Methodology

This article is based on an ethnography that explores the construction of violent masculinities, examining the life histories of seven men from Lima between the ages of 31 and 55 who committed acts of violence against their partners (see Appendix for interviewee information). The seven men attended the Institutional Care Center (CAI), which is an intervention service for adult men who have been sentenced or are in the process of being punished for acts of domestic violence and who are referred by the justice of the peace and/or family court for reeducation. It should be noted that this research did not involve fieldwork with men who have committed femicide, attempted femicide, or rape, but rather with men who have exercised physical violence (beatings) and emotional violence, which is a requirement for inclusion in the CAI. This represents a challenge, as these practices can be more subtle and intimate (gestures, acts, phrases) but also an opportunity, as it allows for the exploration of forms of symbolic violence, which ‘are accepted as naturalized in the relationship between aggressors and victims and, therefore, are powerful bastions of male domination, precisely because of their high level of hegemony’ (Ramos, 2006, p. 15). In turn, emotional violence is generally the initial form of violence, as there is no physical violence without prior emotional violence. For these reasons, and from my position as a heterosexual woman who has been educated and lives under a patriarchal system, I feel the need to investigate, reflect on, and denaturalise this system, which has been established through everyday practices and structural aspects.

This also represents an additional challenge: anthropologically, it involves intersecting the familiar-subjective with the structural, the micro with the macro, the private with the public; and personally, this article has presented a significant challenge for me, given that I do not hail from an academic background, but rather from the fields of art and communications. Despite having worked as a photographer on issues related to identity and gender, approaching these subjects from a theoretical perspective and utilising anthropological methodologies has proved to be a complex yet rewarding endeavour. Likewise, after working for twelve years with images as devices for understanding, questioning, and discussing, I now also consider words (narratives) and listening to be essential tools for creating and reflecting. It is essential to transfer the academic debate to other fields such as documentary and art, as I believe that broadening the discussion to other disciplines should be a constant interest of anthropology.

In some cases, the necessary manner in which to combat power is evident to those suffering from or dominated by such power; in other cases, the identification of the appropriate course of action is challenging due to the decentralised and fragmented nature of power. One key domain in which power is exercised is that of everyday life, and this is highly germane to my argument. In everyday life contexts, practices enable the reproduction of structures, and structures, in turn, enable the production of practice (Bourdieu, 2014). This article explores the relationship between the private sphere and the social structure that intervene in the construction of violent masculinities in the city of Lima, Peru.  

For this study, I conducted 34 interviews with the seven men who took part in this study. They were interviewed individually, with their informed consent obtained prior to participation. To protect privacy and confidentiality, interviewee names and any identifying information have been anonymised; pseudonyms are used throughout this study. I conducted around five virtual interviews with each interviewee, lasting between one and two hours, once a week. For these interviews, I employed the life story method, involving semi-structured conversations about the interviewees’ life trajectories (childhood, adolescence, and adulthood), which were then transcribed. The interviewees were recruited in two ways: in person at the CAI-Breña facilities, and virtually, at the beginning of a group session led by a CAI-Breña therapist. All interviews were conducted virtually due to the pandemic situation at the time.

In the sections that follow, I argue that children’s play, as well as the consumption of television or cinema at different stages of life, are spaces in which the reproduction of power can be detected. The reason for this is that power is no longer constructed negatively (as repression), but positively (as production). The consumption practices under scrutiny here are conceptualised as forms of sociality, that is, as sites of desire and jouissance (Martín-Barbero, 2015). It is imperative to underscore the pivotal role that a multitude of factors play in shaping how interviewees engage with television series, films, and games throughout their lifetimes. The accessibility of these media, the settings in which they are consumed, and the social companions who are present during these activities are all important factors to consider. It is evident that these elements are shaped by a neoliberal logic that not only commodifies leisure time but also promotes individualisation. Following the victory of the eight-hour working day in the 19th century in Peru, the day was rationally divided into three segments: eight hours for work, eight for culture and family, and eight for sleep and rest. Nevertheless, subsequent to the neoliberal deregulation that has taken place, this is no longer the case. The prevailing reality is that contemporary society produces a greater volume of goods and services, yet the working week has not diminished. Indeed, the notion of leisure time has become increasingly elusive. This phenomenon is predominantly driven by the male demographic, which continues to dominate the paid labour force, along with the associated mandates and desires that come with it.

