The Silence Between Power and Pleasure By Sulaah Bien-Aime

Written around 2015

“We demand that sex speak the truth […] and we demand that it tell us our truth — or rather, the deeply buried truth of that truth about ourselves which we think we possess in our immediate consciousness.”
— Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, Vol. 1

The discussion of sex and its use as a form of social control is one of the most polarizing and enduring intellectual conversations of our time. While many scholars have examined the evolving roles of sexuality, none have done so with the precision and audacity of Michel Foucault in The History of Sexuality, An Introduction – Volume 1.

Published in 1980, The History of Sexuality traces the transformation of sexual discourse beginning in the 17th century — a time Foucault describes as freer, less repressed, and more accepting of sexual expression. According to him, that relative freedom was extinguished with the rise of the Victorian bourgeoisie, a period that confined sex to the marriage bed and redefined it as a tool for power, reproduction, and silence.

It’s through this historical observation that Foucault challenges us with what he calls the repressive hypothesis, asking:

1. Is sexual repression an established historical fact?
2. Do the mechanisms of power in societies like ours really operate through repression?
3. Are prohibition, censorship, and denial truly the forms through which power is exercised — particularly in our society?

As we delve deeper into The History of Sexuality, the reader quickly realizes that Foucault isn’t solely interested in sex — but in how sex is used. It becomes an object of analysis, a vessel for knowledge, a tool for categorization. Through this lens, sexuality becomes central to how we define ourselves.

According to Foucault, sexuality is malleable — easily shaped and reformed to fit cultural, political, and institutional agendas. It becomes a form of social control, which explains why sex permeates so many discourses — in education, psychiatry, religion, and especially within the marriage bed.

We are conditioned to overanalyze and censor our thoughts and desires. Foucault argues that this is not the result of individual repression but a systemic design — a network of power shaping how we see ourselves, and more importantly, how we police ourselves.

By tracing this historical shift, Foucault reveals a painful truth: we have far less control than we think. Who we are is often the result of rules written by others. Only by recognizing this can we begin to free ourselves from that repression.

When reading Natalie Zemon Davis’ The Return of Martin Guerre, I found myself thinking not about the impostor, but about the real Martin — before he left.

Why did he abandon everything?

Foucault’s repressive hypothesis echoes through Martin’s silence. At fourteen, he’s forced into a marriage designed to protect the family’s wealth — not his will. At ten, Bertrand becomes his bride. Martin is not only denied choice, but now expected to perform sexually, immediately, under watchful eyes and public scrutiny.

When he doesn’t, his masculinity and sexuality become objects of ridicule. It’s no longer private. His supposed impotence becomes public discourse.

Davis writes:
“For a while Martin and his family might have hoped the impotence would pass… In the Basque country there was a custom that allowed ‘young men’ the freedom to try out their women before marrying them; maybe this could be looked at as a period of sexual trial.” (Davis, p. 20)

From Bertrand’s side:
“Her family was pressing her to separate from Martin. Since the marriage was unconsummated, it could be dissolved after three years and she would be free by canon law to marry again.” (Davis, p. 20)

Martin’s body becomes a site of negotiation. His failure to perform isn’t seen as a phase of youth, but as a threat to order.

Power becomes the unspoken rule in Attigan. Very little happens from compassion or morality — it’s about loyalty, survival, and keeping order. In Attigan, everything moves in the context of power: land, marriage, inheritance — even sex.

Sex isn’t sacred. It’s contractual.
A tool.
A tactic.

It’s used to assign roles, to shame, to divide. Marriages aren’t unions of love — they’re business arrangements, designed to protect property and reputation. This reflects exactly what Foucault argues: that sex, over time, has become less about pleasure and more about control — political, economic, and cultural.

Martin’s “impotence” becomes a community concern because he’s expected to produce an heir. Reproduction isn’t just biological — it’s his duty. The townspeople don’t even consider that he might just be too young. Instead, they blame it on a spell.

Rather than name the truth, they build myths around it.

