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From vulnerability and innocence to collective life. Interview with Miriam Ticktin

De la vulnérabilité et de l’innocence à la vie collective. Entretien avec Miriam Ticktin
Miriam Ticktin, Christine M. Jacobsen et Emeline Zougbédé
p. 137-147

Résumés

Dans cet entretien, Miriam Ticktin discute de l’expansion du concept de vulnérabilité dans la gouvernance des migrations et de son rôle problématique dans la perpétuation de l’humanitarisme et du capitalisme racial. Elle critique l’utilisation de la vulnérabilité et de la précarité comme catégories analytiques, arguant qu’elles renforcent souvent les pratiques néolibérales plutôt que de remettre en question les inégalités structurelles. Ticktin plaide pour des concepts alternatifs tels que l’implication et la mise en commun afin de mieux aborder les questions de pouvoir, d’inégalité et de responsabilité collective.

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Texte intégral

1Miriam Ticktin is Professor of Anthropology at the CUNY Graduate Center (City University of New York), and Director of the Center for Place, Culture and Politics. She publishes widely on topics such as migration, borders, humanitarianism, and racial and gendered inequalities, and most recently, she has written about the idea of a decolonial feminist commons. She is the author of Casualties of Care: Immigration and the Politics of Humanitarianism in France (2012), and co-editor of In the Name of Humanity: The Government of Threat and Care (2010). Her latest book, Against Innocence: Undoing and Remaking the World, is forthcoming with University of Chicago Press in 2025. She is currently working on her next book, Containment and Commoning: From Bordered Worlds to Collective Life.

2Miriam Ticktin est professeure d’anthropologie à la CUNY Graduate Center (City University of New York), et directrice du Center for Place, Culture and Politics. Elle a publié de nombreux travaux sur la question des migrations, des frontières, de l’humanitarisme et des inégalités de race et de genre. Plus récemment, elle a écrit sur l’idée d’un patrimoine commun féministe décolonial. Elle est autrice de l’ouvrage, Casualties of Care: Immigration and the Politics of Humanitarianism in France (2012), et a co-dirigé l’ouvrage collectif, In the Name of Humanity: The Government of Threat and Care (2010). Son dernier livre, Against Innocence: Undoing and Remaking the World, est à paraître en 2025 aux presses universitaires de l’Université de Chicago Press in 2025. Miriam Ticktin travaille actuellement à son prochain livre, Containment and Commoning: From Bordered Worlds to Collective Life.

  • 1 This interview was conducted in February 2025.

Christine M. Jacobsen, Emeline Zougbédé1: In your 2011 work, "Casualties of Care: Migration and the Politics of Humanitarianism in France," you discuss the violent and exclusionary effects of the ‘vulnerability’ turn in French immigration policies, represented by the so-called ‘illness clause’ which allows certain ill foreigners temporary regularization for the purpose of treatment. Today, we observe a significant proliferation of the concept of vulnerability in global governance, including in France, and – intensified by the COVID-19 pandemic - across both social science research and public action. How do you perceive the ongoing expansion and persistence of this concept? Are there continuing or new concerns with its usage?

Miriam Ticktin: I went back to Casualties of Care, to look at where and how I used the concept of vulnerability. As I thought, I barely use the concept in the book – it is in there to quote the anti-trafficking protocol, and the French penal code, and I use it as a translation for “précarité.” I don’t use it analytically at all. I think the question itself is revealing, i.e., that the “illness clause” has now been incorporated into the expanding language of vulnerability, and taken as an example of it, because I do not think it was understood that way at the time. This is further proof that there has been a massive expansion of the concept and the way it is deployed to govern globally, as part of a larger humanitarian apparatus (both in relation to migration and to public health). This is concerning because as it expands, it enables and legitimizes the expansion of humanitarian government, of which it is a part. As I have argued, humanitarianism should not be doing the work of government, because it is still largely based on a logic of emergency, and in that sense, it cannot (and never promises to!) take on questions of structural violence, or inequality. As an enormously powerful billion-dollar industry, humanitarianism plays a part in what Ruth Wilson Gilmore (2009) calls the anti-state state, and what others have called the NGO industrial complex: it fills in the gaps created when the state offloads its obligations to local state or non-state institutions with the justification that states are bad and should shrink. And in the process, it perpetuates forms of racial capitalism, where the economic system inherently relies on and reinforces racial inequalities to function.

