the nation concept lies in its sedimentation of a certain knowledge, in its ideological ability to "naturalise itself out of History and into Nature and thus to become invisible, to operate unconsciously" (Hall 1998, 8). This idea of nationalism as something that sustains and spreads emphasizes a move from viewing it as a product to thinking of it as a process. While nations have thus increasingly been emphasized for their reiterative (and fictive) imagining of subjecthood, history and culture (Ferguson and Gupta 2002), those subjects, histories and cultures that have long been excluded from this process have also gained particular attention. For example, postcolonial scholarship has highlighted nationalism as slanted towards a Western understanding of the concept, and as ingrained in colonial forms of hegemony. 3 Within the South African and larger African context, the issue of nationalism and its effect on contemporary (postcolonial and/or post-apartheid) identity constructions have also gained increasing attention in academic scholarship, as seen in the work of Ivor Chipkin (2007), John Hargreaves (2014) and Sabelo Ndlovu-Gatsheni (2013).
Of central importance to this article are the gendered and sexual exclusions that are entrenched in the very idea of belonging to a given nationthat is, in the idea of gendered and sexual citizenship. While nations are, in themselves, complex and particular, 4 certain forms of exclusion are, as I argue, pervasive in nationalist imaginings of gender and sexuality. The very protective agency that is embedded in nationalismits ability to think of a coherent inside in terms of an antagonistic and/or different outside (see Finlayson 1998;Kaplan 1981)inevitably impacts on those socio-political codes that determine norms of gender and sexuality in a certain context. Identifying these normative codes and promoting their critical unraveling have set the tone for much academic writing over the last three decades. Predominant themes include the nationalist construction of femininity and masculinity (Coloma 2012;Kim-Puri 2005;McClintock 1995), the heteronormative assumptions of the nation around procreation and heterosexuality (Alexander 2000;Berlant 1991;Ueno 2004;Finlayson 1998;Ingraham 1996;Peterson 1999), and the overt exclusion of LGBTI subjects from a national imaginary (Luibhéid 2008;Mayer 2002;Mosse 1985;Parker et al. 1992;Rehberg 2007).
Arising from and connecting these themes is the argument that national identity is largely based on a system of oppositions in which cisgender, heterosexist masculinity/ femininity is the matrix of that which is deemed "natural" and "normal." As a response to this predicament, the loaded concept of the nation has been interrogated for its exclusionary rhetoric and opened up, so to speak, by finding alternative, queer histories of nationalism, 5 making links between nationalism, colonialism and racial, gender and 3 See Zygmunt Bauman (1999) on the imposition of cultural and nationalist boundaries between the Western "self" and a non-Western "other," Homi Bhabha (1990) on a postcolonial understanding of the collectively constructed/imagined nation, Thomas Blom Hansen and Finn Stepputat (2001) on the postcolonial, modern state as a dispersed, diversified, and inconsistent structure, and Partha Chatterjee's (1993) interrogation of Eurocentric understandings of nationalism. 4 As Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick eloquently explains, no two nationalisms are the same since the definition of nationalism is necessarily relational: "there exists for nations, as for genders, simply no normal way to partake of the categorical definitiveness of the national, no single kind of 'other' of what a nation is to which all can by the same structuration be definitionally opposed" (1992, 241). 5 See, for example, the work of Peter Dickinson (1999) and Carl Stychin (1997) on historical readings of queer nationalities. sexual hegemonies, 6 drawing attention to the material and ideological constraints imposed upon LGBTI subjects, 7 and calling for a space of reinvention and experimentation where the very idea of queer citizenship can perhaps be galvanized. 8 It is here that I wish to highlight a central tenet of what I believe to be the critical activation of queerness, namely by thinking about its relation to nationalism. Queer can be thought of as a strategic troublant, a way to twist (Sedgwick 1992) and a means of torturing lines of demarcation (Hall 2003, 14), and it speaks about a process of questioning and destabilizing of normative assumptions around (inter alia) gender and sexuality. To queer as a method is skeptical of dialectic frameworks that fixate upon a final outcome or a place of arrival, where norms and boundaries are finally and resolutely eradicated. However, as this is inevitably a normative project in itself, the usage I adopt (especially in the context of this article) is more geared towards understanding its potential as disruptive exactly because of its ability to move and thus be mobilized in various ways.
It is this multifaceted disposition of queer that I will investigate at the hand of three moments, or modes, that I have identified in the chosen case studies; namely movement for home, movement between here and there, and movement as process. For this purpose, visual material was selected that speaks to these interpretations, and that addresses the ideas of citizenship, belonging and nationalism in some way. It is, however, important to note that this is my own, and therefore a somewhat idiosyncratic reading of the chosen visual examples, and I do not see my reading of them as final, nor do I treat the three modes of movement as distinct and isolated in any way. As these examples will demonstrate, nations (in particular but not exclusively the South African nation) are complex and the images that reference them are even more so, as they lend their power to and circulate in ways that testify to their interconnectedness.