The masculinities of the subjects interviewed have been shaped by a societal context characterised by the prevalence of precarious employment and market logics, which have had a significant impact on their family life. This has resulted in a reduction in the time available for shared family activities, leading to a centralisation of individualistic interests that are largely detached from collective initiatives. Furthermore, the forms of entertainment that these men engage with, namely games and television consumption, serve to illustrate the strengths and limitations of social life. This culture, as demonstrated, does not critically evaluate these logics and, instead, reproduces them passively.

In the context of contemporary society, the notion of gender as a social construct is a fundamental concept that is influenced by the media and the entertainment industry. The interviewees’ responses indicate that these devices function as instruments that facilitate socialisation among peers. However, these very same devices also serve to perpetuate the archetypes of the hero, the warrior, the patriarch, and the sexualised woman. This perpetuates the norms of masculinity and subjugates femininity, thus reinforcing binary and heteronormative logics. Consequently, the pervasive consumption of these industries has a colonising effect on the imagination, thereby hindering the capacity to envision an alternative world.

The participants’ awareness of gender stereotypes is evident in the analysis they produce following the recounting of their memories, likely because they have attended the CAI sessions. However, this awareness does not appear to transcend these narratives, as there are no mentions or actions to prove real changes. The pervasive nature of deeply entrenched beliefs, which, as Eagleton (2005) contends, are akin to the resilience of forests and are transmitted across generations, is evidenced by the persistence of numerous preconceptions. This article thus seeks to elucidate the practices of masculinities that facilitate the reproduction of structures that, in turn, enable the production of violent practices. These practices give rise to subjects who embody violence and who perpetuate fragile and hegemonic forms of couple and relationship dynamics. 

Power Relations in Playtime

My aim is to deepen discussion on the concept of play, as it is one of the earliest practices with which human beings engage in order to explore the world. As we know, ‘play implies a constant tension between the established, the possible and the imagined, and those who play are transformed into the very act of playing’ (Cabra, 2013, p. 166) and, thus, there lies its potency. Toys represent a ‘collective configuration,’ that is to say they are a universe of signs that express a specific historical situation (Benjamin, 2016, p. 7). In this sense, games can be regarded as metaphors for everyday life and for the state of society as a whole. However, it is important to note that within the context of a patriarchal and capitalist system, a habitus has emerged that continues to impose limitations on girls, confining them to games of care, and on men, relegating them to games of hardness, aggressiveness, and competitiveness. The exploration of this tradition is of particular interest.

Luis (31 years old) has meticulously arranged a curated collection of his most prized collectible toys on a shelf in his personal living space. This collection encompasses notable items such as the helmet of the Power Rangers, the hammer of Thor (Mjölnir), the helmet and glove of Iron Man, and the radar and ‘Power Detector’ from Dragon Ball Z¹. These items, which represent iconic representations of superheroes and warriors from popular television series, are not only a testament to Luis’s personal interest but also serve as shared family treasures, fostering a sense of communal engagement and enjoyment. The ‘Power Detector’ caught my eye, and I asked if he could show it to me; he brought it over and quickly put it on. This device, when affixed to the head, displays the quantity of power in numerical form. At that moment, I innocently thought that the ‘detector’ would display a numerical value; but Luis told me that it was ‘fake’. The device, it was explained, was incapable of measuring power, a capability that was possessed by the series’ protagonist, Goku, who, it was further explained, was ‘untouchable and defeats everyone, always for good, never for evil’. I inquired as to the nature of the power detector that he had invented, and he informed me that it would measure: ‘physical strength’.