Just as some have argued that missionary Christianity was the ideological handmaiden to imperial conquest, I think of humanitarianism as both a material and ideological handmaiden to racial capitalism. Humanitarianism exploits and deepens the contemporary lines of difference and inequality that capitalists need to exploit workers and derive profit; these inequalities have been enshrined by racial differentiation and hierarchy. This racialized division is clear in the distinction between those who are fleeing their countries to make it to Europe and North America (because their countries have been exploited and ravaged for resources, creating wars over the insufficient remains), and those who build walls to keep them out. The work of humanitarians maintains this hierarchy: creating saviors and victims who fit into racialized grids, represented by the stereotypical images of suffering and “vulnerability” that we are now all familiar with (women and children). Humanitarianism responds to the capitalist demand for inequality by fixing people into essences: those empowered to help, and those who need help, and vulnerability plays directly into this, by offering a way to define and enshrine these differences. This happens most explicitly when vulnerability denotes an innate condition – such as being a woman, as opposed to being a migrant woman, who is made vulnerable by certain conditions – but even when it is supposed to designate a situational or a structural vulnerability, if the same people are named “vulnerable” over and over again, it gets understood, and produced, as a more permanent or innate condition. In other words, even while it is much more compelling to think of vulnerability structurally or situationally, I think in practice, unless we address the system causing the vulnerabilities, they will always play out as if they were innate, because the system repeatedly reproduces the same people as vulnerable.

Within the realm of social science research, especially in France, "vulnerability" is often employed as an analytical category. While recognizing that this might differ from your own usage, do you see genuine analytical value in adopting the concept of "vulnerability"? How can this concept be effectively mobilized in research, considering its embeddedness in migration governance? Are there ways in which we may address (structural) violence and inequality within a discourse of vulnerability?

I know that there has been a lot of excellent writing about vulnerability and its flexibility and potential as a concept, and this special issue takes this discussion in many interesting new directions, showing its multiple lives, possibilities and complexities. Even as I am compelled by the ways in which scholars have reworked and reclaimed vulnerability to show that it is not the opposite of resistance, but rather, an exposure to power and the starting point for embodied enactment of agency and resistance (Butler 2016) or that it need not be opposed to dignity (Dean 2015) and that power and lack of power need not be incommensurable, I find that ultimately, vulnerability depends on an understanding of bounded, liberal individuals, an ontology based on bordered and bounded bodies. While Butler’s argument is that we are interdependent and embodiment is relational, this is different from understanding ourselves and our bodies as porous, and entangled, and co-constituted. We are vulnerable in relation to an outside environment – but what if we are co-constituted, co-imbricated, not actually separate from that environment? STS Feminists, queer theorists, and scholars of Black ecologies have led the way to understandings of the body as embedded in and part of larger ecologies, as inseparable from them. These theories challenge the idea of independent liberal selves. That is, as Julie Livingston (2022) writes, the body is a tentacular relationship, where the air we breathe and exhale eventually gets inhaled by someone else, somewhere else; where the water that goes through our bodies to keep us alive may next nourish a farmer’s field. Or, as Mel Chen notes (2021), where the smoky air, from the climate-change-enhanced wildfires of California, gets inhaled by an unmasked, COVID-infected pedestrian, creating a doubly potent inhalant for the next passerby. To be clear, these interconnections are always deeply imbricated in relations of power; there is never an assumption of neutrality in this intra-action (Barad 2008). As scholars in the field of Black geographies and ecologies have shown, racism conditions people’s relationship to environments: there is no way to further environmentalism without taking racism seriously, from the location of waste disposal to that of chemical or nuclear industries. This world produces and protects some types of ecologies, certain way of being, and forms of life, over others. Yet, it still focuses on co-imbrication, not vulnerability.

This necessitates a different ontological starting point, attentive to how we are not only embedded in, but made by the world; it does not focus on our individual susceptibilities. It starts with connection, not vulnerability in relation to something, and attends to the process of becoming, more than being – we are always in the process of becoming subjects as part of and in relation to things around us. We might think of it as being part of a larger web or fabric – if the fabric is uneven, one must evaluate what made it so, why some parts are more exposed to wear than others, and rework the whole fabric accordingly; it does not help to attend to individual threads, nor even just to the holes. And this is of course an ongoing, never-ending process.

While this may sound abstract, I think it has real consequences for decentering individuals as the focal point of political life. It does not mean that some people and communities or places or spaces are not more at risk or more exposed to death. But rather than focusing on individuals, this makes us look at sets of relations: we start with devising strategies to fight the noxious effects of racial capitalism, rather than with saving individuals.

Are there alternative concepts, like "precarity," that you find more useful to address violence and inequality?