Movement for home
One of the first interpretations of queer movement that I will be looking at lies at a point of discord insofar as it speaks of a place where nationalist discourses move against LGBTI subjects and question their right to citizenship. This place is marked for its heteronormative and cisnormative assumptions (that is, the degree to which the nation is assumed to be heterosexual and cisgendered). In contrast to and perhaps as a result of those cultural and nationalist actions against LGBTI subjects, the idea of belonging to, or finding safety in a given nation is also an important point of departure when thinking about the 6 Writings from the feminist social sciences are quite important here insofar as parallels are drawn in such scholarship between nationalism, colonialism, racial and sexual discourses, and social movements (Alexander & Mohanty 1997;Jayawardena 1986;Moallem 1999;Nagel 2000;Yuval-Davis 1997). Joane Nagel (2000, 107) explains that the focus of such writing departs from "normative heterosexuality … [as] a central component of racial, ethnic, and nationalist ideologies; both adherence to and deviation from approved sexual identities and behaviours define and reinforce racial, ethnic, and nationalist regimes." 7 See the work of Peter Rehberg (2007) on the precarious nature of queer citizenship within a nationalist framework, Miloš Pankov, Mihelj, and Bajt (2011) on the nationalist reduction of multiple, queer identities to an "us" and "them" binary structure, and Eithne Luibhéid (2008) on the heteronormative production/perpetuation of marginalized sexual and gender subjectivities. 8 Here the work of the Queer Nation movement is of particular importance (see Berlant and Freeman 1992), insofar as it speaks of a rethinking of (American) nationalism, citizenship and the socio-political franchise of LGBTI subjects. Also, see the work of Carl Stychin (1997, 33), which calls for a queer reinvention of nationalism, an on-going questioning of borders and membership and "a sense of excitement that comes from the perpetual inventiveness of a collective sexual politics which stretches towards different ways of being." relationship between movement and nationality. Such an idea of belonging can take a profoundly visual dimension, insofar as images can act as a point of congregationa temporary space for anchoring a subject, but also a beacon, of sorts, that suggests a space of acceptance and membership towards which a subject can move. As W.J.T. Mitchell (2005, 93) argues, images "form a social collective that has a parallel existence to the social life of their human hosts"are points of entry into, but also the building blocks for forms of social engagement. For José Van Dijck (2007, 262), images are also a "formative part of our autobiographical and cultural identities" as they provide visual adhesive, so to speak, for uniting the realms of the social, the cultural and the individual. Fluctuating between demonstration and idealization (between representing subjects as they exist and are wished into existence), images potentially allow for the interplay between imaging and imagining, and are thus crucial for mobilizing, in a productive sense of the term, a sense of belonging amongst LGBTI subjects. The South African state is reputed for its liberal jurisdiction (especially in comparison with its African neighbors) and, whether as consequence or cause, it is imagined and discursively inscribed as a plural, diverse structure. This is evident in the very words that are used in South Africa's first democratic Constitution (adopted on the 8th of May 1996) to inscribe a sense of national belonging amongst South Africa's LGBTI citizens. This constitution explicitly prohibits discrimination against anyone on the grounds of, inter alia "race, gender, sex … [and] sexual orientation" (Constitution of the Republic of South Africa 1996). By acting as an "enabling tool" for people who identify themselves as LGBTI (Van Zyl 2005a, 235) and granting these identities "a space in the discourse of national belonging" (Van Zyl 2005b, 27), this constitution signifies a major shift in the experience of gender and sexuality in contemporary South Africa. It not only enforces the equality and freedom of movement of the local LGBTI population, but in effect also allows for the active expression of their citizenship.
In spite of the legitimacy that the South African Constitution might bestow on LGBTI subjects, historical processes that simultaneously articulate and disown the heritage and political currency of these subjects are also at play. Such processes revolve around the complex relationship between (South) Africa and the West that has been marked, to a large degree, by colonial encounters. Those products, cultures and identities that are widely perceived to have been brought into and enforced upon the local population during colonialism are specifically flagged as "Western imports" (Spurlin 2001, 189) and, as a result, they are placed under severe scrutiny in a postcolonial context. Homosexuality is one such structure that is often interpreted as a vestige of colonial imposition.
