Journal articles: 'National Fire Plan (U.S.)' – Grafiati (2024)

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ABSTRACT The U.S. government has elected to proceed unilaterally with respect to oil spill response plans for vessels—despite the fact that it is party to two important treaties which support a globally unified system. While the timetable for implementing the vessel response plans required by U. S. legislation moves forward for tanker owners, the U. S. executive branch has not kept pace by providing badly needed guidelines—demanded by the same legislation. Of particular importance are the failure of revisions to the U. S. National Contingency Plan, area contingency plans, and oil spill cleanup contractor approval procedures and guidelines to appear.

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Goods and shelves are closely and numerously put in the logistics center, so there are many hidden dangers. People’s life safety and property safety are threatened by fire. The key of putting out fire and evacuating people is to grasp the changes of the important parameters in the fire. In this paper the FDS (Fire Dynamic Simulator) software developed by the U. S. National Institute of Standards and Technology (NIST) is used to build a fire model and sets two fire scenarios to analyze the fire spreading process in logistics center. According to the numerical simulation results, reasonable suggestions are put forward in the end.

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Prekomjerni unos soli ključni je čimbenik u epidemiji prehipertenzije/hipertenzije. Hrvatska je 2014. objavila Strateški plan za smanjenje prekomjernog unosa kuhinjske soli u Republici Hrvatskoj 2014. – 2019. prema preporukama Svjetske zdravstvene organizacije te je preporučena količina soli 5 grama na dan (2 g natrija), dok prema najnovijim istraživanjima stanovnici u Hrvatskoj i dalje prosječno dnevno unose dvostruko više od preporučene dnevne količine (11,6 g na dan). U eksperimentalnom dijelu ovog istraživanja u slučajno odabranim uzorcima iz maloprodaje analitički je ispitan sadržaj natrija (te računski ukupni sadržaj soli) u više vrsta pekarskih proizvoda (kruh, peciva). U tu svrhu, primjenom sofisticirane analitičke opreme ICP-MS (induktivno spregnuta plazma s masenom spektrometrijom) utvrđene su količine natrija u različitim vrstama kruha, kruščića i peciva te uspoređene sa zahtjevima nacionalne regulative o maksimalno dozvoljenom sadržaju natrija u kruhu koji propisuje maksimalno 1,4 %. Prosječna vrijednost svih uzoraka iznosi 1,46 g / 100 g, što prelazi dozvoljenu količinu. Rezultati ukazuju na to da se svi proizvođači još uvijek nisu prilagodili odredbama pravilnika te da ne zadovoljavaju zahtjeve premašujući dozvoljene količine natrija, odnosno soli u kruhu i pecivima.

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ABSTRACT We have developed a prototype oil spill response configuration system to help U. S. Coast Guard (USCG) planners determine the appropriate response equipment and personnel for major spills. Advanced artificial intelligence planning techniques, as well as other software tools, have been applied to spill trajectory modeling, plan evaluation, and map display. We have successfully demonstrated the initial prototype system to various USCG personnel at the regional and national levels on a specific major spill scenario from the San Francisco Bay area.

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Wildfires in Indonesia 2015 burnt forests in many protected areas, including remaining forests in Tesso Nilo National Park. We investigated the extent to which 2015's wildfires affect the remaining habitat and the spatial distribution of ungulates in the park by using satellite images to identify burnt and unburnt forest patches. Habitat conditions and the presence of ungulates indicated by the number of ungulate signs were compared between burnt and unburnt areas. The fire devastated trees at different rates depending on tree life form stages. We found that younger trees were more vulnerable to fire. The abundance of ungulates did not differ significantly between burnt and unburnt areas, but all vegetation characteristics were significantly different (Mann-Whitney U-test p-value < 0.05). We surmise that food such as new shoots or leaves, particularly at the edge of burnt areas, attracted ungulates out of unburnt areas. The remaining forest is relatively small, and the park is under continued pressure from illegal conversion, so any further loss of remaining forest as refugia will likely harm the ungulate population. We recommend that management should prioritize the preservation of remaining pristine habitat and the reduction of fire suppression, especially during the dry season.

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ABSTRACT Offshore oil and gas developing projects have been started on the Sakhalin shelf and the sea of Okhotsk. These large scale developing projects require multi-national cooperative spill response, then agreements for emergency occasions have to be ratified between neighbor countries under international schemes such as Northwest Pacific Action Plan (NOWPAP) initiated by United Nations Environmental Progamme. As of the moment, there are no diplomatic agreements concerning with oil spill response between stakeholder counties, then custom clearance and other international migration procedure will be an obstacle for exchanging both materials and professionals. A comparative analysis of oil spill contingency plans of Russia, Korea and Japan resulted in some clear differences in these countries approaches. The Korean National Contingency Plan explicitly determines the roles of an ‘on-scene coordinator’ who is a unique organizer for oil spill response. On the other hands, the same kind of Japanese plan does not even contain a word of such ‘on-scene coordinator’. For the Russian case, they have U. S. like Federal Emergency Management Agency, but allocation of roles between this agency and Ministry of Transport are still ambiguous.

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Observed changes in hydrological conditions indicate the need for economical use of water. This pertains to water management on a national scale, river basins and drainage systems. The outflow of water can be extensively regulated after various forms of retention in the catchment. The water level regulators presented herein enable the damming of water in drainage networks and the adjacent ground. Their advantages include their simple structure and operation principles and also the ability to adapt to currently existing devices in sub-irrigation systems. Laboratory tests were conducted to determine the hydraulic characteristics and operating conditions of three innovative regulator solutions. They focused on changing water damming heights by the closure of successively placed beams in order to obtain the required water level in the given hydrometeorological conditions. The structures of the regulators were made of plastics and rectilinear fillings for securing S-type excavations and elements of sheet piling with a developed shape in the plan of U and Z types, offering advantages compared to traditional materials (with respect to installation, operation and durability). All tested regulators were characterized by the effective flow Qe, caused by water leaks due to the lack of tightness of the regulator elements. The regulator with rectilinear beams of S-type closures offered the highest effective flow, which was 4 ÷ 5 times higher than in other regulators. U- and Z-type regulators were better at facilitating the regulation of the water table and the flow than the S rectilinear regulator. This led to both: the greater tightness of connections and the use of an overflow with a developed crest in the plan. The U and Z controllers had the highest hydraulic efficiency, expressed as the flow increase coefficient, at overflow layer heights of up to 5.0 cm. For tested fillings larger than 5.0 cm, U-type beams with a cylindrical corner shape had a lower flow increase coefficient (kq = 1.25) than Z-type beams with an angular corner shape, for which kq ∈ <1.35 ÷ 1.38>.