The way I understand precarity, it does focus more on the structural context – on things like infrastructures and institutional organization. It is a political condition in which certain groups become “differentially exposed to injury, violence and death” (Butler 2009). As such, it is similar to the idea of structural vulnerability. And yet, the very idea of precarity is inseparable from the context of neoliberalism, which both produces and profits from it – they are co-constituted. It is in the interest of neoliberal capital to sustain precarity, making everyone feel they need to take individual responsibility for themselves by eating certain (healthy) foods, taking certain medications or supplements, and engaging in the wellness industry. The fantasy of full capacity encourages us to participate in this pursuit. To focus on precarity misses half the story, and conditions the kinds of politics we engage in. I worry that using concepts such as precarity and vulnerability to shape and drive political responses can ultimately reinforce, rather than challenge, neoliberal practices. I guess, ultimately, my answer would be that no, I do not think that there are ways in which we can address (structural) violence and inequality within a discourse of vulnerability. They can work within it, and certain individuals will surely get relief, but at the expense of reproducing the same systemic hierarchies.

In your recent work you discuss how humanitarianism and human rights use different notions of innocence to talk about victims and about how victims are created and cared for? What are the functions and effects of the concept of ‘innocence’ in the moral economies (Fassin 2009) of contemporary Euro-American policies, which political possibilities and impossibilities does it map, and how does it articulate with ‘vulnerability’, particularly in the context of migration?

In the process of completing my forthcoming book (Against Innocence: Undoing and Remaking the World, 2025, Chicago University Press), I have thought a lot about vulnerability in relation to innocence. Innocence is a flexible concept that intimately shapes why and how we should care, for whom, and whose lives matter. Claims to innocence work to divide “good” people from “bad,” producing the exclusion, vilification, or imprisonment of those designated unworthy, where the “unworthy” are too often simply the racialized poor. Claims to innocence produce and maintain inequality, and rely on producing and protecting an impossible state of purity.

In relation to migration, the concept of innocence has been used to create a principled, moral distinction in both American and European public discourse between “refugees” and “migrants.” Real refugees are seen as innocent—fleeing well-founded fears of persecution. They are understood as passive, vulnerable, and in need of saving.  Migrants, however, are seen as illegitimate, surreptitious, untrustworthy and ultimately, criminal. Innocence is held out as the gold standard; and yet, to be clear, while used as a distinguishing criterion, innocence is not a status or condition that most people can or even want to claim in their everyday lives, as it revolves around lack: lack of knowledge, lack of desire, lack of agency, lack of will, lack of guilt. But perhaps it is precisely because innocence is about lack – emptiness – that it can be projected into many different contexts. Whatever the case, it has been deployed politically in more or less vigorous ways over time; indeed, I argue that it has moved into the center of political life today. 

Innocence is part of a cluster of moral concepts, including suffering, victimhood, and vulnerability and deservingness; these take shape in relation to one another. It is worth parsing some of these briefly, to better understand the work that each of these perform. For instance, victimhood is part of a moral constellation with the concept of innocence; the phrase innocent victim occurs so often that it can be difficult to think of innocent and victim apart. Victims of natural disasters such as earthquakes or tsunamis are the incarnation of this. But innocents need not be victims—children are one such example. And victims need not be innocent. One can be a victim of a crime without being innocent, as we know in the cases of women who kill their abusers. When decoupled from innocence, victimhood becomes a more complicated subject position, which can be tied to an act of harm and not necessarily to a fixed identity as someone pure or undeserving of harm. In other words, victimhood need not be a moral identity; it can also be a medical condition or a legal category, which, as discussed, allows for more flexibility and contestation, and a whole new set of debates, for better or worse.

Similarly, innocence is perhaps most often thought of as synonymous with or very similar to vulnerability. Both vulnerable and innocent subjects are seen as needing protection; both cannot fully care for themselves. There is an element of frailty in each; a susceptibility to harm. And in both cases, the subjects verge on being pitiful, even undignified, insofar as a normative, liberal idea of humanity is grounded not simply on ideas of rationality, autonomy, and determination but on physical wholeness (Dean 2015). As we can see in this issue, many scholars and theorists have attempted to shift understandings of vulnerability, mobilizing it as a practice of political resistance to demand the material infrastructures and social conditions necessary for everyone to live. As I have already noted, I am not convinced that vulnerability is a fundamental ontological condition, nor am I persuaded by the politics that assumes this to be the case, but these theories nevertheless make clear that vulnerability allows for relationality; one is vulnerable in relation to something or someone. Innocence, however, is a concept that stands on its own, even when contrasted with its binary others, such as guilt, knowledge, or sexuality; one is innocent or one is not. Because it is about purity, it does not allow for gradations—for being partly innocent. Innocence patrols the borders of power and powerlessness, rendering them incommensurable, while vulnerability leaves room for negotiation—it allows room for degrees of powerlessness while allowing some measure of action in the world.