To a certain degree, this can be attributed to the notion that Western sexual discourses were imposed on the African population during colonialism. Within a postcolonial context, the general suspicion with which Western colonialism is viewed is often translated into a distrust of, or even blatant contempt of homosexuality. As a result, homophobic discourses pervade the African continent as homosexuality is viewed by various influential political figures (such as Robert Mugabe, Yoweri Museveni, Sam Nujoma, Jacob Zuma, Yahya Jammeh, and others) as a colonial identity that was enforced on black Africans. 9 This comes at a time when Uganda is specifically under the spotlight for its fraught relationship between adamant heteronormative nationalism and LGBTI subjectivities. 10 In such a context, homosexuality is specifically made the scapegoat for issues ranging from colonial oppression and racial discrimination, to fears of moral degeneracy and national insecurity. The persecution of homosexual subjects is made all the more incongruous by the fact that the judgement of homosexuality as unAfrican is paradoxically based on the very standards that were intrinsically imposed through colonial rule. 11 It is of interest to note that the process of decolonization following the Second World War saw the Western world slowly changing its view towards homosexuality and rethinking its stance towards a category that was long deemed criminal and/or diseased. The undoing of colonialism roughly coincided with an era in which homosexuality was decriminalized and depathologized in Western states, but also increasingly viewed with suspicion in many decolonized African states. The postcolonial era thus saw a complex response to homosexuality as it is viewed through the lens of the state.
Recent studies on African sexualities challenge these strains of homophobia by contesting the notion of Africa as heterosexual 12 and cisgender, 13 and such studies provide a much-needed discursive framework for renegotiating the legitimacy of African LGBTI identities. Yet, such research often seems to have little bearing on the homophobic and cisnormative discourses that operate in public. One such local phenomenon that speaks of the harshness of normative reactions to LGBTI identities is that of corrective rape. Figure 1, an image produced by photographer Lindsay Nel, 14 shows Anelisa Mfo, a lesbian mother who was raped at gunpoint to "cure" her of her sexuality. This Fair where he stated that homosexuals were "worse than pigs and dogs" and had no civil rights in Zimbabwe (cited in McNeil 1998). Even though Mugabe received worldwide criticism, his sentiments are echoed by various African leaders who regard homosexuality as an unAfrican identity category that entails the "perverted" activities practiced predominantly by whites. 10 The contentious issue of homosexuality being a foreign imposition was brought to the fore when Ugandan politician David Bahati, the MP from the ruling National Resistance Movement, proposed the infamous "anti-homosexuality" bill. Bahati argued that homosexuals should be rehabilitatedan opinion that is shared by certain Ugandan religious organizations who call for homosexual sinners to repent and be rehabilitated (see Mmali 2009;Mujuzi 2009). Lobbying for life-imprisonment for homosexual acts, and even the death penalty for HIV-positive or "serial offenders," this is but one example of the brutal imagining of the nation as a heterosexual entity. On 20 December 2013, Uganda officially passed its "Anti-Homosexuality Act," with life in prison substituted for the death penalty. While the bill was signed into law by the president (Yoweri Museveni), the Constitutional Court of Uganda ruled the Act invalid on procedural grounds. 11 Sodomy and other homosexual acts were often considered by colonial rulers to be typical of the "immoral" (African) inhabitants of colonized lands, and homosexuality was regarded by European colonists as characteristically African and "unEuropean" (Bleys 1996, 32). With homosexuality often considered deviant by colonial rulers, the actual persecution of homosexuals in contemporary Africa has its roots in the continent's previous colonial institutions. The condemnation of homosexuality in Africa on the basis of its alleged colonial imposition reflects a deeply grounded heteronormative, colonial structure of prejudice and persecution that is still prevalent in contemporary African discourses (see also Desai 2001;Currier 2012 andHerdt 1997 horrific experience, coupled with her then 5-year old daughter also being raped, later drove Anelisa to try and take her own life by setting herself on fire. With the scars from this incident still visible on her body, this image bears testimony to homophobic violence that is rife in township areas. South African lesbians are subjected to corrective rape by men trying to "cure" them of their sexual orientationa crime that is for the most part going unrecognized by the South African government and unpunished by the legal system. 15 A rising tide of violence against the local homosexual population reveals an 15 The subjection of lesbians to corrective rape has gained public attention after the brutal rape and murder of Eudy Simelane in 2008 in Kwa Thema, a township on the outskirts of Johannesburg where she lived openly as a lesbian. Simelane was gang-raped and brutally beaten before being stabbed 25 times in the face, chest and legs. This event was covered extensively by the local and global media (see for example Harrison 2009;Kelly 2009;Telegraph 2009), and gave rise to the publication of a report by the international NGO ActionAid that called on the South African legal system not to allow cases of corrective rape to go unpunished (ActionAid 2009). This report found that thirty-one lesbians have been reported murdered in homophobic attacks from 1998 till 2009, and of these cases there has been only one conviction. From this report, it became evident that local lesbians are increasingly at risk of rape and murder, particularly in townships where homosexuals are largely prone to persecution.