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(francuski) Le d?veloppement et le renforcement de l'Etat serbe se sont traduits par l'?tablissem*nt de contacts intenses, et sur un vaste plan, tant avec les ?tats voisins qu'avec des contr?es plus ?loign?es, ouvrant ainsi la voie ? de fortes influences originaires du monde byzantin et des pays d'Europe centrale et occidentale. L'id?ologie imp?riale, d'une part, et la culture aulique ainsi que celle fond?e sur les id?aux de la chevalerie, d'autre part, se sont rencontr?es sur le territoire serbe o? leurs traces s'entrem?lent dans la diplomatique, les monnayages mais aussi dans la vie quotidienne. Une de ces traces particuli?res est assur?ment constitu?e par l'apparition et l'emploi de l'h?raldique. De nombreux exemples de blasons repr?sent?s sur des sceaux, des monnaies, des monuments fun?raires, des parures, des v?tements et de la vaisselle r?v?lent l'importance conf?r?e ? l'h?raldique en Serbie m?di?vale o? cet art re?oit une place ? part enti?re sous le r?gne de Stefan Dusan. Cette p?n?tration de l'h?raldique est parfaitement attest?e par le sceau et les monnaies de ce souverain sur lesquels l'image du blason ainsi que les repr?sentations simplifi?es de divers attributs rev?tent un r?le de tout premier plan. Il convient ?galement de mentionner ici la place importante de l'h?raldique parmi les seigneurs de Stefan Dusan, laquelle est attest?e, entre autres monuments, par la dalle fun?raire du vo?vode Nikola Stanjevic ? Konca, la repr?sentation du casque avec lambrequins d'Orest, un des puissants vassaux de l'empereur, visible sur une tour ? Serr?s, une ceinture du s?bastocrator (?) Branko, etc. Tous ces exemples t?moignent de l'instauration d'une culture fond?e sur les id?aux de la chevalerie et aulique ? l'?poque de Stefan Dusan, qui ?tait assur?ment li?e au r?le important jou? par les puissants et l'arm?e. Les changements r?els et profonds alors survenus sont ?galement parfaitement attest?s par l'apposition de symboles h?raldiques sur les monuments fun?raires. Cette pratique a trouv? sa pleine expression sur le monument fun?raire de l'empereur Dusan qui a ?t? rehauss? d'un gisant ? personnification du d?funt rev?tu de tous les attributs du pouvoir corporels et t?moignage de sa puissance, o? cette statue mortuaire est un emprunt propre ? l'Europe occidentale. La p?n?tration des symboles h?raldiques s'est effectu?e sous l'influence importante, voire capitale, des chevaliers et mercenaires allemands recrut?s par la cour de Stefan Dusan, avec ? leur t?te le chevalier Palman. Cette th?se trouve en sa faveur les symboles h?raldiques m?mes relev?s en Serbie, qui, par leur caract?re, appartiennent ? l'h?ritage de l'h?raldique germanique ? teutonique, ainsi que les nombreuses analogies avec les insignes repr?sent?s dans Le r?le d'armes de Zurich dat? vers 1340. Sur la base du mat?riel disponible il reste difficile de dire dans quelle mesure l'h?raldique et l'esprit inspir? de l'id?al de la chevalerie ont p?n?tr? dans les strates inf?rieures de la soci?t?. De nombreux documents, avant tout ?crits, attestent assur?ment toute l'importance alors conf?r?e au blason. Sur la base des monuments conserv?s il est d?j? possible de conclure ? l'existence de certaines r?gles et principes h?raldiques: le blason compos? d'un ?cu orn? d'une ?roue?, d'un casque avec cimier repr?sente par un cousin, une rosette et un plumet, apparaissant sur une monnaie de Stefan Dusan, respectivement la repr?sentation de ces m?mes ?l?ments sans ?cu sur d'autres monnaies mais aussi sur le sceau de ce m?me souverain r?v?lent clairement que les repr?sentations h?raldiques avaient trouv? place dans la symbolique du pouvoir royal, respectivement imp?rial en Serbie m?di?vale. Par ailleurs, l'utilisation d'une symbolique h?raldique reprenant les m?mes embl?mes sur les monnaies de l'empereur Uros, du serviteur Branko, du joupan Nikola Altomanovic, Djuradj 1er Balsic, Vuk Brankovic et Jakov ne fait que confirmer l'importance des repr? sentations h?raldiques chez les dynastes serbes. L'?tape suivante dans le d?veloppement de l'h?raldique est constitu?e par l'apparition de nouveaux symboles h?raldiques li?s ? certaines familles et r?gions, tel que le symbole compos? d'un casque cimier associ? ? une repr?sentation de l'imp?ratrice apparaissant sur des monnaies de l'empereur Uros, de l'imp?ratrice Jelena, du roi Vukasin et de la reine Jelena, symbole que nous trouvons ?galement sur un sceau du roi Vukasin. C'est sous une m?me lumi?re qu'il convient ?galement de voir la marque familiale des Balsic qui sera reprise parmi les seigneurs et petit* seigneurs, tout particuli?rement sur le territoire de Kosovo, ? en juger par les nombreuses trouvailles de bagues sceaux sur ce territoire. Une place particuli?re revient aux blasons familiales des Lazarevic ayant pour motif principal un casque avec cornes de veau qui appara?t sur des sceaux et des monnaies du prince Lazar, et qui ? l'?poque de Stefan Lazarevic formera un symbole h?raldique complet associ? ? l'image d'un aigle bic?phale aux ailes d?ploy?es repr?sent? sur un ?cu, des monnaies ou sous forme de cimier sur un casque, sur un sceau. Ce m?me embl?me a ?t? un bref temps gard? par Djuradj Brankovic sur un rare dinar, avant de le remplacer par un ?cu orn? d'une bande diagonale et d'un lys dans chaque champ libre, associ? ?galement ? un casque avec cimier en forme de lion sur un sceau conserv?. D'apr?s ce sceau exceptionnel Lazar Brankovic a adopt? le lion ? embl?me familial ? qui orne l'?cu et le cimier. Durant cette p?riode le r?le de la culture fond?e sur les id?aux de la chevalerie et aulique jouait un r?le significatif comme l'atteste le fait que le despote Stefan ?tait membre de l'ordre de chevalerie du Dragon cr?? par le roi de Hongrie Sigismond et que c'est en cette qualit? et en qualit? de souverain qu'il adoubait des chevaliers. D'apr?s les dires de Konstantin Filozof des ?occidentaux? venaient ? la cour de Serbie pour que le despote les ?couronne? en tant que chevalier. On note dans l'h?raldique serbe m?di?vale le m?lange de deux symboles ? le blason des chevaliers allemands et l'embl?me imp?rial. Le blason repr?sentait un symbole des armes au sens originel de cette notion alors que l'aigle bic?phale ?tait consid?r? comme le symbole du souverain, ?national?. Ce symbole a eu, dans une premi?re p?riode, une signification id?ologique et symbolique ? la base de laquelle se trouvait le rattachement de la dynastie serbe ? la famille byzantine r?gnante. L'aigle bic?phale, ? en juger par ses mod?les iconographiques, a ?volu? en marque du souverain, pour, dans une derni?re phase de son ?volution, ? l'?poque des despotes, recevoir la signification d'un symbole h?raldique. Celui-ci impliquait le droit ? h?riter du tr?ne et de l'empire serbes repr?sent?s par l'image de l'aigle bic?phale embl?me reconnaissable sur la carte d'Angelin Dulcert de 1339 et sur le sceau de Tvrtko 1er. La manifestation parall?le de fortes influences originaires d'Occident et de Byzance se refl?te ?galement dans le mausol?e de Stefan Dusan o? le monument fun?raire de ce souverain, en forme de gisant, c?toyait des fresques ex?cut?es selon le programme et l'iconographie byzantines. Nous retrouvons ?galement cette symbiose sur de nombreuses ?missions mon?taires ? commencer par celles du r?gne de l'empereur Uros avec repr?sentations de symboles h?raldiques d'un c?t? et de l'empereur ? cheval tenant un sceptre de l'autre c?t?, repr?sentation qui peut ind?niablement ?tre li?e ? l'id?ologie imp?riale byzantine. La question se pose de savoir si la Serbie m?di?vale a vu se d?velopper des symboles nationaux ayant pu conduire ? la cr?ation de son propre blason. Les diff?rentes repr?sentations de blasons enregistr?es ? partir du r?gne du roi Dusan, en passant par les dynastes serbes, jusqu'? l'?poque du despote Lazar Brankovic semblent ?tre en faveur du d?veloppement d'une h?raldique familiale, alors que l'id?e d'un symbole national n'a m?ri que progressivement pour recevoir sa pleine forme apr?s la chute du despotat, assur?ment en tant qu'expression d'une aspiration ? la r?alisation du renouveau de l'Etat serbe. Cette id?e ?tait li?e ? l'embl?me de l'aigle bic?phale ? symbole national ? et aux symboles h?raldiques ? embl?mes de l'h?ritage byzantin, europ?en mais aussi serbe.

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ABSTRACT While developing its new crisis management plan in 1989, BP America (BPA) modified the incident command system (ICS) for use as the organizational structure of its oil spill response team. This was done to be compatible with the post-Exxon Valdez organization of the Alyeska response team and for certain advantages it would provide for responses in other locations and in other types of crisis situations. The ICS was originally developed for fighting wildfires in California and has since been widely adopted by other fire and emergency services in the U. S. While retaining most of the ICS structure, ?PA developed modifications necessary to fit the unique requirements of oil spill response. The modified ICS was used during a full scale test of ?PA's draft crisis management plan in December 1989, and thus was familiar to ?PA's top executives and other participating response team members. When the American Trader spill occurred in February 1990, BPA's management used the modified ICS organization even though the crisis management plan had not been finalized or widely distributed within the company. Details of the organizational structure evolved as the spill response progressed, in part due to the changing requirements of the response over time and in part because of previously unrecognized issues. This paper describes that evolution and the resulting final structure. Essential differences between the original ICS and BPA's oil spill version of it are highlighted. Despite the unrecognized issues and the unfamiliarity of some team members with the ICS, the organization worked well and can be credited with a share of the success of the American Trader response.

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ABSTRACT Contingency plans have been an effective tool for responding to major pollution incidents for many years. In fact, section 300.210 of the National Oil and Hazardous Substances Pollution Contingency Plan (NCP) goes so far as to require that the U.S. Coast Guard on-scene coordinator (OSC) develop a contingency plan for all areas of the coastal zone. However, before the Exxon Valdez oil spill, most contingency plans, federal and state included, simply addressed a response to the largest spills that, historically, had occurred in the areas. The idea of a catastrophic oil spill the size of the Exxon Valdez spill was not considered. This, of course, all changed shortly after midnight on March 24, 1989. This paper discusses the guidance that was provided by U. S. Coast Guard Headquarters to each Coast Guard OSC for reviewing and revising their local contingency plans (LCPs). This guidance delineated certain areas of the planning process that require special attention (such as hazard identification, risk assessment, response times, and required equipment), specific criteria to be used while reviewing the LCPs, and guidelines to be used for determining response resource needs and shortfalls.

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ABSTRACT In May 2013, per Congressional direction and to support a better understanding of pollution sources in the U. S. waters, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) provided the U. S. Coast Guard (USCG) a detailed report on the assessment of risks from potentially polluting shipwrecks. The report, Risk Assessment for Potentially Polluting Wrecks in U.S. Waters, was a result of the Remediation of Underwater Legacy Environmental Threats (RULET) project that evaluated 20,000 shipwrecks for their pollution potential as well as issues that could impact operations including whether or not those wrecks could be historically significant properties and/or gravesites. “Historic property” is defined by the National Historic Preservation Act of 1966 (NHPA), to be any prehistoric or historic district, site, building, structure, or object included in, or eligible for inclusion in, the National Register of Historic Places (NRHP.) The NHPA requires a Federal agency to “take into account” the effects of its undertakings, such as pollution removal from a submerged shipwreck, and afford the Advisory Council on Historic Preservation (ACHP) a reasonable opportunity to comment. Federal agencies meet Section 106 responsibilities through a consultation process with the ACHP and other parties as set out in the ACHP's regulations implementing Section 106 of the NHPA (36 CFR Part 800), or through implementation of the nationwide 1997 Programmatic Agreement for emergency response under the National Oil and Hazardous Substances Pollution Contingency Plan. NOAA evaluated a number of the report's shipwrecks for eligibility under the NRHP criteria to determine if any could be considered historic properties. The majority of RULET sites are associated with World War II casualties in the Battle of the Atlantic. As of 2013, the average age of each wreck is 83 years old, as many were built or retrofitted for service during WWII, meeting one of the criteria, per the National Park Service's regulations at 36 CFR Part 60 for eligibility for nomination to the NRHP. Three potentially eligible shipwrecks were subsequently nominated and accepted to the NRHP. The information contained in the RULET risk assessments and the NRHP nominations, facilitates the efforts of USCG to work through the required consultation processes; more effectively balancing responsibilities to address potential environmental impacts and legal mandates to avoid or mitigate impacts to historic resources.

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ABSTRACT Burning of spilled oil has distinct advantages over other cleanup countermeasures. It offers the potential to convert rapidly large quantities of oil into its primary combustion products, carbon dioxide and water, with a small percentage of other unburned and residue byproducts. Disadvantages include the dispersal of the combustion products into the air. Mesoscale and laboratory experiments have been conducted to measure the burning characteristics of crude oil fires. Measurements on crude oil pool fires from 0.4 m to 17.2 m in effective diameter were made to obtain data on the rate of burning, heat release rate, composition of the combustion products, and downwind dispersion of the products. The smaller experiments were performed in laboratories at the National Institute of Standards and Technology and the Fire Research Institute in Japan; and the larger ones at the U. S. Coast Guard Fire Safety and Test Detachment in Mobile, Alabama. From these experiments, the value for surface regression rate of a burning crude oil spill was found to be 0.055 mm/s. A major concern for public safety is the content and extent of the smoke plume from the fires. Smoke yield, the fraction of the oil mass burned that is emitted as particulate, was found to be 13 percent. A large-eddy simulation calculation method for smoke plume trajectory and smoke particulate deposition developed by NIST showed that the smoke particulate deposition from a 114 m2 burn would occur in striations over a long, slender area 3.2 km wide and 258 km downwind of the burn.

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Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design (LEED) is a national set of standards put forth by the U. S. Green Building Council in 1994 that was intended to inspire building designers to plan greener, more sustainable buildings. LEED offers up to ten points for improved energy optimization performance. It should be noted that achieving these ten points is time consuming, complex, and expensive. This research is a case study that details the process of using a computer simulation study as a building energy optimizing tool in order to achieve these optional points. Determination is made as to how many LEED points can be obtained when basic strategies such as window performance and day-lighting are integrated into one energy optimized building design. The results show that well-established energy conservation methods achieve as few as two or three LEED energy points, thereby possibly offering a disincentive for designers to attempt this difficult challenge. These fundamental efforts to achieve energy optimized building design are the first steps toward high performance building design and offer a fundamental solution to the substantial, negative environmental impacts caused by buildings today.

