For the past couple of weeks, I’ve put off finishing Republic Commando, the book series I’ve been re-reading following the 20th anniversary of Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith and my subsequent dive back into the first fandom of my childhood, Star Wars. The series doesn’t have a happy ending (or even an ending.) That played into my reluctance.
What was worse, however, was that I instantly knew I wouldn’t have time to write down all the thoughts that were swirling around my head upon re-reading. I was feeling myself slip into the sort of derangement all too familiar to all those of us who are in fandom, or worse, academia.
It’s funny re-reading books that you were obsessed with when you were young. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you accidentally discover a common thread that has been winding its way through your life since before you could even name it as such. Imagine my delight when, after four years of working on a dissertation on group identity, nationalism, and gender, I picked up the Republic Commando series and found these themes staring me right back in the face.
The books are sexist. There’s no way around it, and their sexism becomes more apparent as the series goes on. Most of the criticism I’ve seen of the books’ sexism has tended to focus on the treatment of the female characters. There’s certainly a lot there.
Take Etain Tur-Mukan, the Jedi protagonist. She’s a padawan at the beginning of the series, becomes a knight and a commander in the army. Her story is heartbreakingly compelling: she’s a young woman who struggles with her grasp of the Force, who is forced to assume a military command and ends up finding community with the clones because she, too, is a kind of outcast.
Yet Etain, simply because she is a woman, is constantly called naïve for actions that male characters commit with impunity. This judgement has nothing to do with her actions, and everything to do with the fact that she is undertaking these actions as a woman. When she decides to keep a pregnancy from her boyfriend, she is called selfish. When the man’s adoptive father decides to do the same, it’s called a rational risk-assessment. Plus, as her pregnancy progresses, we get to hear all sorts of characters remark on how crazy her hormones must be making her. It’s enough to make a man consider something drastic, like write a blog post.
There are further examples. Besany Wennen, a woman whose main characterising feature is how hot she is, gets shoehorned into a housewife role once she meets a clone trooper boyfriend. One of the only female Mandalorians we meet, Rav Bralor, barely has speaking lines, and all she gets to do is (literally) make a home. (This is compared to other Mandalorians who are introduced later in the series whose roles gradually expand.)
Still, I’m not so interested in the sexism inherent in making most of your female characters homemakers and wives and just generally secondary to the male characters. There’s something deeper here. I’m interested in how the sexism of the books subverts the idea of Mandalorian identity as an open identity.
One thing Mandalorians textually do not care about is descent from a Mandalorian lineage. Traditionally, descent is a key aspect of nationalist rhetoric. Jus sanguinis, the law of the blood, is still a way in which many states understand their citizenship policy: you have to be born to the people to be of the people. This notion has led and continues to lead to hate crimes, organised violence, and genocide.
Traviss takes descent away from her Mandalorians and then asks: what does identity look like in the absence of this? And she manages to create a compelling story for an identity that succeeds not in spite of this absence, but precisely because of its absence. Mando identity works anywhere, for anyone who feels othered in their place in life, and who would like to belong somewhere. It is the quintessential inclusive identity.
I don’t think Traviss is very interested in interrogating the exclusions her culture produces, but I am. The books mostly support her story of an inclusive identity because the characters she presents truly are vulnerable and oppressed. One of the most compelling aspects of the books is her interrogation of the rights of clones, and the ethics of creating an army of people who were literally bred to fight.
At the same time, the story works in favour of her narrative of an open identity because, as long as there’s a war on where only certain people fight, the gender order underlying her books remains unquestioned. The commando squads are all men because the clones are all men. The culture is martial because there’s a war on and as such, certain things (a humour, a habitus) can be excused. The exclusion of women from these military spaces, which we would have to question in our culture, are explained in-story, and are therefore, to a certain extent, beyond criticism. After all, the books didn’t invent the clone army, or the way male soldiers will talk amongst themselves.
Moreover, Mandalorian culture seems to offer a way out of the rigid hierarchy of the army. Mandalorian culture offers the clones an identity, becoming a sort of salvation for them in a world that regards them as sub-human. And readers can rest assured that everything is better in this Mandalorian utopia: you are judged based on merit, not on where you came from. You, too, can belong, as long as you follow the basic tenets.