increasingly hostile political environment and a culture of impunity that allow for these hate crimes to go unpunished. These cases of corrective rape are also brutal embodiments of the sentiment that homosexuality is unAfrican 16that it should be exterminated with vehemence for its supposed deviance from heterosexual, African norms. As this example demonstrates, the interpretation and power of the state (as it is constitutionally understood as an embracing, supportive entity) is at odds with some of the cultural and political discourses that pervade South Africa's ideological perimeters. In such a context, fraught ties are made between the continental (the African), the state (South Africa as geo-political entity), the national (which speaks about a sense of cultural belonging and affiliation) and the actual experience of citizenship (what it means to have and be at home in a given cultural and geo-political territory). Here, the state's ability to create structures of support for its citizens is clearly not exercised, while (masculinist) prowess and ferocity is galvanized in reaction to, and at the cost of the marginalized and variant. 17 At the same time, the effect of not fitting in is also demonstrated for its devastating consequencesfor the fire that is set to the self who cannot or will not perform some normative ideal. This image disturbs the viewer, for its aesthetic demands a sense of intimacy (with Analisa displaying herself, exposed, to the viewer as she poses on her beda space that is personal), but at the same time it shocks for the violence that was inflicted upon her. Here, Analisa bears witness, and she sets herself up as a marker of trauma, as a medium to make precariousness visible. This image thus speaks of a need to visualize the lack of belonging that a queer subject can experience, and ultimately this image wounds, as it not only seeks to pierce the viewer (to make them aware of the pain of not belonging), but it also reiterates the violence that is sparked between the slippage of self and state.
Nevertheless, in the face of such violence the subject in this image seems to retaliate, insofar as a form of queer movement can be seen in the very existence of this image, in the need to expose and move against the heteronormative. As a practice of visualising/ envisioning, this image speaks of an endeavor to create a body of knowledge that speaks against absencein this case, an absence of knowledge. With Analisa making a deliberate choice to represent herself to the camera, this image testifies boldly against ignorance and obscurity, as it pushes forward the private intimacy, the home and the body, of the depicted subject and, in doing so, this image of Analisa makes some aspect of LGBTI life intelligible. Here, the idea of home operates at various levelsit is, at face value, the space within which this image is staged, with the bed and its ruffled sheets being the immediate reference. However, the concept of home is also complicated in this context due to the fact that Analisa had to flee from her community and her house since she was identified as lesbian. Living in a temporary shelter in an undisclosed location, fearing recognition and retribution, Analisa is presented in a space that might resemble a home, but is also far from it.
When interpreting this photograph, Butler's usage of the terms "recognisability" and "intelligibility" (Butler 2009) can be a helpful guiding tool, insofar as they use them to describe those conditions that make a human subject understandable in a larger discursive framework. As such, they highlight the importance of unpacking those categories and conventions that induce a recognizable subject, or, conversely, determine who is not recognizable and therefore excluded from its normative framework (Butler 2009, 4-5).
The power of such a visual narrative is also bolstered by the vast discursive range that this image draws on and supportsthe media reports, videos and articles produced on the phenomenon of corrective rape, alongside this image, reiterate the fact of, inter alia, lesbian existence, but also of the violence that such subjects might suffer when their identities do not fit into a heteronormative nationalist framework. In fact, the photograph's appearance of "capturing" subjectivity is well suited to a larger archival project of rendering the individual identifiable; that is, of calling the human subject into being as a statesanctioned entity. Here, the writings of Judith Butler (2009), Okwui Enwezor (2008), Alan Sekula (1984), Susan Sontag (2008), and John Tagg (1988) are useful for unpacking the idea of photographic referentiality. As these authors remind us, an image may speak of an individual life, but always with a larger framework in mind, as the photographed subject forms part of a larger body (of subjects and knowledges) that, because of its size, gains strength and recognition.
Such a larger framework is, inevitability, also a national one, as the phenomenon of corrective rape is underscored by ideas surrounding belonging, locality and the nation. This image of Analisa traces an intimate part of a local lesbian life that, in doing so, emphasizes the power that the ideological repossession of home can generate. Such an endeavor to belong and return on one's own terms resonates strongly with contemporary understandings of diaspora, particularly as the latter relates to (and departs from) nationalist structures. Insofar as nations often incite the dislocatedness of the marginalized, diasporawho are constituted through shared codes which unite their divergent, de-territorialized membersis defined in terms of their exclusion and marginalization from an original, national center (Mohan 2002, 2-3). While the term diaspora usually suggests "a dislocation from the nation-state or geographical location of origin and a relocation in one or more nation-states" (Braziel and Mannur 2003, 1-3), I would argue that diaspora can also be read as a form of ideological displacement, and that this image speaks exactly of such forms of dislocation that occur amongst local black lesbian subjects in South Africa.