Three reactions play out:

• His father wants to send him away to “test other women.”
• The public mocks him openly.
• Bertrand’s family pressures separation since the marriage hasn’t been consummated.

Everyone’s acting from the same playbook — fulfilling the roles society expects. And every “solution” is built to protect one thing: the law’s definition of sexuality — a function of marriage, legitimacy, and childbirth.

Everything outside of that? Doesn’t count. Doesn’t exist.

Eventually, the so-called “spell” is lifted. Martin is now able to perform his conjugal duties, and Bertrand becomes pregnant. To the outside world, the problem is solved. But something inside Martin remains broken — and silent.

That silence is exactly what Foucault warns us about.

Davis writes:
“But things were still not well with the new father. If we can judge Martin Guerre’s state of mind from how he chose to spend the next twelve years of his life, there was very little he liked about Attigan beyond his swordplay acrobats with other young men. His precarious sexuality after years of impotence, his household of sisters soon to be marrying, his position as heir — not underscored by the arrival of his son Sanxi — he wanted none of it.” (Davis, p. 21)

This is the internal collapse we don’t talk about — the quiet, emotional fracture that happens when someone has followed all the rules, done what was expected, and still feels like a stranger in their own life.

This is the cost of a repressive society:
Where sex is performance.
Where value is tied to reproduction.
Where silence is mistaken for peace.

Martin doesn’t lash out. He disappears.
And that act — walking away from it all — is his quiet refusal.
His rejection of the role forced on him.

When Martin finally returns, it’s not met with punishment.
It’s met with acceptance — by the same society that once judged his manhood.

He’s welcomed back like nothing happened.
No real responsibility is placed on his abandonment.
No questions asked.

Instead, the family embraces him — and blames Bertrand.

What’s more disturbing is how easily the family accepted the impostor before Martin returned. The lie was convenient. It allowed them to preserve order. The woman, once again, was expected to go along with it.

This tells us something brutal: truth only matters when it protects the structure.
The lie was tolerated, because it upheld the institution.
Bertrand was expected to play along, because that’s what women do in these systems — adapt, absorb, accept.

When the real Martin returns, he steps right back into power — and immediately accuses his wife of adultery.

There’s no reckoning.
No shared accountability.
No truth-telling.

And maybe he never wanted truth — just control on his terms.

This is what a repressive society looks like:
Lies are tolerated.
Blame is displaced.
Power stays intact — even when it’s built on silence.

In The Return of Martin Guerre, we see what happens when people aren’t allowed to live in their truth. Instead, they’re forced to perform roles: son, wife, husband, heir. Truth becomes a threat. It’s swept under the rug for the sake of appearance, inheritance, and law.

In the end, Martin — who once felt suffocated by those rules — uses them for his own gain. He returns not to heal, but to reassert power. He accuses Bertrand of betrayal, even though he left. The man who walked away becomes the man in charge again.

Meanwhile, the man who brought real love to Bertrand is punished. The only one who offered connection outside of repression — erased.

Foucault was right.
Rules are written by power, and when they are challenged, new rules are created to punish the challenger.

And this didn’t end in 16th-century France.

We see it today.

Same-sex couples were once punished, shamed, killed, outcast. Then, when enough powerful people wanted access to the same privileges — marriage, adoption, legal protection — the law changed. But as one friend told me:

“Gay marriage wasn’t legalized for people like me. It was legalized for the elites — the ones who want to adopt kids without being called ‘queer.’”

She’s a Hasidic Jewish woman who left her tradition to live openly as a lesbian. She compared it to Caitlyn Jenner being called Woman of the Year — a moment that helped no one except the already privileged.

This is performative progress — not freedom.

Foucault said that in order to be free, we must be more open about sex — and more honest about what it means. If sex could exist outside of power, outside of reproduction, outside of shame — it might become what it always was before control took hold:

Pleasure. Connection. Expression.

If we lived in a world where sex wasn’t a bargaining chip —
where performance didn’t define worth —
where people were allowed to live in truth —

We might just live in a freer society.
With fewer hang-ups.
Fewer secrets.
Fewer pills.
And a lot more peace.