Deservingness is a concept that also figures prominently in this cluster of moral concepts, and especially so in the case of migrants and refugees. Originating from the Latin “to serve well,” deservingness measures moral worth; it means to be worthy of merit, or to be entitled to something because of good service. In the US, the discourse of deservingness is harnessed in many ways to mark the most valuable members of society; those who are hard-working and law-abiding are singled out as part of a larger discourse of meritocracy. Immigrants are divided up as good and bad, deserving or not along the lines of whether they are seen as contributors to society through hard work and education, or whether they are considered economic burdens or freeloaders; the label of “undeserving” includes racialized claims of criminality, low morals, threat and disease. In my book, I am interested in how deservingness – along with other concepts such as victimhood and vulnerability – have so often come to be connected to, or measured by, innocence in contemporary political discourse. Ultimately, I find this moral cluster unable to help us produce a political world based on equality.

Which political and moral grammars can we open beyond vulnerability and innocence?

There are indeed alternative moral and political concepts and grammars! There are other positions available by which to think about relations of power, centering collective responsibility and structural inequality. One of the most compelling and useful concepts is implication. We are all implicated in the hierarchies of our social and political worlds, even if differently so. What networks are we each implicated in, what activities do we participate in, even indirectly, that perpetuate the system? In a deeply insightful book, Michael Rothberg lays out this idea, explaining that, “implicated subjects occupy positions aligned with power and privilege without being themselves direct agents of harm” (2019:1). Implicated subjects include those who occupy the more obvious structures of racial, class and gender privilege, but the concept involves more than that: the ways in which people are implicated is complex and often contradictory, and more importantly, these positions shift. Of critical importance is that being an implicated subject does not assume intentionality or consciousness. In the US, white people are implicated in a system of racial hierarchy; and they all benefit from a lack of racial justice. This is true even if one fights against this system and disavows it – one is nevertheless implicated. This form of implication can shape how one acts to change the system, but it never renders one innocent. The idea of implicatedness is a jumping off position to think about how to enact collective responsibility, and to recognize harm, in the face of the enduring systems of violence, oppression and inequality. It is more nuanced than vulnerability or innocence, which focus on individuals, and helps us toward a political grammar of collective life.

In the special issue we trace the genealogy of vulnerability in migration governance in the European and French context in particular. If you compare this to the US context, would you see any significant similarities or differences in how vulnerability is circulating and being deployed?

With the 2024 election of Donald Trump, the US is well on its way to becoming an authoritarian/fascist state. USAID has been shuttered – the main government agency offering aid to migrants (and many others around the world). I do not think that vulnerability is a relevant concept anymore in the US in terms of migration governance. The political discourse is about deportation, detention, and camps: for instance, Trump is locking up migrants in camps on Guantanamo, Cuba. Cruelty and dehumanization are being embraced with pride. And while I find this abhorrent, I don’t think the concept of vulnerability really helped before this happened – it simply paved the way for Trump’s policies. For example, former President Biden issued a 2021 executive order on refugees, emphasizing how the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) is trained to follow the standards governing refugee claims of women, children and those who are more vulnerable due to age, gender, gender expression or sexual orientation (The White House, 2021); however, this was paired with a strategy of externalizing borders via development aid, and not allowing women and children to leave their countries, in order to seek asylum (Norman & Reiling 2024). So, whether Democrat or Republican – Obama deported the largest number of migrants – vulnerability has not been deployed to actually help people on the move in, or on their way to, the US. In this illiberal era, we might say that rendering the concept effectively null and void clears the way to see what has been going on all along. It behoves us – that is, it is both an urgent necessity and an opportunity -- to create new political grammars and strategies.

In modern welfare states, visibility is often associated with legal and social protection, and increasingly, with the recognition of vulnerability in the management of migration and international protection. However, the intensification of restrictions and controls in migration and asylum policies means that becoming visible also carries the risk of expulsion and/or social stigmatisation. How do engage with the paradoxical relationship between visibility and invisibility in your own work?

This is an interesting question, and the essays in this collection take this on in nuanced ways. I have been thinking about it too, in particular in relation to my current book project which explores forms of containment (like border walls and quarantine) and commoning (forms of mutuality and collective life), as different ways to live in the world. Border walls and other forms of enclosure are increasingly taken to be “natural” or “common sense” ways to manage migration, regardless of one’s politics– there are now 74 border walls globally, compared to 15 in 1990. My goal is to historicize and denaturalize this focus, broadening the frame to attend to how people are actually living together, creating and enacting new experimental forms of life in the interstices of polarized politics. I find it helpful to think of these experiments in the frame of commoning, but this is ultimately a placeholder term for an emergent form of political imagination. That is, rather than beginning with how people live in separate, enclosed worlds – I want to create room in public discourse and practice to enable alter-visions, or alternative political formations that exist alongside the current political order (Hage 2015). I want to shift the grammar of the sensible (Rancière 2010), and what is rendered visible and invisible (and frankly imaginable) in everyday life.