The idea of relocation that Analisa Mfo (as subject) and Lindsay Nel (as photographer) visually induce is situated in the sense of belonging that this work exhibitsthe ideological and material home where the photographed subject resides. But then, this diasporic subject is more than just ideologically displaced, as she (and the larger body of corrective rape victims) finds herself physically affected by the heteronormative imagining of state and nation. She is rendered precarious due to the particular confluence of race, gender and sexuality that mark her life, and these factors are central to the imagining of the concepts of home and belonging that this image facilitates. 18 As Avtar Brah (1996, 192) posits, "home is the lived experience of locality" and, as this image implies, home is there where the body and the story that a subject tells resound with other bodies and storiesit is a means of thinking and living home as a personal and communal space of belonging. The role of the visual is then to dream of a body that belongs with all its queerness.

Movement between here and there
While a national rhetoric of belonging and citizenship might be central to (re)imaging a queer body as something that is situated here, it can also be galvanized to speak of movement between two particular pointsthe here and there. The second notion of movement that I draw upon looks specifically at a context where signs, codes and texts are used to discursively and somatically locate the trajectory of the gendered subject between two distinct points of reference. Forms of gendered demarcation run a strong course over and through the lives of trans subjects, with images and texts playing a profound role in the public conceptualization (and nationalist understanding) of transnessbe it as a state or a process of gender transitioning. As the subject of this section, the experience and embodiment of trans masculinity is drawn upon to demonstrate how gendered movement and change is visualized, and how it speaks to larger frameworks of state and nation.
Even though the nationalist imaging of transness is notable for its absence in the South African context, trans citizenship takes on a particularly strong (and complex) visual dimension in the South African identity document (or ID book, as it is commonly known). 19 The ID book is an object (and imaging technology) that is invested with tremendous meaning and power by trans subjects insofar as it is read and utilized as a marker of their gender identity. During the course of my doctoral research, 20 it emerged that these books are some of the most important visual documents that trans subjects would have in their possession, both as South African citizens and particularly as transitioning or posttransition subjects. In order to understand this position, it is important to contextualize the actual idea of transness as it is understood and represented in these documents.
The South African ID book can be seen as a severely disciplined form of recognition, as it constitutes a space where information is intentionally collected as evidence. This document is imbued with power as various regulatory discourses underpin its system of categorization and recollection. In addition, this document is required to gain access to various nature that such applications often take. She offers a highly critical reading of, inter alia, Iain Chambers (1994) and Rosi Braidotti's (1994) work, which she sees as a romantic reading of the migrant, nomadic subject from a neo-liberal viewpoint, where migration and nomadism become subjectivities that can be "taken up" as a means of escaping the constraints of home. Ahmed's critique is highly relevant insofar as it highlights the danger of treating nomadism, migrancy and displacement as spaces of refuge that the (predominantly Western) subject can inhabit, use and discard as a means of escape or even just for novelty. 19 All South African citizens and permanent residents who are sixteen years and older are required to have an identity document, or ID book. The South African government places particular emphasis on this document as it not only "proves" the identity of its bearer, but it also provides a legal imprint of this identity "when dealing with private and public institutions" (Department of Home Affairs, Republic of South Africa 2011). 20 This article draws on doctoral research that was conducted into the personal photographic archives of trans subjects.
For the purpose of this research project, a process was facilitated whereby trans men were asked to select specific photographs from their personal photographic collections as an archive of their own making. During a series of interviews that were conducted over a period of two years (2011)(2012)(2013), these subjects used narrative accounts to give a sense of their relationship to the medium of photography, with the photographs that appeared in the identity documents cited as a prominent, yet highly polemical, visual tool for gaining acceptance and legal protection for their chosen gender identities.
institutions and services, and it is therefore linked to issues of empowerment and entitlement. In the South African context, it also enjoys tremendous privilege as a document that officially recognizes a subject as a national citizen. In this manner, it bears strongly on the bureaucratic conditions that are set for forms of gendered recognition to take place. Identity documents play a definitive role within the larger (global) context, as they are central to the functioning of the modern democratic state. As John Torpey (1999, 165) argues, identity documents enhance the state's control of, and ability to discriminate between, its subjects in terms of rights and privileges. The existence of these documents rests on the "requirement that all persons be in a position to identify themselves to the authorities when the latter demand that they do so" (Torpey 1999, 165). 21 These qualities of necessity and constraint are also reflected in the South African context where identity documents have a loaded political history, as they were intricately tied to the enforcement of apartheid's racialized, gendered and sexual ideologies (see Edwards and Hecht 2010), and still have a profound impact on the gendered lives of South African citizens.
What is striking about this document is that it can be regarded, to some degree, as a visual endorsement of national identity that somehow exists beyond the immediate grasp of the very subject that it contains. This is especially true when it comes to the recognition of trans subjects, as identity documents demand trans subjects to comply with the gendered categories that the ID book adheres to. By default, this document administers and captures them in a gendered way and, unless they appeal to the authorities to have their gender description changed, its gender classification reflects the biological sex of these subjects as determined at birth. Trans subjects can thus change the content of their identity document, but they cannot change the categories ("he" and "she") themselves. Not being gendered, or being gendered differently, 22 does not fit into this document's system of delineation and, as the ID book therefore seems to suggest, one has to be gendered to be known.