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(francuski) Plusieurs sources historiques nous sont parvenues qui attestent le r?le actif des cultes de saint Simeon et saint Sava, les premiers saints de l'Eglise Serbe. Tout en ?tant compl?mentaires, ces deux cultes diff?rent par leur fonction, notamment du fait que saint Simeon, fondateur de l'Etat et de la dynastie serbes, est c?l?br? comme un saint myroblite, alors que saint Sava, premier archev?que de l'Eglise serbe ind?pendante, est v?n?r? comme un saint thaumaturge. Leur fusion en un culte faisant l'objet d'une c?l?bration unique a eu lieu ? l'?poque du roi Milutin (1282-1321). Le pr?sent article ?tablit que la formation finale du nouveau programme monarchique de Milutin, probablement inspir? par la communaut? monastique de Chilandar, se situe entre 1314-1316 et 1321. Outre l'observation g?n?rale de la fonction de ce culte et de sa polys?mie, nous proc?dons ?galement ? une analyse du ph?nom?ne constitu? par les pri?res de saint Sim?on et saint Sava apparaissant dans les chartes de l'?poque du roi Milutin ? indice certain de l'efficacit? reconnue du nouveau culte ? et de ses implications politiques. Cependant, une image compl?te de la signification des pri?res de ces deux saints dans les chartes et de leur usage dans le domaine id?ologique, ne peut ?tre obtenue qu'en proc?dant ? une analyse des divers types de t?moignages ? chartes, fresques, offices, canons et apologies ? c?l?brant ces deux personnages. La plus ancienne repr?sentation conserv?e de ces deux saints sur des peintures murales se trouve dans l'?glise Saint-Nic?tas pr?s de Skoplje. Les portraits associ?s de saint Simeon et saint Sa va situ?s sur le mur nord du naos de l'?glise datent de la deuxi?me d?cennie du XIV?me si?cle (avant 1316). Leur ex?cution pouvant ?tre situ?e apr?s la conclusion d'une paix ayant mis fin ? des conflits int?rieurs. Au tout d?but, le motif ?des pri?res de saint Sim?on et saint Sa va? a en fait trouv? place dans les clauses p?nales des chartes de l'?poque. Le r?le de la pri?re y est d'assurer une protection ancestrale et sacrale aux dons pieux du souverain actuel. Sur un plan plus large, ces pri?res visent ?galement ? assurer une protection c?leste aux conqu?tes du roi et aux garanties formul?es dans les documents de donation, mais aussi la protection de la patrie dont la prosp?rit? est fond? sur la fonction sot?riologique rendue possible par les pri?res des saints protecteurs. La premi?re mention d'une telle invocation invitant les deux saints serbes ? anath?matiser celui qui violerait les dispositions de l'auteur d'une charte, appara?t dans une charte de confirmation d?livr?e par Milutin au monast?re de Chilandar au sujet de la donation d'une cellule de Sainte-Parasc?ve sise au village de Tmorani pr?s de Skopje (1299/1300 : Chil. si., n. 9, 1. 67). Les pri?res des deux saints dans leur fonction de protecteurs de l'Etat et de la dynastie apparaissent ?galement dans d'autres documents de souverains datant du d?but du XIV?me si?cle. La mention de Vladislav, cousin du roi Milutin, au nombre d'h?ritiers potentiels dans les clauses p?nales d'une charte du roi Milutin d?livr?e au monast?re de Chilandar (Chil. si., n. 11), rend possible une nouvelle datation, plus pr?cise, de ce document entre 1314 et 1316. Cette charte nous fournit donc un cadre chronologique pour l'?tablissem*nt des pri?res des deux saints serbes, lequel cadre co?ncide avec l'apparition de leur repr?sentation associ?e sur les peintures du monast?re Saint-Nicolas dans la r?gion de Skoplje, que le roi a offert ? Chilandar, par le biais de la charte mentionn?e. A cette ?poque-l?, au cours des deux premi?res d?cennies du XIV?me si?cle, le moine Tedosije, inspir? par la communaut? monastique de Chilandar, fut charg? de proc?der, selon les go?ts litt?raires et les besoins id?ologiques de l'?poque, ? une r?daction monumentale de la litt?rature hagiographique jusqu'alors cr??e, et de jeter les fondements du nouveau culte des premiers saints nationaux comme principal vecteur de l'id?e d'origine charismatique de la dynastie. La synth?se ainsi obtenue vers les ann?es vingt du XVI?me si?cle r?unit les exploits spirituels et les r?sultats des efforts convergents d'une ?lite rattach?e tant ? la cour de Serbie qu'au centre religieux de Chilandar. La co?ncidence d?j? relev?e entre les chartes, la peinture murale et l'apparition d'un nouveau culte s'inscrivant dans un programme politique plus vaste, avec sa c?l?bration en litt?rature, ne saurait ?tre fortuite. L'approche du centenaire du royaume repr?senta, sans doute, un moment crucial pour placer les saints nationaux au centre d'un complexe de programmes sot?riologiques, d?j? effectif au moment o? l'Etat serbe s'est activement tourn? vers l'Orient orthodoxe. L'unit? fondamentale et fonctionnelle du nouveau culte se manifeste par des actes miraculeux s'inscrivant dans un cadre clairement ?tabli, d?fini dans le sens spatial et national, et refl?tant un type de saintet? ?galement pr?sent chez les autres peuples du Moyen Age. La phase de repr?sentation de la dynastie devant le Christ est remplac?e par une signification plus vaste et sot?riologique de la repr?sentation de l'Etat, induite par les pri?res des deux saints. Ceci a entre autre abouti ? la symbolique polys?mique de Chilandar comme ? le nouveau Sion ?. La mention de saint Simeon et saint Sava dans les chartes de Milutin, publi?es durant les derni?res ann?es de sa r?gence, appara?t ?galement dans les documents de l'empereur Dusan (1331-1355). Cette reprise s'inscrit probablement comme un ?l?ment du concept complexe faisant du roi Milutin un exemple de la nouvelle fa?on de r?gner, lequel concept ?tait li? aux plans entrant dans la politique ext?rieure de l'empereur Dusan ? ? savoir une offensive sur les contr?es orientales de l'Empire grec ? pr?sent?e comme une poursuite des conqu?tes du roi Milutin. Etant les saints les plus importants de l'id?ologie monarchique serbe, Simeon et Sava seront c?l?br?s m?me apr?s la chute de l'Empire (1371). Ils sont peints comme un couple de saints, ou plac?s comme deux pendants, c?l?br?s comme ? les deux saints ? dans les chants. Ils sont devenus, ? travers leurs cultes r?unis, le fondement de l'id?ologie de l'Etat et de l'Eglise au cours de l'histoire serbe ult?rieure. .