In the interaction with the toy, Luis associates power with physical strength, a quality that, along with the honour and reputation conferred by the figure of the superhero, becomes a mandate or authorial theme throughout his life (Fuller, 2018). As he explains, ‘I collect, mistakenly or unconsciously, things that I couldn’t have as a child; now that I can, I have them’. His childhood collection comprised the ‘taps’ (circular plastic figures) of the Knights of the Zodiac², which were available in Winter’s Chocolates. For the collector, ‘the world is present in each of his pieces’ (Benjamin, 2016, p. 43). The interest in these characters during childhood and adulthood, through television series, films, toys and food, involves an ‘ideal of the self,’ a figure that imposes itself as a mandate, as a life project. In this case, the protagonists, who embody the archetype of the hero, aspire to save the world, albeit in a solitary manner, through the application of physical force. Conversely, David (42) engaged in video gaming during his entire childhood, youth, and adulthood. He and his school friends would frequently abscond from class to play Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat. In contrast to Luis, who engaged in play with dolls (though not the same ones he now possesses as an adult), David did not take part in such activities. During his childhood, David’s father informed him and his cousins that: ‘No dolls, for you it’s your car, your kite and your top, and if you don’t have anything to play with, go to the farm’. David voices his discontent regarding the limited freedom he experienced in his childhood. This discontent may have been exacerbated by the perceived limitations of his childhood, compounded by his experiences at school, leading him to seek respite in the video games booths. The release of Mortal Kombat in 1992 led to immediate associations with a rampant glorification of crime. In the game, fighters were able to decapitate their opponents and then display the head as a trophy (Crossley, 2014). Since its emergence, the industry has been at the forefront of pushing the boundaries of violence and establishing a rating system for violence in video games (Ross, 2021). The character David, formerly known as ‘Kano,’ is depicted as the leader of a criminal organisation and a mercenary, proficient in the use of slashing weapons and sporting a prosthetic red eye (Mortal Kombat Fandom, 2020). The depiction of this character in the video game prompts a reflection on the relationship between violence in video games and its potential influence on real-life experiences among young people. Benjamin (1987) posits that the function of fantasy representation, reproduced and disseminated through technical means, is to serve as a mirror of society (and its dangers), thereby facilitating recognition of our own horrors in more everyday terms.

Standing back a little, it is possible that the video game Mortal Kombat could serve as a medium for warning of the threats and violence that are prevalent in the everyday world of the user. However, it is also plausible that the game does not actively caution players about these issues, but rather entices them to immerse themselves in the fantasy world of the game. In framing this kind of problem, Segato (2003) proposes the consideration of the limits of such entrapment and the reflection on the discourses and media that enable it, given that this is not proportional to the speed and abundance with which violence may increase on a daily basis. It is also important to consider additional factors, including the frequency, social context, and temporal and spatial dimensions of such consumption. 

In this instance, David is employed as a driver of a combi, that is, a small bus that does not have a formal route. His working week is from Monday to Sunday, with a daily working time of 12 hours. His daily earnings range from 20 to 30 soles, and he has three bank debts. Despite the flexibility of the combi, he finds satisfaction in adhering to a consistent daily routine of driving the same routes. ‘I feel the adrenaline of driving … and you can’t get tired because they are different, there is a frequency that is not the same, you don’t drive around with the same cars, you see how to find more passengers’. It appears that this tendency has persisted over time, albeit now manifesting in the early hours of the morning, subsequent to driving, and with the benefit of a mobile phone. I then inquired as to whether he considered his bus journeys to be analogous to video games. He replies: ‘It’s like a car race, but in reality. In the video game you have to come first and in reality it is like Top Gear, the video game’. The parallel between his work and video games is no coincidence. David may be what Huizinga (2007) calls ‘homo ludens,’ a man who desires free time but, lacking that time, gamifies his work. His lifelong engagement with video games, while not a direct cause of his violent actions, is a component of a broader set of practices characterised by the exercise of power, control, and hierarchy in his actions.

School is another microcosm where interviewees report experiences reflecting how power relations are generated and reproduced. This process occurs not only through the exclusion of those deemed to be ‘heroes’ from those considered to be ‘outsiders’ [i.e., ‘nerds’ and ‘sissies’] (Del Castillo, 2001), but also through the, at times, authoritarian relationship between teachers and students. Pedro, for instance, recollects that ‘if someone was mischievous or did not do their homework, the teacher would call Linares (the largest boy in the class), and he would carry the student who had done something wrong and give him two hard slaps’. For Pedro and his classmates, their teacher’s method was not ‘ideal,’ but he believes that ‘the teacher had all the good intentions of making us good people for society. The way he corrected us helped us, he formed our character to be able to move forward’. For Pedro, the ends justified the means. Unlike Luis, who, in his third year of secondary school, confronted his maths teacher: ‘You touch me, there’ll be consequences… ah, you’re threatening me, and bam, he slapped me twice on the back, and I slapped him. Even my mum doesn’t touch me, you’re going to touch me’. In many schools, discipline is currently enforced to a lesser extent through physical means, such as corporal punishment or physical demands, which encourage a pedagogy of violence. In Pedro’s case, this is justified, while in Luis’ case, it is rejected but nevertheless employed.