Such gendered knowledge is central to the life story that was presented by one of the trans subjects, who chose to be identified as Charl, who participated in my research. Charl's ideas surrounding forms of photographic and textual representation provide a unique point of reference that shows how the very idea of trans citizenship is interpreted, and how a nation conceptualizes forms of gendered change and movement. As a self-identified trans man, Charl invests tremendous meaning and power in his ID book, and he cites this as one of the most important visual documents that he has in his possession. 23 At the same time, Charl also bears intimate knowledge of the hardship one faces in having the wrong ID book during a state of gender transitioning. After having his name changed at the start of his gender transition, Charl had to wait longer than twenty years to have his gender status changed in this document. This meant that his ID book was caught in a state of ambivalencewhile it bore his male-identified name and a photograph in which he presented as male, his gender status was still reflected as female in his ID number. 24 Charl stresses the importance of the photographs that appeared in his ID book during his transition from female to malesee Figures 2 and 3 for examples of photographs that were used in two different identity documents. As Charl argues, "of all the photographs that I ever had, of all those photographs, the one I would choose to really identify with is the ID photograph" (Personal Interview, Cape Town, 30 March 2011). According to Charl, the power of photography is profound as it has the capacity to override or camouflage some of the textual information that appears in his identity document. Of particular importance is the capacity of the photograph to show him as male to a viewer who is unaware of his trans status. As Charl argues, the photograph that is used in the ID book creates a space to which one can direct the viewer by saying "do you see here" (Personal Interview, Cape Town, 30 March 2011)an ability that proved to be particularly useful when he still had his "old" ID book in which the gender markers (such as his ID number) identified him as female. In this case, the photograph's power to corroborate his masculinity is very important and, as Charl notes, it was only with close scrutiny that his trans status is revealed to a viewer of his old document. 25 This explanation draws attention to the power of the photograph in the ID book to override other (textual) informationthe photograph becomes shorthand for gender status in the format of this document, as it is seemingly read as one of the most obvious signs of a gender identity. It is, however, only with his current identity document where his photograph, name and number correspond to his experienced gender identity, that his status as a man (instead of a trans person) is consistently read as such and officially reiterated in the public arena.
The idea of movement as facilitated (or impeded) by the identity document is demonstrated in Charl's reading of these two photographs that appeared in this documentthe one at the start of the transition (see Figure 2), the other as he finds himself now, officially recognized by the state as a man (see Figure 3): With my one ID, there is a lot of femininity in it, but it isn't as much as my very first ID; whereas the second, the new ID, is me as I am now, and I believe that photograph paved the way for me to get my ID changed, and to get the gender markers changed. Had it not been for that, I think I would have struggled more … these two photos speak of movement, of growth basically. I started out there, looking extremely timid, and almost scared with these large glasses that I had on, and a very small, thin face. And then in the second image my face was more formed, and I had a beard and I was balding at the top just like my father did, and it's a photograph that I am just proud to have in my pocket all the time. (My emphasis, Personal Interview, Cape Town, 30 March 2011) These images speak of a progression towards a current male self, of "growth" and "movement," with the second image being specifically highlighted for cementing an idea of Charl as a man, as someone who is aging "just like his father did" (Personal 24 According to the South African coding system that is used in identity documents, every citizen is issued an identity number, with the first six digits representing the date of birth and, importantly, the next four digits referencing gender, with cisgender men issued numbers above 5000 and cisgender women issued numbers below 5000. 25 Charl uses the example of going to the bank where the ID book is usually inspected for inconsistencies (or signs of its possible "incorrectness") in much more detail than in other places. As Charl's account demonstrates, an ID book that still shows a pre-transition self can lead to challenging and disempowering situations for posttransition/transitioning subjects. Some of this difficulty can be ascribed to the fact that this document can never really capture transness per seit allows for only two gender categories to be legally recognized in this document, and its function of creating stability undercuts any fluidity or inconsistencies. As such, trans subjects, such as Charl, have to cope with a document that can expose their trans status and that can, in extreme cases, render them unreadable/unbelievable within certain public institutions.
Interview, Cape Town, 30 March 2011). Even though the first image seems to suggest a more feminine appearance, it is still an image in which Charl manages to pass as male the progression that these images thus suggest is based on appearing more masculine.