But, even as I try to render visible some of these commoning experiments – such as the occupations and squats by people on the move, of buildings, abandoned lots, churches, and so on, in places like Paris, Athens, New York, Vancouver, Amsterdam, Rome and so on (Ticktin 2023) – I have had to ask myself what kind of political world I am trying to build by telling these stories. I do not just want visibility for its own sake. As we know, people on the move are hyper visible – they are constantly fleeing the desire of others to see. They are exposed: exposed to the border police, by whom they are regularly hunted down; to the smart technologies of border zones, from surveillance towers to infrared technologies; to the elements as they set up makeshift housing on abandoned lots. Why do we insist on knowing? What is the source of this desire and curiosity? Ultimately, it seems we want to know in order to control what happens – whether to stop people from moving or to support them in their mobility. We are all implicated in these forms of exposure, whether we want to get rid of borders, or fortify them; to rescue people, or let them die.

So, I realize that this project of rendering visible must also have a counterpart of rendering invisible– maintaining the possibility of fugitivity, as it were. It is about shifting the fabric of the sensible, not baring all. As many have warned, a world bent on knowing and mastering all knowledge risks creating a world of complete domination – a totalitarian world. As Edouard Glissant (1997) has suggested, we need a right to opacity, an acceptance that we cannot grasp everything that makes us who we are. To do so would erase our irreducible singularities. His struggle for “mutual opacity” includes respect for the Otherness in all of us that we cannot master, that we can never fully know.

What alternatives do you suggest to ‘rendering visible’?

I have thought about what it would mean to focus instead on ‘absent presence’ in relation to a recent trip I took to Dover and Calais, with the Multiple Mobilities Research Collective, as well as colleagues from Bristol’s Migration Mobility Research Institute. The post-industrial landscape of Calais was ripe for occupations of abandoned spaces. As we walked around, guided by no-borders scholar-activists, we saw where people on the move had once lived, on their passage to the UK. An abandoned lot; a now-empty field; a building that has since been renovated (see Figure 1). In one case, we saw an active squat, beside a warehouse of humanitarian goods; but we could only see the contours. A few people smoking outside. T-shirts on a clothesline. Even as we did not walk over to see more, this partially obscured view elicited my curiosity: what was in the shadows? We walked through history, seeing the outlines of past and current presence, the half-life of migrant passage. It is in these spaces of fragmented vision that political imagination is kindled: I imagined people cooking together, sharing stories, arguing over strategies for how to cross, crying over lost ones, laughing at someone’s silly jokes. I imagined people who were sleepless, excited, anxious, terrified. In the traces, we could see without seeing, know without knowing; we could acknowledge their lives without subjecting them to exposure. Partial vision is the place of political imagination and possibility.

While borders have an increasingly material, transnational presence, and as many of us try to create alternative political imaginations of the world to enable everyone to move, to stay and to flourish, I think we must respect the inability to “capture,” name or fully know those who move, as this Otherness is perhaps the most profound space of freedom and imagination any of us can really have.

Figure 1 : Former migrant occupation, Calais, France. Photo by Miriam Ticktin, 2024.

Figure 1 : Former migrant occupation, Calais, France. Photo by Miriam Ticktin, 2024.
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Bibliographie

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Notes

1 This interview was conducted in February 2025.

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Table des illustrations

Titre Figure 1 : Former migrant occupation, Calais, France. Photo by Miriam Ticktin, 2024.
URL http://journals.openedition.org/emulations/docannexe/image/3722/img-1.jpg
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Miriam Ticktin, Christine M. Jacobsen et Emeline Zougbédé, « From vulnerability and innocence to collective life. Interview with Miriam Ticktin »Émulations [En ligne], 49 | 2024, mis en ligne le 30 juin 2025, consulté le 22 janvier 2026. URL : http://journals.openedition.org/emulations/3722 ; DOI : https://doi.org/10.4000/148ic

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Auteurs

Miriam Ticktin

City University of New York, CUNY Graduate Center, USA

Christine M. Jacobsen

University of Bergen, Department of Social Anthropology, Norway

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Emeline Zougbédé

CNRS, Collège de France, l’Institut Convergences Migrations, France

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