Fernando recollects that, during his time at a mixed-gender educational school, the men were made to run around the sports field if they were ‘naughty,’ but not the women: ‘I don’t remember seeing the women punished, the brigadier [school police] just took them away’. From this I intuit that it is not that the women were not punished, but that the punishments at school are also gendered; that is, there are some for women and others for men. As Fernando tells me about this episode, he recalls others in which he and his classmates bullied a couple of boys. One had a high-pitched voice and stuttered, and, ‘we used to tease him about being nerd and the other about being gay. We made him cover up when we played football’. The mechanisms of denial, of ‘not being’ a woman, are foundational to the formation of masculinity. This process is characterised by a defensive stance, driven by the fear of appearing feminine, and is constructed on the basis of denial and opposition: ‘I am not my mother, I am not a baby, I am not a girl’ (Badinter, 1992, p. 79). Therefore, if one of these characteristics appears in a child or adolescent, they are excluded in an incontrovertible and collective way.

In this regard, any indications of ambiguity must be eradicated through the administration of assessments that evaluate physical strength or sexual orientation. Playground and neighbourhood games are useful for thinking about how this process develops. In primary school, Pedro and his friends played at throwing tangerine seeds and guarango fruits at each other; they also constructed rudimentary slingshots by affixing metal plates to rubber bands, with the objective of propelling the plates at their opponents’ skin: the winner was the one who threw them the hardest and left the skin red. Conversely, Jorge remembers playing with his friends in the neighbourhood where they would adopt the personas of characters from western films and making pistols out of the stalks of the Concuno, a medicinal plant. In both cases, the games are linked to an exercise in violence, since they were aimed at hurting the rival.

Consumption and Reproduction of Mandates of Masculinity on TV

At the end of the 1980s, several of the interviewees were entering their teenage years, as was I myself. The national television schedule was not very varied, featuring many canned programs from the United States or comedy shows that glorified male virility and the objectification of women. Miguel liked Westerns, both films and TV series, his favourite being Bonanza: a USAmerican series set in the mid-19th century that tells the story of a wealthy family, led by a patriarch, and their struggle to protect themselves, their neighbours, and their land. When Miguel played with his friends in the neighbourhood, he re-enacted episodes in which his white cachaquitos [soldiers] faced Indian cachaquitos: he ‘imagined a battle of the Indians against those with horses’. I ask him which side he used to play and he tells me ‘the white ones… At that time, we tried to wipe out the Indians, although it was an injustice, but when we saw that they dressed differently, we tried to eliminate them. The Indians had no clothes, they had feathers, they had no shoes… the whites were people who had everything, their hat, their horse, they had all their clothes, normal clothes, and they also had their weapons, they were better equipped, logically’. This represents the dualistic discourse of Western thought (the savage versus the civilised), which is analogous to the binary gender thinking (as with feminine versus masculine) that establishes hierarchies. Indeed, this strategy of the ‘colonialist’ game reproduces a racial classification (Quijano, 2014). Miguel ‘liquidates’ the Indians because they are ‘different,’ they do not have ‘everything complete’. Racialisation, therefore, is not merely a matter of skin colour, but rather a social process of classification. Racial and gendered dynamics serve as instruments through which power is exerted and manifested in quotidian practices, including play.

One of the programmes Peruvians almost had to watch on Saturdays was Risas y Salsa. Miguel waited every Saturday to see the sketch ‘El jefecito’ [the little boss], which later became a series in its own right due to its great success. The story was about an accountant, Federico, who was in love with his secretary, Chelita, and his efforts to win her over. ‘He was in his fifties and she was 25-27, she was a girl, that’s why he was so happy… he was in a different phase of his life and having an illusion made him live, that’s why he went into details; he would run, bring her coffee, chocolate, flowers, he was constantly flattering her,’ Miguel tells me, laughing, almost bursting into laughter, and continues, ‘it was funny because he went out of his way. He would buy things, he would be sweet, he would learn things about poetry, he was a gentleman in the extreme and that made me laugh because he was always frustrated’. Miguel’s derisive remarks directed towards Federico stem from the perception that Chelita embodies an unattainable archetype. Huerta (2021) posits that humour stems from irony, surprise, and contradiction, with the object of humour reflecting, in essence, our fundamental aversions or apprehensions. Humour, as a form of truth-producing fiction, necessitates a shared code, thereby fostering a sense of communal understanding and agreement.