What also makes this progression significant to Charl is the idea that he looks less scared in the last image; he feels less vulnerable. The idea that such an image corroborates his masculinity is thus experienced as empowering, insofar as it overrules signs of incongruity, instability or queerness, so to speak. Here, to be queer is not a feasible or inhabitable position, as its capacity to thwart and question is overshadowed by its inability to sustain on a national level. While this might seem inconsequential (for queer as radical methodology need not necessarily be geared towards issues of sustainability, per se), the lack of political power that trans subjects face on a national level can be devastating. In this context, the movement that resonates through these images is geared towards some form of resolution, a place where a subject and a state can arrive at a conclusion of sorts. The conclusion that is intimated is of a gendered kind, and it speaks of a compromise between subject and state where both entities undertake to avoid ambivalence. Here, the subject as mobile, migrant entity is thus entertained on a bureaucratic level as long as a place of gendered arrival can be guaranteed. As such, the subject can move as long as it pledges to the category of "he" or "she" at the end of whatever discursive or bodily journey that the subject undertakes.

Movement as escape
While the idea of movement in the gendered representation of citizenship can take the form of a trajectory, it can also be less about orienting to a destination but rather be interpreted as a movement of escape from predefined categories. If the gendered context of the identity document is taken as reference, the very notion of movement as a form of transition needs not to have as its target a resolution of ambivalence, or even clearly  identifiable gender and sexual categories. This prospect of thinking about sexual and gender citizenship as a complex, queered space is taken up in the work of trans activist and artist Robert Hamblin, specifically in a project that he did with local trans sex workers. 26 These sex workers, who are all self-identified mtf (male-to-female) trans subjects, were consulted by Hamblin on how they perceive themselves in relation to, and through the medium of, photography. As Hamblin explains: After getting a group of trans sex workers together, I started with a process of consultation with these participants, and that became the portal, or the lens, through which I approached this project. This lens became a means for approaching and bringing together a range of issues; I came to realize that, if you ever want to glean society's reception of trans issues, or even gender issues in general, these participants' lives provide a space within which such matters are severely concentrated. It is the space where gender, class and race intersect and leave an indelible mark on the lives and bodies of these participants. (Personal Interview, Cape Town, 12 February 2013) The process of negotiation between the participants and Hamblin came to be focused on their desire to express their own femininity. The participants drew attention to the fact that they wanted this project to be about their experience (not necessarily their resolution) of a female self, while they also felt very strongly about the fact that these images should be reflective of their identity as sex workers. In addition, the participants decided to strategically and deliberately use nudity as reference to the sexual act. As Hamblin explains, they wanted to show their whole body to demonstrate that their consciousness of being trans is not about denying their male bodies, but that it is about their expression and interpretation of femininity.
The very grittiness that often pervades the lives of trans sex workers (and that also predominates public understandings of sex work in general) has been a contested topic within South African society. Being subject to both scorn and sympathy, sex workers occupy a space of vulnerability where their recognition as human beings and their ability to make a living is highly insecure, and is heightened when dealing with trans subjects. The departure of Hamblin's work, and the main concern that arose during his consultation with the participants, was to move beyond a typecast victim role, and to show the lives of these subjects as more complex (and perhaps also more human) than popular stereotypes often allow for. These subjects present to the camera what they deem important to know about themselves as both working and private subjects, which is, first and foremost, their experience of femininitysee Figures 4-6.
These photographs potentially become a vehicle, Hamblin believes, for "expressing the joy, vulnerability, and violence that form part of their everyday and working lives" (Personal Interview, Cape Town, 12 February 2013). Yet, despite the freedom that this process and the subsequent images reference, the participants still wanted to give a sense of the constraints and norms within which they work and live. For example, particular emphasis was placed on forms of patriarchy that leave a mark on trans lives through bureaucratic systems of delineation (as explained below). From the experience of the trans participants, Hamblin explains, patriarchy seems to take its form through rigid systems that try to police and constrain their gender. This is compounded by the fact that sex work is illegal within South Africa, 27 which adds to the vulnerability of these subjects within society. In the context of this body of work, the most immediate impact of such systems can be seen in the participants' identity documents, for such documents locate their identities as male, no matter how they choose to express themselves. As Hamblin argues, this is a delineation, a line of gender, that they share with the rest of society, and that marks all our bodies. There is a definite sense of vulnerability in the way that they experience this This very idea of a line, a border, that is drawn over trans lives is referenced in the visual and textual codes that are found within identity documents. For example, Hamblin chose to use the unique identity number that all South African citizens are issued with at birth to give reference to the marks of bureaucracy that are left on the visual identities of these trans sex workersthese marks are referenced in the unique identity numbers and barcodes that are printed at the bottom right corner of each image. In Hamblin's work, these numbers are used (albeit small and almost inconspicuously) to show how the femininity that the participants present is always haunted by codes and numbering systemsnumbers that are absolute in their delineation of gender. In addition, Hamblin also references this delineation by breaking each image up into two distinct zonesin this case, it is referenced by a white line, or border, that marks each photograph and that runs over the bodies of the subjects. It is a line that these subjects seem to cross as their blurry movement slips between and over the frame, but its presence and impact seems inescapable.