Still, the gender order continues to haunt the books.
At the beginning of each chapter, a quote introduces a commentary on something in the books: a plot point that can be resolved off-screen, a news bulletin about an event, or, in later books, further worldbuilding. In one of those quotes, the introduction of the resol’nare, the basic tenets of Mandalorian society is framed as a mother teaching her daughter.
Now, when I find myself in times of trouble regarding questions of cultural reproduction and gender, I turn to esteemed feminist sociologist Nira Yuval-Davis and her colleague Floya Anthias to aid me. Yuval-Davis & Anthias (1989, p. 7) wrote:
“[W]e can [...] locate five major (although not exclusive) ways in which women have tended to participate in ethnic and national processes and in relation to state practices. These are:
(a) as biological reproducers of members of ethnic collectivities;
(b) as reproducers of the boundaries of ethnic/national groups;
(c) as participating centrally in the ideological reproduction of the collectivity and as transmitters of its culture;
(d) as signifiers of ethnic/national differences—as a focus and symbol in ideological discourses used in the construction, reproduction and transformation of ethnic/national categories;
(e) as participants in national, economic, political and military struggles.”
“Women as reproducers of national culture” is literally one of the staples of nationalist ideology.
While Mandalorian culture subverts the biologically reproducing nation, and Mandalorian culture is not particularly interested in women as symbols or boundary markers, Mandalorian women are both participants in the national struggle, and central to the ideological reproduction of the collective. If you go to the Wookieepedia article on Legends Mandalorians right now, and you read the section on society, you can read this wonderful paragraph:
“Mandalorian males were all expected to be warriors, and were responsible for training their sons to be the same. Females were expected to have the same martial skills as males, and were responsible for the training of daughters. They were also expected to be able to cook, and to care for any young children and defend the home if the men were away. But if they had no children dependent on them, females would fight side by side with the men on the battlefield, and the couple was expected to share the responsibilities in the home.”
I will only say this once: If care work is the primary responsibility of women, your society is not free of sexism. This is a post-sexist society the same way many Soviet societies claimed to be post-sexism, by bringing women into the labour market while still leaving them with care responsibilities at home that left the fundamental division of labour between the genders untouched.
We see Kal Skirata, the main Mandalorian of the series, teach his sons Mandalorian culture, and his identity as a father is central to his character—and yet, when it comes to illustrating cultural reproduction, Traviss chooses a woman? Was it out of some instinct about the absence of women in her stories? Or was she reaching for that underlying trope, that women-as-culture narrative that so often excludes them from political participation?
For all of the emphasis on gender equality and Kal raising the boys, women are still expected to be reproducers of national culture, and beyond that “beautiful soul[s]” (Elshtain, 1987, p. xiii) for whom men fight.
Most of the clones get paired of over the course of the series, mostly with a woman they have met once. With the exception of one or two of these pairs, few of their relationship dynamics get significant plot time, so you’re left to wonder what these two people have in common. Truly the only for adding women into the story at all is to give them a clone boyfriend shortly thereafter. Not only is it sexist, it’s also wildly heteronormative. Are we really supposed to believe that, out of three million clones with distinct personalities and preferences, all three million turned out with a romantic and sexual attraction that fits our broad cultural norm?
This point leads me straight to the tension between family and descent as understood in the Mando way. One of the books’ central plots revolves around the pregnancy of one of the Jedi characters, Etain. She decides to have a child with her clone partner to give him a kind of future. This, textually, is “the Mandalorian way.” Children represent the future. A biological child represents a personal future.
It's interesting to consider this notion in the context of the wider series, because few other characters express the idea that biological children constitute a kind of individual futurity. Quite the opposite, there is a Mandalorian saying that goes “aliit ori’shya tal’din,” meaning “family is more than blood.” And yet, there is also this notion that to conceive a child that carries forward one’s genes is a special kind of futurity, moreso than any other connection the clones manage to build.