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Introduction This is the tenth issue of the Journal of Construction Business and Management, a combination of the regular issue and a special issue of selected papers from Construction Business and Project Management CBPM 2021 conference proceedings. This issue contains five blind double peer-reviewed articles by seventeen scholars in Nigeria, South Africa, and Malaysia covering strategic management, environmental pollution, compliance with building standards, dispute resolution, and performance management. Despite the difference in the topics, one of the key issues highlighted by the papers is the emphasis on improving education and awareness in the industry to address the issues identified in the papers. Following this introduction is the discussion of the papers, after which the conclusion follows. Discussion of the papers Compliance with construction regulations, standards and codes is fundamental to improving the key performance indicators, by implication, project performance (Umeokafor et al. 2022). Further, this means that it has implications for project risks. While developed countries still record compliance issues which have resulted in tragic events such as the Grenfell fire incident, the developing ones are not left behind, demonstrated to be worse in many indicators. Opawole, Alao, Yusuf, Adu and Ofoetan (2022) examine one of the major issues in building construction in Nigeria, construction materials-related building collapse. Using survey questionnaires, the authors assess the determinants of compliance with concreting materials standards in building projects in Nigeria, using one of the country's major cities, Lagos, as a case study. Being site-based and non-site based, the factors are in six categories, regulation, procurement, capacity, technical, performance and skills components. Production quality control, non-compliance with specified concrete mix, low concrete grade and supervision by incompetent persons are among the site-based factors. However, non-site-based ones include procurement policies and regulatory frameworks in efficiency and professionalism. It was also found that non-compliance with the national standards results in rework, project delays, additional costs, and environmental issues. To improve the quality of buildings through compliance with concreting materials and reduce or eliminate building collapse, the regulatory policies and enforcement mechanism, competencies and training, and ethical standards of stakeholders require more attention. While the generalisation of the findings is limited to Lagos state, given that it is one of the states with a high volume of construction, the study is, at least, indicative of what happens in major cities in Nigeria, such as Abuja and Port-Harcourt. The second paper, by Rambaruth, Adam and Krishna (2022), on strategic management in construction small and medium enterprises (SMEs), addresses another pertinent issue. SMEs outnumber the large enterprises, the heart of the economies of countries. Yet, they face challenges, which in many cases are different from their large counterparts, for example, limited access to funds and competent persons. Many of these SMEs in construction lack strategic planning, one of the factors for early failure (Rambaruth et al., 2022). Many policies, strategies and studies are informed by large enterprises' views and contexts, overlooking the SMEs. Consequently, the authors examine the determinants of a company's decision to adopt a strategic plan, the role of strategic planning in improving a company's performance, and the challenges associated with a strategic plan in place. Using the eThekwini region of South Africa as a case study, the study found that key factors for strategic management in the construction SMEs examined include increased productivity, the quest to gain competitive advantage and improved decision-making. It was good to find that most of them adopted strategic management practices to improve business performance. The authors conclude that one of the ways of improving strategic management in construction SMEs is through improved education and awareness education and broadened skills curriculum by the government. Government and tertiary institutions can also integrate strategic management into SME training programmes. The need for education and awareness, consistent with the recommendations of Opawole et al. (2022), highlights the need for more attention to education and training in the construction and property industry. Graduate architects are the future of tomorrow in the profession; they are yet to pass the professional examination but hold a master's degree in Architecture. The need to exploit education to improve the construction industry's performance is furthered in the third paper by Tiew, Hashim and Zolkafli (2022). Tiew et al. (2022). investigate the major performance barriers that graduate architects encounter in project implementation. These factors are skills-based, poor project documentation management, lack of soft skills, inadequate quality assessment management, and a shortfall in design management. While it highlights the areas the universities can focus on, adequately integrating them into the curricula is consistent with the recommendations of Opawole et al. (2022) and Rambaruth et al. (2022) in this issue. While education empowers the learners with knowledge, the process may have implications for their health and the environment. Addressing educational issues that have consequences for the environment and students' health is the focus of Nkeleme, Mbamali and Shakantu (2022). The authors measured the number of combustion pollutants generated while learning and teaching in laboratories at one of Nigeria's leading universities (Ahmadu Bello University Zaria) and their effect on indoor air quality. Nkeleme et al. found that the presence of CO during the combustion is above ASHRAE 62 and NAAQS limit of 9ppm reaching up to 45ppm at some points and oxygen at the critical level, 20.9 per cent or below 20.4 per cent. The authors also found that the laboratories are congested, and inadequate ventilation systems exacerbate the discomforting effects of combustion-generated pollutants. Adequate ventilation should be provided, which is one of the paper's recommendations. The students learning environment, including the physical ones, is one of the barriers to learning; it should facilitate and support education (Cleveland and Fisher 2014). Undoubtedly, COVID-19 has socio-economic and health implications globally. However, it has increased attention on technology, mental health and some aspects of risk management in construction. Amoo, Lukman and Musa (2022) is the last paper, focussing on dispute resolution methods in construction during COVID-19, where South Africa is used as a case study. The aim is to determine their appropriateness and effectiveness. The findings demonstrate the negative implication of an interest-based approach rather than the right-based approach to resolving disputes in construction. Further, the study shows that negotiation, mediation, and conciliation were adopted to resolve unforeseen delays, claims, and added costs during the pandemic. The pandemic draws attention to pricing methods as a significant source of dispute in the supply and demand chain network during the period. It highlights the imperativeness of clear language in contracts, risk management training, communication improvement, and dynamic project schedule documentation as some conflict and dispute resolution tools post-COVID. Conclusion This issue which contains five papers from seventeen scholars in Nigeria, South Africa, and Malaysia, covers strategic management, environmental pollution, compliance with building standards, dispute resolution, and performance management. While the findings vary, one consistent key finding or implication of this is the need for education and training to improve the construction industry's performance. This is in terms of performance improvement skills of graduate architects, risk management training for those with contract and risk management responsibilities, integrating strategic management education in curricula, and building materials standard compliance training. We thank the authors for their contributions and the reviewers for their efforts to improve the quality of the papers published by the journal. The journal editorial board and panel of reviewers also play a critical part in the higher quality assurance of the manuscript and in keeping the journal on the path to attaining the expected standard and quality. Criticisms, feedback, and suggestions from readers on improving the journal's quality are also welcome. References Amoo, O. T., Lukman, Y. and Musa, N., 2022. Dispute Resolution Mathods adopted by Contractors during Covid-19 in Eastern Cape, South Africa: A Case Study. Journal of Construction Business and Management, 5(2): 54-67. Cleveland, B. and Fisher, K., 2014. The evaluation of physical learning environments: a critical review of the literature. Learning Environ Res, 17:1–28 Nkeleme, E. I., Mbamali, I. and Shakantu, W. M. I., 2022. A Measure of Combustion-Generated Pollutants in University Laboratories and its Effects on Indoor Air Quality. Journal of Construction Business and Management, 5(2): 44-53. Opawole, A., Alao, O. O., Yusuf, A. O., Adu, E. T. and Ofoetan, M. A., 2022. Evaluation of Compliance of Concreting Materials to Standards in Building Projects in Lagos State, Nigeria. Journal of Construction Business and Management, 5(2): 1-19. Rambaruth, A., Adam, J. K. and Krishna, S. B. N., 2022. Elements and Issues to Strategic Management in the Construction Industry Among Small and Medium Enterprises: A Case Study in South Africa’s eThekwini Region. Journal of Construction Business and Management, 5(2): 20-28. Tiew, S. Y., Hashim, H. A. and Zolkafli, U. K. B., 2022. Performance Barriers affecting Graduate Architects in Architectural Firms: A Systematic Literature Review. Journal of Construction Business and Management, 5(2): 29-43. Umeokafor, N. I., Evangelinos, K. and Windapo, A. O., 2020. Strategies for Improving Complex Construction Health and Safety Regulatory Environments. International Journal of Construction Management.Doi.org/10.1080/15623599.2019.1707853.

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ABSTRACT The original oil spill Field Operations Guide (FOG) was a product of the Standard Oil Spill Response Management System (STORMS) Task Force comprised of representatives of the U. S. Coast Guard, California Department of Fish and Game Office of Spill Prevention and Response (OSPR), other states, the petroleum industry, oil spill response organizations, and local government. The STORMS Task Force produced this first version of the “oilized” Incident Command System (ICS) FOG and Incident Action Plan (IAP) forms in 1994 and made subsequent revisions in 1995 and 1996. With 2 more years of ICS experience and facilitated by the States/British Columbia Oil Spill Task Force, a new group of representatives from federal and state governments, the petroleum industry, and oil spill response professionals met to review and update the 1996 FOG and IAP forms in October 1998. The overall goal was to remain consistent with the National Interagency Incident Management System (NIIMS) yet reflect the experience gained using ICS at actual oil spills and drills. The group met quarterly over an 18-month period, working collaboratively to reach a consensus on numerous changes. Some of the changes included adding an Environmental Unit to the Planning Section, revising the planning cycle diagram for the oil spill IAP process, and revising the IAP forms as appropriate to reflect the way oil spills are managed. All significant revisions/improvements will be highlighted in this paper and poster.

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Amount raised: N$19,948,000/U$1,672,509 Background and context: The Cancer Association of Namibia presented the project “An apple a day can keep cancer away” to one of the local commercial banks close to 2 decades ago. The concept of “Eat Healthy. Live Healthy. Prevent Cancer” became a massive hit and in subsequent years the “Bank Windhoek Cancer Apple Project” has become a flagship fundraiser for the association. For 1 month of the year (usually June or July - winter in Namibia) we convert all Bank Windhoek branches nationwide into “apple stores” with bank employees, CAN volunteers and school learners marketing and selling apples to raise funds for CAN, raise awareness on cancer and support screening interventions to promote earlier detection to save lives. Aim: Create awareness and educate on cancer, support the Cancer Association of Namibia financially to fund the National Cancer Outreach Program and the 2 interim homes operated by the association. Strategy/Tactics: National endeavor - for 1 month a year, the entire commercial bank is “converted” into apple stores, selling apples! Program process: An executive planning committee between Bank Windhoek as facilitator and the Cancer Association of Namibia plan and coordinates the annual event, sourcing one million red apples (the bank´s official color) from the Western Cape apple farms. Numerous project partners support the program from transport, cold storage, package and delivery, to media and sales partners. An “Apple Roadshow” kicks off the marketing and PR of the annual event, and then for one month a year the bank staff, CAN volunteers and especially high school learners (as part of the school challenge) promote bulk orders, while loose apple sales are conducted in bank branches country-wide. Costs and returns: All project partners offer their “time” and “manpower” as a donation in support of CAN through their CSI portfolio. Apples are sourced at a bulk reduced rate (± N$2, 50 each) and resold to the public at a N$5 donation per apple. What was learned: Logistics and supply chain management is a profession that must be highly respected! But, education, awareness and community collaboration makes one of the strongest support chains imaginable. Communicating “why” are we doing this, then taking the funds and “showing” what we the money goes (through the medical outreaches and sustaining the interim homes) speak to the heart of the nation. Transparency, accountability and inclusive community interaction is key when it comes to community driven fundraising.

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ABSTRACT Chemical dispersants can be used to reduce the interfacial tension of floating oil slicks so that the oils disperse more rapidly into the water column and thus pose less of a threat to shorelines, birds, and marine mammals. The laboratory test currently specified in federal regulations to measure dispersant effectiveness is not especially easy or inexpensive, and generates a rather large quantity of oily waste water. This paper describes the results of an effort by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) to identify a more suitable laboratory dispersant effectiveness test. EPA evaluated three laboratory methods: the Revised Standard Dispersant Effectiveness Test currently used (and required by regulation) in the United States, the swirling flask test (developed by Environment Canada), and the IFP-dilution test (used in France and other European countries). Six test oils and three dispersants were evaluated; dispersants were applied to the oil at an average 1:10 ratio (dispersant to oil) for each of the three laboratory methods. Screening efforts were used to focus on the most appropriate oil/dispersant combination for detailed study. A screening criterion was established that required a combination that gave at least 20 percent effectiveness results. The selected combination turned out to be Prudhoe Bay crude oil (an EPA-American Petroleum Institute Standard Reference Oil) and the dispersant Corexit 9527. This combination was also most likely to be encountered in U. S. coastal waters. The EPA evaluation concluded that the three tests gave similar precision results, but that the swirling flask test was fastest, cheapest, simplest, and required least operator skill. Further, EPA is considering conducting the dispersant effectiveness test itself, rather than having data submitted by a dispersant manufacturer, and establishing an acceptability criterion (45 percent efficiency) which would have to be met before a dispersant could be placed on the Product Schedule of the National Contingency Plan (NCP). Also under consideration by EPA is a sequential testing procedure for a dispersant being placed on the schedule, whereby successful effectiveness testing would be required before toxicity testing would begin.