For a spectator fixated upon discovering some form of evidence, of finding the clear photographic outline or typology of the identity document that Hamblin references, these images might be quite frustrating. While the ID book as a whole is invested with the idea that it can provide empirical evidence of the existence of an identity, photography plays an important role in imagining this identity as stable, legal and thus recognizable. Photography's capacity to bear a visual likeness of a subject resonates with the ID book's positivist preoccupation with providing some form of evidence, 28 and it demonstrates that much credence is still invested in the power of the photograph to provide a faithful copy of reality (particularly on the part of the state).
However, Hamblin's interpretation of this medium is quite different, as his images are never crisp enough, neither are the subjects revealed in enough detail for the spectator to ever assume that these images trade in suppositions of fact and precision. This is not the camera as a positivist instrument or a documentary vehicle, intent on laying a body bare for close inspection. Instead of focusing and freezing through the lens, the camera rather seems to provide a suggestion of presence and movement. In this regard, these images almost take the shape of drawings as they intimate a gestural understanding of the body. These photographs seem to propose rather than reveal, and instead of providing irrefutable verification of the life or bodies of trans sex workers, they rather insinuate that such lives are more complex than a camera can give credit to.
Movement, in this queered, ambiguous photographic space, thus becomes a means of escape, a potential method for slipping away and imagining a sense of fluidity. Modes of visuality stand central to this endeavor for release, as the very place to escape a normative nationalist imagining of the gendered, laboring body seems to lie there where it becomes least traceable. To see is to control, these images may reiterate, 29 but it is also more complex than this easy maxim allows for, as the manner of seeing (the way the eye is inferred) should not be undervalued. For the eye moves without settling, and it only gets to focus there where things remain sharpin this case, the numbers taken from the subjects' identity documents. The tension that is drawn here is between the 28 The use of photography in the ID book is thus strongly orientated towards a referential understanding of the mediuman idea that has been reiterated throughout this article when looking at the use of photography to speak of/to the nation. 29 Here, the modernist project of empiricism is clearly echoed and, as Chris Jenks (2007, 2-3) points out, such a project is strongly inclined towards modes of visual communication insofar as "the modern world is very much a 'seen' phenomenon." Empiricism is also "profoundly committed to the sensory basis of all knowledge" (Danziger 2008, 102; see also Jay 1988;Mitchell 2005). Hence, technologies of visual representation, especially photography, are central to modernist regimes of memory, control and delineation.
subject as volatile entity and the state's assumption of the located (that is, detectable and situated) individual. As this example seems to suggest, as sexual and gendered beings these trans subjects move against, but also with, the state, without either one of these parties daring to completely relinquish their hold on the other.

Conclusion
When thinking about citizenship and the experience of national belonging whilst specifically drawing on an LGBTI perspective, movement as concept and directive allows for a space of critical departure. While movement speaks of motion (of gestures, acts, shifts and changes), it also denotes groupings (campaigns, factions, lobbies and institutions). Movement represents change on the one hand, a point of opening up, and on the other hand signifies a space for coming and thinking together. A centripetal and centrifugal tendency is thus simultaneously at play in the term movement insofar as it speaks of seeking and fleeing from the center. It is exactly this dual directive that lies at the heart of the visual examples that were discussed, insofar as they speak of a conflicting desire to move toward, but also from, the national ideal and its call for belonging. These examples are also concerned with finding alternativesthat is, moments where the idea and experience of home (of arrival and safety) can be negotiated precisely because the nation is never as stable or unified as it is often imagined. To speak of a visual landscape is quite apt in this regard, insofar as images provide the actual ground from which to mobilize the LGBTI subject in a given territory. This is, however, not an easy mobilization or emergence (at least not where South Africa is concerned), as nationalist discourses still play a strong role in how race, sexuality and gender are understood and visualized.
As this article also demonstrates, LGBTI subjects and their complex relationship with imaging technologies calls for a critical revision of how ideas surrounding "variance," "the normative" and "the nation" are, in fact, constituted. This is particularly important, as nationalist ideologies repeatedly move LGBTI citizenship, or refuse and fail to envision gender and sexual variance. The reiterative inclination of nationality, gender and sexuality, and the need for thinking about how these concepts mark our bodies and lives, has taken on a particular visual vocabulary. As a result, images allow us to say, again and again, who we are, who we wish to be, and where we imagine finding our ever-elusive home.

Disclosure statement
No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).

Notes on contributor
Ernst van der Wal is a senior lecturer in Visual Arts at Stellenbosch University, South Africa, and an Alexander von Humboldt Research Fellow at the Humboldt University of Berlin, Germany. His PhD (2013) focused on the photographic representation of transgender identity within the South African context. Working under the rubric of transnational studies and queer activism, he is currently investigating the visualization of LGBTI identities amongst queer refugees within Germany and South Africa.