The character of Federico, in contrast, represents a paradigm of hegemonic masculinity. Repetitively, he exhibited his virility before his peers (the audience), employing Chelita as a mere object of aesthetic pleasure. ‘He was at her feet and she played along to get her job done. First, she would play hard to get … then he would insist and when he tried to make a pass at her, she would stop him and that was the fun because he would go on his face. It didn’t work for him and he kept insisting. I waited like this every Saturday… I waited every Saturday and said, “What is this man going to do now?”’ Conversely, in Miguel’s narrative, Chelita is perpetually sexualised due to her reliance on a sexist rationale to maintain her employment. As the pursuit of the desired object is perpetually thwarted, the woman is reduced to a mere image, serving as a catalyst for male desire (De Lauretis, 1992).

The television programmes that these men watched during their childhood and adolescence are part of their memories and have undoubtedly shaped their subjectivities and desires. Consequently, some individuals express greater concern than others regarding the television programmes their offspring watch. In the case of Luis, he has prohibited his children from watching soap operas ‘because I have friends whose 12–13 year old daughters are pregnant… I mean, I want my children to be happy, to live their childhood in peace’. Luis’s approach to child-rearing is characterised by a preference for prohibiting his offspring from viewing romantic narratives that are a constituent element of telenovelas, as opposed to facilitating discourse on the subjects of love and sexuality: ‘If he asked me, I would talk, but it’s not something that comes from me’.

In Jorge’s case, he viewed the television programme, Rosa Salvaje,  during his childhood years, an activity in which he engaged alongside his father; ‘he laughed at the way she spoke’ (the protagonist). Despite not engaging in the viewing of telenovelas alongside his offspring, he does, nevertheless, partake in the viewing of the programme Esto es Guerra (a youth television game show), although less and less: ‘before it was a matter of fighting to win something, now they have to give a kiss to achieve something… even with their bodies they call people’. I asked him to explain what he meant by the last sentence, and he said: ‘I’ll give you the example of Farfán [a football player], if he hadn’t been a player and hadn’t had money, do you think they would have paid attention to him? It’s not that you have to be good-looking to get things, but don’t get me wrong, you’re not going to put a fat guy in the team. The programme wants people who can sell’. 

In his critique of the programme, Jorge raises further elements associated with the concept of masculinity, including financial prosperity and adherence to specific beauty standards. The popular phrase ‘wallet kills gallant,’ often associated with many footballers, links the idea of getting everything, even a woman, at the cost of money, but also at the cost of a muscular body. As Kogan (2015) contends, muscle fulfills a dual role. On the one hand, it enhances the perception of capability and on the other, it embodies a moral value that is effortless, representing a performance in accordance with the principles of productivity and efficiency. In contemporary society, the body and consumption are closely linked. Jorge’s assertion that ‘the programme wants people who can sell’ is therefore valid; the body is a commodity. Jorge’s critique of the programme encompasses additional elements associated with the mandates of masculinity, including financial prosperity and adherence to specific beauty standards. In the same way that it is also a sign (Baudrillard, 2009), the body speaks about who we are, our desires and our trajectory. The issue at hand is not the definition of the body itself, but rather the discourses that it traverses. It is evident that the human body is a source of discomfort and disquiet, and ‘with our own limbs we make the alphabet of that discourse which is the unconscious’ (Lacan, 2014, p. 307). For this reason, it was deemed pertinent to explore these men’s perceptions of beauty through the following question:

It is noteworthy that the majority of the interviewees were able to articulate their perceptions of physical attractiveness (i.e., ‘being handsome’) with a high degree of ease. Nevertheless, it must be acknowledged that their responses may have been influenced, at least in part, by my own preconceived ideas. Jorge was the exception to this, however, as he informed me that a handsome man ‘has to be respectful,’ thus avoiding any discussion of physical appearance.