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Background:Autophagy is a phenomenon of “self-phagocytosis” in eukaryotic cells, which maintains cell homeostasis by transporting intracellular materials to lysosomes for degradation and recycling. In recent years, studies have shown that autophagy may be involved in the pathogenesis of rheumatoid arthritis(RA)[1], but its specific mechanism is still unclear.Objectives:The expression levels of autophagy-related genes(ATG) unc-51-like kinase 1(ULK1), ATG13, ATG17, microtubule associated protein 1 light chain 3 (LC3), and P62 in peripheral blood mononuclear cells (PBMC) of patients with RA were detected, and their role and clinical significance in the pathogenesis of RA were explored.Methods:Real-time fluorescent quantitative PCR was performed to detect the expression levels of ULK1, ATG13, ATG17, LC3, and P62 in PBMCs of 50 RA patients, 50 healthy controls (HC), and 25 moderate to severe RA patients before and after treatment. Then, t test, χ2 test, Mann-Whitney U test, Pearson test were used for statistical analysis.Results:1.The levels of hsCRP, white blood cell(WBC), neutrophils(GR), platelet(PLT) and plateletcrit(PCT) in RA group were higher than those in HC group (P <0.05). Lymphocytes (LY), red blood cell(RBC), hemoglobin(HGB), hematocrit(HCT), mean corpuscular hemoglobin(MCH), mean red blood cell volume(MCV) and mean red blood cell hemoglobin concentration(MCHC) in RA group were lower than those in HC group (P <0.05). 2.The expressions of ULK1, ATG17, and LC3 in RA group were higher than those in HC group, while the expressions of P62 was lower than those in HC group(P<0.05) (Figure 1). The correlation analysis suggested that ATG17 was positively correlated with tender joint count (TJC), swollen joint count (SJC), and health assessment questionnaire (HAQ) (P<0.05); ULK1 and HAQ were negatively correlated (P<0.05).3. Compared with before treatment with TNFi, ATG17, HAQ, DAS-28, ESR, hsCRP, WBC, GR, PLT and PCT were significantly reduced after treatment (P<0.05); the expressions of RBC, HCT, MCV and MCH were significantly increased after treatment,(P<0.05); ULK1, ATG13, LC3, P62 and other related clinical and laboratory indicators were not significantly different before and after treatment with TNFi (P>0.05).Figure 1.The expression levels of ATGs in HC and RA groups.Conclusion:There is abnormal expression of autophagy genes in the peripheral blood of RA patients. ULK1, ATG17, LC3 and P62 may be related to the pathogenesis of RA, among them, ATG17 may regulate the pathogenesis of RA by participating in the TNF-α pathway.References:[1]Rockel Jason S,Kapoor Mohit,Autophagy: controlling cell fate in rheumatic diseases.[J].Nat Rev Rheumatol, 2016, 12: 517-31.Disclosure of Interests:Yu-Feng Qing Grant/research support from: Science and Technology Project of Nanchong City (no.18SXHZ0522), Fei Dai: None declared, Quan-Bo Zhang Grant/research support from: the National Natural Science Foundation of China(General Program) (no.81974250), and Science and Technology Plan Project of Sichuan Province (no.2018JY0257), Yi-Ping Tang: None declared, Zeng-Rong Dong: None declared, Yi-Xi He: None declared, Yi Jiang: None declared, Yu-Qin Huang: None declared, Jianxiong Zheng: None declared

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<p><strong>List of abstracts and authors:</strong></p><p><strong>1. Bipolar disorder not otherwise specified -overdiagnosed or underdiagnosed?</strong></p><p>E Allers</p><p><strong>2. The prognosis of major depression untreated and treated: Does the data reflect the true picture of the prognosis of this very common disorder?</strong></p><p>E Allers</p><p><strong>3. Can we prolong our patients' life expectancy? Providing a better quality of life for patients with severe mental illness</strong></p><p>O A Betencourt</p><p><strong>4. The scope of ECT practice in South Africa</strong></p><p>J Benson-Martin, P Milligan</p><p><strong>5. Biomarkers for schizophrenia: Can we evolve like cancer therapeutics?</strong></p><p>P Buckley<strong></strong></p><p><strong>6. Relapse in schizophrenis: Major challenges in prediction and prevention</strong></p><p>P Buckley</p><p><strong>7. Informed consent in biological treatments: The right to know the duty to inform</strong></p><p><strong></strong>I Chetty</p><p><strong>8. Effectiveness of a long-acting injectable antipsychotic plus an assertive monitoring programme in first-episode schizophrenia</strong></p><p><strong></strong>B Chiliza, L Asmal, O Esan, A Ojagbemi, O Gureje, R Emsley</p><p><strong>9. Name, shame, fame</strong></p><p>P Cilliers</p><p><strong>10. Can we manage the increasing incidence of violent raging children? We have to!</strong></p><p>H Clark</p><p><strong>11. Serotonin, depression and antidepressant action</strong></p><p>P Cowen</p><p><strong>12. Prevalence and correlates of comorbid psychiatris illness in patients with heroin use disorder admitted to Stikland Opioid Detoxification Unit</strong></p><p>L Dannatt, K J Cloete, M Kidd, L Weich</p><p><strong>13. Investigating the association between diabetes mellitus, depression and psychological distress in a cohort of South African teachers</strong></p><p>A K Domingo, S Seedat, T M Esterhuizen, C Laurence, J Volmink, L Asmal</p><p><strong>14. Neuropeptide S -emerging evidence for a role in anxiety</strong></p><p>K Domschke</p><p><strong>15. Pathogenetics of anxiety</strong></p><p>K Domschke</p><p><strong>16. The effects of HIV on the fronto-striatal system</strong></p><p>S du Plessis, M Vink, J Joska, E Koutsilieri, C Scheller, B Spottiswoode, D Stein, R Emsley</p><p><strong>17. Effects of acute antipsychotic treatment on brain morphology in schizophrenia</strong></p><p>R Emsley, L Asmal, B Chiliza, S du Plessis, J Carr, A Goosen, M Kidd, M Vink, R Kahn</p><p><strong>18. Development of a genetic database resource for monitoring of breast cancer patients at risk of physical and psychological complications</strong></p><p>K Grant, F J Cronje, K Botha, J P Apffelstaedt, M J Kotze</p><p><strong>19. Unipolar mania reconsidered: Evidence from a South African study</strong></p><p><strong></strong>C Grobler</p><p><strong>20. Antipsychotic-induced movement disorders: Occurence and management</strong></p><p>P Haddad</p><p><strong>21. The place of observational studies in assessing the effectiveness of long-acting injectable antipsychotics</strong></p><p>P Haddad</p><p><strong>22. Molecular mechanisms of d-cycloserine in fear extinction: Insights from RNS sequencing</strong></p><p>S Hemmings, S Malan-Muller, L Fairbairn, M Jalali, E J Oakeley, J Gamieldien, M Kidd, S Seedat</p><p><strong>23. Schizophrenia: The role of inflammation</strong></p><p>DC Henderson</p><p><strong>24. Addictions: Emergent trends and innovations</strong></p><p>V Hitzeroth</p><p><strong>25. The socio-cultural-religious context of biological psychiatric practice</strong></p><p>B Janse van Rensburg</p><p><strong>26. Biochemical markers for identifying risk factors for disability progression in multiple sclerosis</strong></p><p><strong></strong>S Janse van Rensburg, M J Kotze, F J Cronje, W Davis, K Moremi, M Jalali Sefid Dashti, J Gamieldien, D Geiger, M Rensburg, R van Toorn, M J de Klerk, G M Hon, T Matsha, S Hassan, R T Erasmus</p><p><strong>27. Alcohol-induced psychotic disorder: Brain perfusion and psychopathology - before and after antipsychotic treatment</strong></p><p>G Jordaan, J M Warwick, D G Nel, R Hewlett, R Emsley</p><p><strong>28.'Pump and dump': Harm reduction strategies for breastfeeding while using substances</strong></p><p>L Kramer</p><p><strong>29. Adolescent neuropsychiatry - an emerging field in South African adolescent psychiatric services</strong></p><p>A Lachman</p><p><strong>30. Recovery versus remission, or what it means to be healthy for a psychiatric patient?</strong></p><p>B Latecki</p><p><strong>31. Holistic methods utilised to normalise behaviours in youth diagnosed with neuro-biochemical disorders</strong></p><p>P Macqueen</p><p><strong>32. Candidate genes and novel polymorphisms for anxiety disorder in a South African cohort</strong></p><p>N McGregor, J Dimatelis, S M J Hemmings, C J Kinnear, D Stein, V Russel, C Lochner</p><p><strong>33. Higher visual functioning</strong></p><p>A Moodley</p><p><strong>34. The effects of prenatal methylmercury exposure on trace element and antioxidant levels in rat offspring following 6-hydroxydopamine-induced neuronal insult</strong></p><p>Z M Moosa, W M U Daniels, M V Mabandla</p><p><strong>35. Paediatric neuropsychiatric movement disorders</strong></p><p>L Mubaiwa</p><p><strong>36. The South African national female offenders study</strong></p><p>M Nagdee, L Artz, C de Clercq, P de Wet, H Erlacher, S Kaliski, C Kotze, L Kowalski, J Naidoo, S Naidoo, J Pretorius, M Roffey, F Sokudela, U Subramaney</p><p><strong>37. Neurobiological consequences of child abuse</strong></p><p>C Nemeroff</p><p><strong>38. What do Stellenbosch Unviversity medical students think about psychiatry - and why should we care?</strong></p><p>G Nortje, S Suliman, K Seed, G Lydall, S Seedat</p><p><strong>39. Neurological soft skins in Nigerian Africans with first episode schizophrenia: Factor structure and clinical correlates</strong></p><p><strong></strong>A Ojagbemi, O Esan, O Gureje, R Emsley</p><p><strong>40. Should psychiatric patients know their MTHFR status?</strong></p><p>E Peter</p><p><strong>41. Clinical and functional outcome of treatment refractory first-episode schizophrenia</strong></p><p>L Phahladira, R Emsley, L Asmal, B Chiliza</p><p><strong>42. Bioethics by case discussion</strong></p><p>W Pienaar</p><p><strong>43. Reviewing our social contract pertaining to psychiatric research in children, research in developing countries and distributive justice in pharmacy</strong></p><p>W Pienaar</p><p><strong>44. The performance of the MMSE in a heterogenous elderly South African population</strong></p><p>S Ramlall, J Chipps, A I Bhigjee, B J Pillay</p><p><strong>45. Biological basis addiction (alocohol and drug addiction)</strong></p><p>S Rataemane</p><p><strong>46. Volumetric brain changes in prenatal methamphetamine-exposed children compared with healthy unexposed controls</strong></p><p><strong></strong>A Roos, K Donald, G Jones, D J Stein</p><p><strong>47. Single voxel proton magnetic resonance spectroscopy of the amygdala in social anxiety disorder in the context of early developmental trauma</strong></p><p>D Rosenstein, A Hess, S Seedat, E Meintjies</p><p><strong>48. Discussion of HDAC inhibitors, with specific reference to supliride and its use during breastfeeding</strong></p><p>J Roux</p><p><strong>49. Prevalence and clinical correlates of police contact prior to a first diagnosis of schizophrenia</strong></p><p>C Schumann, L Asmal, K Cloete, B Chiliza, R Emsley</p><p><strong>50. Are dreams meaningless?</strong></p><p>M Solms</p><p><strong>51. The conscious id</strong></p><p>M Solms<strong></strong></p><p><strong>52. Depression and resilience in HIV-infected women with early life stress: Does trauma play a mediating role?</strong></p><p>G Spies, S Seedat</p><p><strong>53. State of affairs analysis for forensic psychiatry in SA</strong></p><p>U Subramaney</p><p><strong>54. Escitalopram in the prevention of post-traumatic stress disorder: A pilot randomised controlled trial</strong></p><p>S Suliman, S Seedat, J Pingo, T Sutherland, J Zohar, D J Stein</p><p><strong>55. Epigenetic consequences of adverse early social experiences in primates</strong></p><p>S Suomi</p><p><strong>56. Risk, resilience, and gene x environment interactions in primates</strong></p><p>S Suomi</p><p><strong>57. Biological aspects of anorexia nervosa</strong></p><p>C Szabo</p><p><strong>58. Agents used and profiles of non-fatal suicidal behaviour in East London</strong></p><p>H Uys</p><p><strong>59. The contributions of G-protein coupled receptor signalling to opioid dependence</strong></p><p>J van Tonder</p><p><strong>60. Emerging trend and innovation in PTSD and OCD</strong></p><p>J Zohar</p><p><strong>61. Making the SASOP treatment guidelines operational</strong></p><p>E Allers</p><p><strong>Poster Presentations</strong></p><p><strong>62. Neuropsychological deficits in social anxiety disorder in the context of early developmental trauma</strong></p><p><strong></strong>S Bakelaar, D Rosenstein, S Seedat</p><p><strong>63.Social anxiety disorder in patients with or without early childhood trauma: Relationship to behavioral inhibition and activation and quality of life</strong></p><p><strong></strong>S Bakelaar, C Bruijnen, A Sambeth, S Seedat</p><p><strong>64. Exploring altered affective processing in obssessive compulsive disorder symptom subtypes</strong></p><p>E Breet, J Ipser, D Stein, C Lochner<strong><br /></strong></p><p><strong>65. To investigate the bias toward recognising the facial expression of disgust in obsessive compulsive disorder as well as the effect of escitalopram</strong></p><p>E Breet, J Ipser, D Stein, C Lochner</p><p><strong>66. A fatal-case of nevirapine-induced Stevens-Johnson's syndrome in HIV mania</strong></p><p>A Bronkhorst, Z Zingela, W M Qwesha, B P Magigaba<strong></strong></p><p><strong>67. Association of the COMT G472A (met/met) genotype with lower disability in people diagnosed with multiple sclerosis</strong></p><p>W Davis, S J van Rensburg, L Fisher, F J Cronje, D Geiger, M J Kotze</p><p><strong>68. hom*ocycsteine levels are associated with the fat mass and obesity associated gene FTO(intron 1 T&gt;A) polymorphism in MS patients</strong></p><p>W Davis, S J Van Rensburg, M J Kotze, L Fisher, M Jalali, F J Cronje, K Moremi, J Gamieldien, D Geiger, M Rensburg, R van Toorn, M J de Klerk, G M Hon, T Matsha, S Hassan, R T Erasmus</p><p><strong>69. Analysis of the COMT 472 G&gt;A (rs4680) polymorphism in relation to environmental influences as contributing factors in patients with schizophrenia</strong></p><p>D de Klerk, S J van Rensburg, R A Emsley, D Geiger, M Rensburg, R T Erasmus, M J Kotze</p><p><strong>70. Dietary folate intake, hom*ocysteine levels and MTHFR mutation detection in South African patients with depression: Test development for clinical application </strong></p><p>D Delport, N vand der Merwe, R Schoeman, M J Kotze</p><p><strong>71. The use ofexome sequencing for antipsychotic pharmacogenomic applications in South African schizophrenia patients</strong></p><p>B Drogmoller, D Niehaus, G Wright, B Chiliza, L Asmal, R Emsley, L Warnich</p><p><strong>72. The effects of HIV on the ventral-striatal reward system</strong></p><p>S du Plessis, M Vink, J Joska, E Koutsilieri, C Scheller, B Spottiswoode, D Stein, R Emsley</p><p><strong>73. Xenomelia relates to asymmetrical insular activity: A case study of fMRI</strong></p><p>S du Plessis, M Vink, L Asmal</p><p><strong>74. Maternal mental helath: A prospective naturalistic study of the outcome of pregancy in women with major psychiatric disorders in an African country</strong></p><p>E du Toit, L Koen, D Niehaus, B Vythilingum, E Jordaan, J Leppanen</p><p><strong>75. Prefrontal cortical thinning and subcortical volume decrease in HIV-positive children with encephalopathy</strong></p><p>J P Fouche, B Spottiswoode, K Donald, D Stein, J Hoare</p><p><strong>76. H-magnetic resonance spectroscopy metabolites in schizophrenia</strong></p><p>F Howells, J Hsieh, H Temmingh, D J Stein</p><p><strong>77. Hypothesis for the development of persistent methamphetamine-induced psychosis</strong></p><p><strong></strong> J Hsieh, D J Stein, F M Howells</p><p><strong>78. Culture, religion, spirituality and psychiatric practice: The SASOP Spirituality and Psychiatry Special Interest Group Action Plan for 2012-2014</strong></p><p>B Janse van Rensburg</p><p><strong>79. Cocaine reduces the efficiency of dopamine uptake in a rodent model of attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder: An <em>in vivo</em> electrochemical study</strong></p><p><strong></strong>L Kellaway, J S Womersley, D J Stein, G A Gerhardt, V A Russell</p><p><strong>80. Kleine-Levin syndrome: Case in an adolescent psychiatric unit</strong></p><p>A Lachman</p><p><strong>81. Increased inflammatory stress specific clinical, lifestyle and therapeutic variables in patients receiving treatment for stress, anxiety or depressive symptoms</strong></p><p>H Luckhoff, M Kotze, S Janse van Rensburg, D Geiger</p><p><strong>82. Catatonia: An eight-case series report</strong></p><p>M Mabenge, Z Zingela, S van Wyk</p><p><strong>83. Relationship between anxiety sensitivity and childhood trauma in a random sample of adolescents from secondary schools in Cape Town</strong></p><p>L Martin, M Viljoen, S Seedat</p><p><strong>84. 'Making ethics real'. An overview of an ethics course presented by Fraser Health Ethics Services, BC, Canada</strong></p><p>JJ McCallaghan</p><p><strong>85. Clozapine discontinuation rates in a public healthcare setting</strong></p><p>M Moolman, W Esterhuysen, R Joubert, J C Lamprecht, M S Lubbe</p><p><strong>86. Retrospective review of clozapine monitoring in a publica sector psychiatric hospital and associated clinics</strong></p><p>M Moolman, W Esterhuysen, R Joubert, J C Lamprecht, M S Lubbe</p><p><strong>87. Association of an iron-related TMPRSS6 genetic variant c.2007 C&gt;7 (rs855791) with functional iron deficiency and its effect on multiple sclerosis risk in the South African population</strong></p><p>K Moremi, S J van Rensburg, L R Fisher, W Davis, F J Cronje, M Jalali Sefid Dashti, J Gamieldien, D Geiger, M Rensburg, R van Toorn, M J de Klerk, G M Hon, T Matsha, S Hassan, R T Erasmus, M Kidd, M J Kotze</p><p><strong>88. Identifying molecular mechanisms of apormophine-induced addictive behaviours</strong></p><p>Z Ndlazi, W Daniels, M Mabandla</p><p><strong>89. Effects of lifestyle factors and biochemistry on the major neck blood vessels in patients with mutiple sclerosis</strong></p><p>M Nelson, S J van Rensburg, M J Kotze, F Isaacs, S Hassan</p><p><strong>90. Nicotine protects against dopamine neurodegenration and improves motor deficits in a Parkinsonian rat model</strong></p><p>N Ngema, P Ngema, M Mabandla, W Daniels</p><p><strong>91. Cognition: Probing anatomical substrates</strong></p><p>H Nowbath</p><p><strong>92. Chronic exposure to light reverses the effects of maternal separation on the rat prefrontal cortex</strong></p><p>V Russel, J Dimatelis</p><p><strong>93. Evaluating a new drug to combat Alzheimer's disease</strong></p><p>S Sibiya, W M U Daniels, M V Mabandla</p><p><strong>94. Structural brain changes in HIV-infected women with and without childhood trauma</strong></p><p>G Spies, F Ahmed, C Fennema-Notestine, S Archibald, S Seedat</p><p><strong>95. Nicotine-stimulated release of hippocampal norepinephrine is reduced in an animal model of attention-deficit/ hyperactivity disorder: the spontaneously hypertensive rat</strong></p><p>T Sterley</p><p><strong>96. Brain-derive neurotrophic factor (BDNF) protein levels in anxiety disorders: Systematic review and meta-regression analysis</strong></p><p>S Suliman, S M J Hemmings, S Seedat</p><p><strong>97. A 12-month retrospective audit of the demographic and clinical profile of mental healthcare users admitted to a district level hospital in the Western Cape, South Africa</strong></p><p>E Thomas, K J Cloete, M Kidd, H Lategan</p><p><strong>98. Magnesium recurarization: A comparison between reversal of neuromuscular block with sugammadex v. neostigmine/ glycopyrrolate in an <em>in vivo</em> rat model</strong></p><p><strong></strong>M van den Berg, M F M James, L A Kellaway</p><p><strong>99. Identification of breast cancer patients at increased risk of 'chemobrain': Case study and review of the literature</strong></p><p>N van der Merwe, R Pienaar, S J van Rensburg, J Bezuidenhout, M J Kotze</p><p><strong>100. The protective role of HAART and NAZA in HIV Tat protein-induced hippocampal cell death</strong></p><p>S Zulu, W M U Daniels, M V Mabandla</p>