I turn to the Mandalorian tenet “tribe.” Mandalorian culture is textually at least somewhat anarchist, organised in loosely federated clans of “chosen families” (I shudder to use the term.) Yet the families we are presented with understand themselves in nuclear family terms or are even related by blood. These traditional families often adhere to quite traditional gender roles and hierarchical structures, structured along lines of parent/child and husband/wife. Most every who enters into the clan eventually has to assume one of these roles. Men are adopted; women marry into the clan. This is not a tribal clan—it's the national family.
I’m going to level with you; this is the part where my desire for what I want Mandalorian society to be runs up against what the text wants it to be. There’s a huge potential in these “loosely federated clans,” but they all group under one leader anyway, even if he doesn’t do much and generally doesn’t hold that much power. My little anarchist heart beats a little faster when I imagine the potential in a society that organises based on need, that disperses and re-forms based on mutual solidarity. But it’s not what the text gives us.
The family does a lot of work in the imagining of the nation. Renowned feminist scholar Anne McClintock has written on the importance of the family image that the nation as a family can legitimise hierarchical structures under supposedly unified interests. Put differently: When we imagine the nation as a family, we accept that some naturally have more rights than others (husbands over wives, parents over children), but that all work towards a common goal (McClintock, 1993, p. 64). The Mandalorian clans presented in Republic Commando reproduce this.
As (no doubt) so many of you, I recently also finished the second season of Andor. That show, too, revolves around a community of people that share a common identity of choice—but that community rarely cleaves to a family structure. People organise because of shared ideals, and they create a community based on that. Sometimes they also create families, but family is not a given.
Why is it so hard to imagine Andor, and so easy to imagine these Mandalorians? Perhaps, deep down, many of us secretly long for the suffocating embrace of the nuclear family, a community of destiny that removes our ability to choose, because the choice is exhausting. And with, almost as an echo, comes a longing for the nation state it implies, one with a basis in biological descent and gender binaries.
One thing that’s also quite revealing of the series’ biases is the way in which phrases are translated from Mando’a into English. Mando’a is a gender-neutral language, but personal nouns such as buir (parent) are regularly translated as “father,” and it’s noted in-text as exceptional when they’re applied to women as “mother.” Part of this, I’m sure, is an assumed English-speaking unease with using gender neutral terms (no one would affectionately call their parent “parent,” I suppose) but that creates a gendered impression of a language that should be gender neutral.
All in all, gender is fundamental to the Mandalorians. This becomes evident in cultural reproduction, in notions of family and the homeland. Mandalorians, it seems, are just another national culture. Nothing new under the sun, not even in a galaxy far, far away.
The failure of Mandalorian identity to truly constitute an open, non-essentialist identity is inextricably linked to the failure of imagining a different gender order. As Anne McClintock (1993, p. 77) writes:
“If nationalism is not transformed by an analysis of gender power, the nation-state will remain a repository of male hopes, male aspirations and male privilege.”
Without an understanding of how gender figures into the construction of national collectivities, and without a strong feminist ethos, the Mandalorians remain a national collective much like any other. The Mandalorian community is imagined through central tenets that value the family, the language, and traditions. The transmission of culture and language is a gendered process. Lastly, the family as a basis of social organisation legitimises gendered hierarchies. Women remain homemakers, even as they’re also warriors.
I felt a certain sadness when I wrapped up the last book of my re-read. As a kid, I bought into the story of Mandalorian culture. As a trans guy, closeted even from myself, I nevertheless understood myself as one of the guys. Surely the exclusions that I did perceive (that I could not help perceive, because they were sexist exclusions I was encountering in my daily life lived as a woman) would magically not apply to me. I have since ingested too much feminist theory to still be fun at parties, and I no longer want to ignore these exclusions, even if they might not mean me. A community founded on a binary notion of gender that props up a system of exclusions can never be the community that liberates us.
Still, I do not love this series any less after my re-read. If anything, I love it more, because it taught me something about myself: even before I started this PhD, I was drawn to stories about groups of people that investigate the mythology they share. I turned that passion into a 300+ page dissertation, but I can trace it all the way back to reading these books, as a nerdy teenager in the mid-aughts.
May we all nerd out so hard that it earns us a postgraduate degree.