The subjects’ perceptions of beauty and body type (i.e., muscular or slim) allow for the exploration of issues surrounding masculinity from alternative perspectives. For instance, the correlation between masculinity and race, exemplified by the association of white skin with a specific nose, eye, and hair traits, as well as the notion of masculinity being intertwined with emotionality. In a separate conversation, Fernando disclosed that the dissolution of his relationship had had a profound impact on his self-esteem. This could be indicative of a strategy employed to combat this, which involves the ascription of an ideal type of beauty, the ‘Caribbean body,’ to self-esteem. This could also result in the emergence of a narcissistic subject, a phenomenon typical of a society in which the self assumes a form of merchandise (Lipovetsky, 2002).

Conclusion

I began this research with the aim of understanding how violent masculinities are constructed. It was clear to me that masculinities are not isolated subjectivities, but are intertwined with economic, political, cultural, and social power dynamics. In this sense, and in order to focus my analysis, I concentrated on the intersection of the personal lives of seven men who committed acts of violence against their partners with socioeconomic and cultural consumption patterns.

What I found is that these are not just acts of violence committed by individuals, but acts of violence produced by a violent structure. The testimonies I collected reveal the various types of violence they suffered and committed in their life stories. These range from direct physical and psychological violence against themselves or their partners and children to symbolic violence embedded in ideology, the media, and education, which legitimises other forms of violence, both direct and structural.

It is therefore important to emphasise how these masculinities are part of a systematic plan for a productive system that traps them in a violent cycle. This poses a significant challenge in terms of maintaining focus on the central problem of structural violence. This is exemplified by a system that renders work precarious and fosters individualism, thereby engendering couple and parental bonds devoid of collective goals. On a large scale, this system erodes social solidarity. State and educational policies perpetuate a hierarchical structure based on gender, reinforced by binary logic and heteronormative standards. Furthermore, the entertainment industry perpetuates the objectification of women and the promotion of consumerist and violent practices.

The task at hand is a challenging one, particularly when it comes to dismantling a system that has been in operation for a considerable length of time. The testimonies of the seven interviewees, who belong to a lower middle socio-economic class and reside in Lima, do not constitute a representative sample of Peru, yet they do elucidate masculinities that engender and perpetuate a violent system that prevails in the country.

Confronted with this pervasive structural violence, a novel inquiry emerged: what factors contribute to the non-violent disposition of males? Following in-depth interviews with a number of participants, it became evident that there was a strong desire amongst the group to communicate their experiences and to be heard. However, it was also apparent that there was an absence of appropriate spaces within which to facilitate this expression. This necessity for communication and self-reflection is not merely a therapeutic concern, but rather a societal imperative that extends beyond the therapeutic realm to encompass the evaluation of individuals and their collective. The objective is to facilitate self-knowledge and understanding through the experience of both oneself and others. These spaces should facilitate introspection and the articulation of emotions, as emotions are socially constructed, mobilise and transcend borders, and thus possess considerable potency. Consequently, the notion of new masculinities necessitates a consideration of processes of resistance against hegemonic masculinity. A comprehensive deconstruction of not only masculinities but also gender and love becomes imperative, thereby denaturalising and destabilising hegemonic imaginaries.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the seven men who collaborated in this research, CAI-Breña, and my colleagues with whom I had conversations that enriched my analysis.

ORCID iD 

Lucero Del Castillo Ames https://orcid.org/0000-0001-9276-1701

Funding

No financial support was received for the research, authorship, or publication of this article. 

Declaration of Competing Interests

The author declares that they have no competing interests. 

Statement on AI Use

The author declares that artificial intelligence (AI) tool DeepL Translate was used to assist in manuscript preparation. AI was used solely for translation, and all content, interpretation, and conclusions are the author’s own.

Interview Data Availability and Ethical Compliance

This study is based on qualitative interview data collected with informed consent. All interviewees’ names and identifying information have been fully anonymised, and pseudonyms are used throughout the manuscript. Due to the sensitive nature of the data and the confidentiality commitments made to participants, the full transcripts cannot be publicly shared. De-identified excerpts relevant to the analysis are included within the article, and further anonymised materials may be made available from the corresponding author upon reasonable request.