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Background:Gout is a chronic autoinflammatory disease caused by monosodium urate (MSU) crystal deposition [1].Acute gout is characterized by an acute inflammatory reaction that resolves spontaneously within a few days[2], which is one of the distinguishing features of gout compared to other arthropathies or self-inflammatory diseases. Autophagy is a lysosomal degradation pathway that is essential for cellular growth, survival, differentiation, development and homeostasis [3]. Studies have demonstrated that autophagy might play a key role in the pathogenesis of primary gouty arthritis (GA) [4-7]. However, the roles of autophagy in the development of gout have not yet been elucidated.Objectives:The aim of our study was to investigate the changes in autophagy-related gene (ATG) mRNA and protein in patients and the clinical importance of these genes in primary gouty arthritis (GA) and to explore the roles of autophagy in the pathogenesis of GA.Methods:The mRNA and protein expression levels of ATGs (ATG3, ATG7, ATG10, ATG5, ATG12, ATG16L1, ATG4B and LC3-2) were measured in peripheral blood mononuclear cells (PBMCs) from 196 subjects, including 57 acute gout patients (AG group), 57 intercritical gout patients (IG group) and 82 healthy control subjects (HC group). The relationship between ATG expression levels and laboratory features was analyzed in GA patients.Results:The expression levels of ATG4B, ATG5, ATG12, ATG16L1, ATG10 and LC3-2 mRNA were much lower in the AG group than in the IG and HC groups (p<0.05), while the ATG7 mRNA level was much higher in the AG group than in the IG and HC groups (p<0.05). The protein expression levels of LC3-2, ATG3, ATG7 and ATG10 were much higher in the AG group than in the other groups, while those of ATG5, ATG12, ATG16L1 and ATG4B were far lower in the AG group than in the other groups (p<0.05). In GA patients, the levels of ATG mRNA and protein correlated with laboratory inflammatory and metabolic indexes.Conclusion:Altered ATG expression suggests that autophagy is involved in the pathogenesis of GA and participates in regulating inflammation and metabolism.References:[1]Dalbeth N, Choi HK, Joosten LAB, Khanna PP, Matsuo H, Perez-Ruiz F, et al. Gout. Nat Rev Dis Primers. 2019;5: 69.doi:10.1038/s41572-019-0115-y.[2]Schauer C, Janko C, Munoz LE, Zhao Y, Kienhöfer D, Frey B, et al. Aggregated neutrophil extracellular traps limit inflammation by degrading cytokines and chemokines. Nat Med. 2014;20: 511-517.doi:10.1038/nm.3547.[3]Han Y, Zhang L, Xing Y, Zhang L, Chen X, Tang P, et al. Autophagy relieves the function inhibition and apoptosis-promoting effects on osteoblast induced by glucocorticoid. Int J Mol Med. 2018;41: 800-808. doi:10.3892/ijmm.2017.3270.[4]Yang QB, He YL, Zhong XW, Xie WG, Zhou JG. Resveratrol ameliorates gouty inflammation via upregulation of sirtuin 1 to promote autophagy in gout patients. Inflammopharmacology. 2019;27: 47-56.doi:10.1007/s10787-018-00555-4.[5]Mitroulis I, Kambas K, Chrysanthopoulou A, Skendros P, Apostolidou E, Kourtzelis I, et al. Neutrophil extracellular trap formation is associated with IL-1β and autophagy-related signaling in gout. PLoS One. 2011;6: e29318.doi: 10.1371/journal.pone.0029318.[6]Crişan TO, Cleophas MCP, Novakovic B, Erler K, van de Veerdonk FL, Stunnenberg HG, et al. Uric acid priming in human monocytes is driven by the AKT-PRAS40 autophagy pathway. Proc Natl Acad Sci U S A. 2017;114: 5485-5490.doi:10.1073/pnas.1620910114.[7]Lee SS, Lee SW, Oh DH, Kim HS, Chae SC, Kim SK. Genetic analysis for rs2241880(T > C) in ATG16L1 polymorphism for the susceptibility of Gout. J Clin Rheumatol. 2019;25: e113-e115.doi:10.1097/rhu.0000000000000685.Disclosure of Interests:Yu-Qin Huang: None declared, Quan-Bo Zhang Grant/research support from: National Natural Science Foundation of China(General Program) (no.81974250) and Science and Technology Plan Project of Sichuan Province (no.2018JY0257), Jian-Xiong Zheng: None declared, gui-lin jian: None declared, tao-hong liu: None declared, Xin He: None declared, fan-ni xiao: None declared, qin xiong: None declared, Yu-Feng Qing Grant/research support from: Science and Technology Project of Nanchong City (no.18SXHZ0522)

