Internet knowledge doesn’t exist as a pyramid—it exists in the form of networked knowledges, or the figure to the right of the slide above. The “best” work has not been filtered out by experts, rather, it is a collaborative effort across various groups of people. David Weinberger states this succinctly in his book Too Big to Know: When the Smartest Person in the Room is the Room. Networked knowledges present a fundamental challenge to print knowledge, because “networks of experts can be smarter than the sum of their participants.” (62). Cathy Davidson (@cathyndavidson) also argues for something similar in her book Now You See It; where she criticizes disciplinary expertise as forms of siloed blindness, and encourage us to move beyond these frameworks.
To some, the Internet represents the worst possible changes to the state of knowledge. At its worst it signifies how any random person can publish pretty much anything. To these people, the Internet is an unedited mishmash of rumor, gossip and lies. It breaks our attention and spells the end of reflective, long-form thought (see Jonathan Franzen on Twitter). These naysayers hearken back to a time of true quality, where acclaimed experts got to determine what saw the light of publication.
On the one hand, the naysayers have a point. But on the other hand, networked forms of knowledge via Internet publication represent some tremendous sources of potential for postcolonial studies. These filters—the experts, the tastemakers—have traditionally been the group that we have come to call the “Orientalists”: the biologist, the environmentalist, the anthropologist; experts that came to define knowledge of “exotic,” faraway lands. The rise of the European Empires of the nineteenth century coincided with the rise of the industries of scientific “knowledge,” the specialized fields of biology and anthropology coming into being coterminously with missions of exploration and conquering. Expertise, in other words, has—within the history of Europe—been synonymous with colonialism. Edward Said clearly reminds us of that at the start of Orientalism, where he recalls the Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt in the late 18th century as a highly scientific mission; one in which specialized knowledge was tightly linked to surveillance, domination and control.
If print knowledge, filtered by experts, is interminably linked with the colonial enterprise, the networked nature of digital knowledge, offers postcolonial critics and scholars many opportunities for disruption. One doesn’t need to be limited to challenging colonial renditions of history. One can edit Wikipedia. One does not need to seek a big budget Hollywood production team to get an audience for a short film; one could upload one’s work to Youtube or Vimeo. One does not need to find a publisher to disseminate anti-colonial literature; one can blog.
There is, in sum, a great deal potential for rewriting the colonial library in the shift from print to digital forms of knowledge dissemination. I want to caution, however, that this potential is not unreservedly positive, and that my suggestion should not be read as a form of techno-utopianism. Important things need to be considered; in particular changing notions of a digital divide and global access towards the Internet.
For want of time constraints I need to end my talk. I want to use this provocation, however, to get us to think through certain questions. Are these new technologies intrinsically more democratic, or do they contain embedded racial, ethnic and class hierarchies? What sort of potential—and what sorts of cautions—should be explored in terms of these new forms of knowledge production? How could we, and how should we, redefine the notion of postcolonial knowledge and expertise in the digital age?