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e4595074The article examines the transfer of evaluative policies on the internationalization of higher education. Although evaluative policies have always been shaped by international influence, the study assumes that the internationalization of evaluative policies has intensified since the World Conference on Higher Education (HE) for the XXI Century: Vision and Action (UNESCO, 1998) process that resembles several speeches in a single global educational discourse. In this sense, this interpretative research aims to analyze external policies resulting from the agreement reached at the World Conference on Higher Education for the XXI Century: Vision and Action with regard to 'internationalization of Higher Education', as well as advice transferred as educational policies and later translated to developing countries in general and to Brazilian Higher Education (HE) in particular. The research with an interpretative approach used Document Analysis to analyze the following texts, especially on the theme of Internationalization of Higher Education. They are: the Conference in question (UNESCO, 1998); the National Education Plan (2014); and the External Institutional Assessment Instrument (EIAI) - (INEP, 2017). As a result, it is confirmed that the advice of this particular Conference influenced the evaluative policies developed by INEP for HE, however, they also alert to the emergence of adaptation of academic practices from remote education, caused by the Coronavirus pandemic, which can have a significant impact on the internationalization concept of higher education, since communication technologies have brought about incredible changes in record time.ResumoO artigo examina a transferência de políticas avaliativas sobre internacionalização da educação superior. Ainda que as políticas avaliativas sempre tenham sido moldadas pela influência internacional o estudo parte do pressuposto de que a internacionalização das políticas avaliativas se intensificaram a partir da Conferência Mundial para a Educação Superior (ES) para o Século XXI: Visão e Ação (UNESCO, 1998) processo que aproxima diversos discursos em um único discurso educacional global. Neste sentido, esta pesquisa de cunho interpretativo, tem como objetivo, analisar políticas externas resultantes do acordo realizado na Conferência Mundial para a Educação Superior para o Século XXI: Visão e Ação no que se refere a ‘internacionalização da ES, bem como os aconselhamentos transferidos como políticas educativas e posteriormente traduzidos para os países em desenvolvimento em geral e para a Educação Superior (ES) brasileira em particular. A pesquisa de abordagem interpretativa utilizou-se da Análise Documental para analisar os seguintes textos, em especial sobre o tema da Internacionalização da ES. São eles: a Conferência em questão (UNESCO, 1998); o Plano Nacional de Educação (2014); e o Instrumento de Avaliação Institucional Externa (IAIE) – (INEP, 2017). Como resultado confirma-se que os aconselhamentos desta Conferência em particular, influenciaram as políticas avaliativas elaboradas pelo INEP para a ES, no entanto também alertam para a emergência de adaptação das práticas acadêmicas a partir do ensino remoto, provocado pela pandemia do Coronavirus, que podem ter um impacto significativo no conceito de internacionalização da educação superior, uma vez que as tecnologias de comunicação provocaram incríveis mudanças em tempo recorde.ResumenEl artículo examina la transferencia de políticas evaluativas sobre la internacionalización de la educación superior. Aunque las políticas evaluativas siempre han sido moldeadas por la influencia internacional, el estudio asume que la internacionalización de las políticas evaluativas se ha intensificado desde la Conferencia Mundial de Educación Superior (ES) para el siglo XXI: visión y acción (UNESCO, 1998) proceso que se asemeja a varios discursos en un solo discurso educativo global. En este sentido, esta investigación interpretativa tiene como objetivo analizar las políticas externas resultantes del acuerdo alcanzado en la Conferencia Mundial sobre Educación Superior para el siglo XXI: visión y acción con respecto a la 'internacionalización de la educación superior', así como asesoramiento transferido como políticas educativas y luego se tradujo a los países en desarrollo en general y a la Educación Superior Brasileña (ES) en particular. La investigación con un enfoque interpretativo utilizó el Análisis de Documentos para analizar los siguientes textos, especialmente sobre el tema de la internacionalización de la educación superior. Ellos son: la Conferencia en cuestión (UNESCO, 1998); el Plan Nacional de Educación (2014); y el Instrumento de Evaluación Institucional Externa (IAIE) - (INEP, 2017). Como resultado, se confirma que el consejo de esta Conferencia en particular influyó en las políticas evaluativas desarrolladas por INEP para HE, sin embargo, también alertan sobre la aparición de la adaptación de prácticas académicas de educación remota, causada por la pandemia de Coronavirus, que puede tener un impacto significativo en el concepto de internacionalización de la educación superior, ya que las tecnologías de comunicación han provocado cambios increíbles en un tiempo récord.Palavras-chave: Políticas avaliativas, Internacionalização da educação superior, Transferência de políticas.Keywords: Evaluative policies, Internationalization of higher education, Policy transfer.Palabras clave: Políticas evaluativas, Internacionalización de la educación superior, Política de transferencia.ReferencesALTBACH, P. G.; KNIGHT, J. The internationalization of higher education: Motivations and realities. Journal of Studies in International Education, p. 290-305, 2007.BARTELL, Marvin. Internacionalization of universities: a university-culture-based framework. Higher Education. Manitoba: Winnipeg, p. 37-52. 2003.BEECH, Jason. Quem está passeando pelo jardim global? Agências educativas e transferência educacional. In: COWEN, Robert; KAZAMIAS, Andreas M.; UNTERHALTER, Elaine. (Orgs.). Educação Comparada: Panorama internacional e perspectivas. Vol.1. Brasília: UNESCO, CAPES, 2012. em: https://edisciplinas.usp.br/pluginfile.php/1950621/mod_resource/content/1/Educa%C3%A7%C3%A3o%20comparada%20panorama%20internacional%20e%20perspectivas..pdf Acesso em: 15 out.2019.BEECH, Jason. A Internacionalização das políticas educativas na América Latina. Currículo sem Fronteiras, v.9, n.2, pp.32-50, Jul/Dez 2009. Disponível em http://www.curriculosemfronteiras.org/vol9iss2articles/beech.pdf Acesso em: 27 abr.2020.BRASIL. Constituição da República Federativa do Brasil (1988). Disponível em: http://www.planalto.gov.br/ccivil_03/constituicao/constituicao.htm Acesso em: 28 jul.2019.BRASIL. Plano Nacional de Educação (PNE). Lei n° 13.005/2014. Disponível em: http://pne.mec.gov.br/18-planos-subnacionais-de-educacao/543-plano-nacional-de-educacao-lei-n-13-005-2014 Acesso em: 28 jul.2019.COWEN, Robert. Organização das Nações Unidas para a Educação, a Ciência e a Cultura (UNESCO) In.: Introdução: o Nacional, o Internacional e o Global. Educação Comparada. Vol.1º. 2012.GIDDENS, Anthony. A vida em uma sociedade pós-tradicional. In: BECK, U.; GIDDENS, A. LASH, S. (eds). Modernização Reflexiva. São Paulo: UNESP, 1997.HOLESCH, Adam. A Identidade Coletiva na União Europeia. Tensões Mundiais. Fortaleza. V.9, n.16, 2013. Disponível em: https://www.academia.edu/10513314/A_identidade_coletiva_na_Uni%C3%A3o_Europeia Acesso em: 10 mar.2021.HOWE, P. A Community of Europeans: The Requisite Underpinnings. Journal of Common Market Studies, Vol.33,n.1,1995INEP. Instituto nacional de Estudos e Pesquisas Anísio Teixeira. Instrumento de Avaliação Institucional Externa (2017). Disponível em: http://download.inep.gov.br/educacao_superior/avaliacao_institucional/instrumentos/2017/IES_recredenciamento.pdf Acesso em: 28 jul.2019.LYOTARD, Jean-François. A Condição Pós-Moderna. Rio de Janeiro-RJ: Editora José Olímpio, 12ª edição, 2009.MAINARDES, Jefferson. Abordagem do Ciclo de políticas: Uma contribuição para a análise de políticas educativas. Educação e Sociedade, Campinas, vol.27, n. 94, p.47-69, jan./abr. 2006. Disponível em: http://www.scielo.br/pdf/es/v27n94/a03v27n94.pdf Acesso em: 15 out.2019. MAYOR, Frederico; SEMA, Tanguiane. UNESCO: an ideal in action; the continuing relevance of a visionary text. Paris: UNESCO, 1997.MELLO, Alex Fiúza de. Globalização, sociedade do conhecimento e educação superior: os sinais de Bolonha e os desafios do Brasil e da América Latina. Brasília: Editora Universidade de Brasília, 2011.NOAH, H.; ECKSTEIN, M. Toward a science of comparative education. London: Macmillan, 1969.NÓVOA, A.; LAWN, M. (Eds.). Fabricating Europe: the formation of and education space. Dordrecht: Kluwer, 2002.ONU. Organização das Nações Unidas. Declaração Universal dos Direitos Humanos. Disponível em: https://www.ohchr.org/EN/UDHR/Pages/Language.aspx?LangID=por Acesso em: 28 jul. 2019.PAPADOPOULOS, G. Education 1960-1990: the OECD perspective. Paris: OECD, 1994STEINER-KHAMSI, G. Transferring education, displacing reforms. Frankfurt, 2000.STALLIVIERI, Luciana. Compreendendo a internacionalização da educação superior. Revista de Educação do COGEIME – Ano 26 – n.50 – janeiro-junho 2017. Disponível em: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/319020412_Compreendendo_a_internacionalizacao_da_educacao_superior Acesso em: 27 abr.2020.UNESCO. Conferência Internacional para Educação Superior para o Século XXI: Visão e Ação (1988).Disponível em: http://www.direitoshumanos.usp.br/index.php/Direito-a-Educa%C3%A7%C3%A3o/declaracao-mundial-sobre-educacao-superior-no-seculo-xxi-visao-e-acao.html Acesso em: 28 jul.2019.

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The Harre vig boathousesNew investigationsMedieval and prehistoric boathouses are especially known from Norway, where more than 800 structures from the 1st-16th century have been recorded. They normally appear in the terrain as U-shaped structures, built from stones and/or turf, and with the open end oriented towards a nearby coastline. The medieval constructions tend to be rectangular in plan, while older boathouses have curved sidewalls. Studies of the large boathouses (15-40111 internal length) has demonstrated that throughout time they can be connected to places of administrative importance, in the Middle Ages in terms of the leidang system. Especially in western Norway, there are several examples of historically known leidang-centres – skipreider – that manifests themselves also physically in terms of a Romanesque stone church and a large, medieval boathouse. This reflects the content of medieval Norwegian law, demanding that the leidang ship should be kept in a boathouse, a naust, and that the sail should be kept in a church.Much fewer archaeological boathouses are known from other Scandinavian areas, and in Denmark, only two examples have so far been attested. They both are situated at Harre Vig in northwestern Jutland, on the south side of the Lime Fiord (fig. 1).Harre Vig forms the inner, well-protected part of an inlet cutting into the district Salling on the south coast of the western Lime Fiord. The entrance to Harre Vig is narrow and the two structures were found close to it, on the foreshore beneath a moraine headland facing incoming ships from the Lime Fiord.Thorkild Ramskou from the Danish National Museum undertook the first archaeological investigation of the Harrevig boathouses in 1958. Limiting his excavation to a few trenches in the best preserved, northernmost of the two east-west oriented structures, he failed to produce any kind of dating evidence.The only artefact found was an iron nail of a type usually used in shipbuilding. His conclusions were, that the structures, of which the northern one measured 27.5 m in length and 10.5111 in width (internal dimensions 24x6m) more had the character of sheds with a temporary roofing than actual boat houses (fig. 2). Ramskou proposed that the structures should be seen in relation to gatherings of Danish fleets in the western Lime Fiord in preparations for expeditions to the west. Therefore, he dated the structures to the time before the closing of the western entrance to the fiord, more precisely to the Viking Age or the Early Middle Ages.In spired by the results of Norweg ian boathouse research, and as the result of the Centre’s involvement in a PhD project about Iron Age and Medieval boathouses in Northern Europe by Oliver Grimm, the Centre for Maritime Archaeology at the Danish National Museum in 2000 undertook a renewed investigation of the structures at Harre Vig. The aims were to find material suitable for an archaeological or scientific dating of the structures, as well as to throw more light over their construction.The work was planned and carried out with due respect to the unique character of the two protected monuments, and actual excavations were kept to a minimum (fig. 3). The construction of the walls was studied through a main trench across the structure, continuing in to a slightly elevated area to the north and a cut through the end wall. A cut th rough the seaward end together with one perpendicular to the coast to the north of the structure aimed at confinning that no end wall was hiding in a beach ridge clearly visible in the 3D- model of the site, and thought to be of later date than the structures (fig. 4). Finally, a trench was opened in the interior of the structure, to in vestigate if the presence of any interior wall constructions or roof supports could be demonstrated. Apart from mechanical removal of the turf, all trenches were dug with hand and in planum in order to obtain as much information as possible from the restricted areasexcavated.The trenches through the walls brought about new in formation about their construction, as it was demonstrated that they were partly buildt from material dug up from a trench immediately on theout side of the walls, partly from turf being cut from the close surroundings (fig. 5). The sections established allow for a reconstruction of the walls as between 1.1-1.5 m wide and 1-1.5 m high, probably of trapezoid shape. The cut through the seaward end confirms that there has been no wall construction here, and thus the internal width appears to be 5.6-6.2111 and the opening towards the sea 3.5 m wide. It was not possible to document the presence of any internal constructions, which indicates that a permanent roof may not have been present. Nor were any cultural layer found. The conclusion of Ramskou, that the structures were not boathouses proper, but constituted another type of shelters, probably only in short time use, was thus supported. Shelters without roofs, hróf, are known from Iceland in recent time, where they serve to protect the boats from the wind, rather than from rain and snow.The artefact finds were few. During a metal detector survey, four nail fragments were found, but their contexts were inconclusive. During the excavation six further fragments appeared, mostly from the filling in the northern wall, indicating them to be older than or contemporary to the construction of the wall. One of the fragments was the rove from a rivet, apparently broken up (fig. 6). The size compares to that of a big boat or a small ship, but could also be from a lightly built longship. Its design indicates it to be older than c. 1100. Furthermore five small, magnetic cinders were found, indicating iron working at the site (fig. 7). The possibility exists, however, that they are later intrusions. In the end wall, in a layer, which must have been formed during its construction, remains of a campfire were found. Together with it turned up also 25 small potsherds of what might have been the same globular vessel of local, early 11th century produces. Radiocarbon analyses of three samples of charcoal – one oak, two pine – from the camp fire gave very uniform dating values pointing to the period AD 1020-1040, but with some possibility for a dating in the first half of the 12th century (fig. 8). The dating evidence thus quite uniformly points to a dating around the middle of the l1th century.The dating and the new information on the height of the walls and the possible width of the opening allows us to judge, what kind of ship the shed may have housed. 11th century warships appear to be more slender than their predecessors are and than cargo carriers. The beam of the warships built at the time of the shelter was only 9-14% of their length. This corresponds well to the proportions of the shelter, the opening measuring 15% of the internal length of 24 m. Thus, we may assume that the shed has been able to house a longship of 24 m length, corresponding to 18-20 pairs of oars, or a crew of 40-50 people. The southern structure being similar in proportions to the northern and apparently contemporary, it may have housed a ship of similar size. In what context has it been necessary to keep ships for a highly mobile, amphibious force of up to 100 soldiers at Harre Vig?The nearby village Harre has not only given name to the inlet and other natural landmarks in the vicinity – it has also given name to the local administrative district, herred, although it is situation in the southern end of the district. The herred division can with certainty be related to the leidang from 1140 onwards, but this relationship may be older. Harre herred is known in written sources from 1230 on, Harre village from 1386. The Romanesque church of the village, situated with a wide view over the inlet, indicates the village to be of higher age than its first appearance in historical documents. Slightly unusual is that Harre parish also had another Romanesque church, now only preserved as a ruin (fig. 9). This church was placed close to Harre church, but even closer to the inlet.There are thus some great similarities between the situation known from the Norwegian skipreider with stone churches and large boathouses and that at Harrevig. It is puzzling, however, that the boat sheds at Harrevig are situated at some distance – 1.5 km – from the village (fig. 10).The location is, however, situated as far towards the openin g of the inlet as the landscape allows land transport, and the reason may have been simply to secure rapid deployment of the ships when need arose.That the choice was, after all not a wise one may be indicated by the apparent short time of use for the sheds.Jan Bill & Oliver GrimmNationalmuseets Marinarkæologiske Forskningscenter

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Constant demand for new naval and commercial vessels has created special conditions for the Government-owned Soviet shipbuilding industry, which practically has not been affected by the world shipbuilding crisis. On the other hand, such chronic diseases of the centralized economy as lack of incentive, material shortage and poor workmanship cause specific problems for ship construction. Being technically and financially unable to rapidly improve the overall technology level and performance of the entire industry, the Soviets concentrate their efforts on certain important areas and have achieved significant results, especially in welding and cutting titanium and aluminum alloys, modular production methods, standardization, etc. All productivity improvement efforts are supported by an army of highly educated engineers and scientists at shipyards, in multiple scientific, research and design institutions. Discussion Edwin J. Petersen, Todd Pacific Shipyards Three years ago I addressed the Ship Production Symposium as chairman of the Ship Production Committee and outlined some major factors which had contributed to the U.S. shipbuilding industry's remarkable achievements in building and maintaining the world's largest naval and merchant fleets during the five-year period starting just before World War II. The factors were as follows:There was a national commitment to get the job done. The shipbuilding industry was recognized as a needed national resource. There was a dependable workload. Standardization was extensively and effectively utilized. Shipbuilding work was effectively organized. Although these lessons appear to have been lost by our Government since World War II, the paper indicates that the Soviet Union has picked up these principles and has applied them very well to its current shipbuilding program. The paper also gives testimony to the observation that the Soviet Government recognizes the strategic and economic importance of a strong merchant fleet as well as a powerful naval fleet. In reviewing the paper, I found great similarity between the Soviet shipbuilding productivity improvement efforts and our own efforts or goals under the National Shipbuilding Research Program in the following areas:welding technology, flexible automation (robotics), application of group technology, standardization, facilities development, and education and training. In some areas, the Soviet Union appears to be well ahead of the United States in improving the shipbuilding process. Most noteworthy among these is the stable long-and medium-range planning that is possible by virtue of the use and adherence to the "Table of Vessel Classes." It will be obvious to most who hear and read these comments what a vast and significant improvement in shipbuilding costs and schedules could be achieved with a relatively dependable 15year master ship procurement plan for the U.S. naval and merchant fleets. Another area where the Soviet Union appears to lead the United States is in the integration of ship component suppliers into the shipbuilding process. This has been recognized as a vital step by the National Shipbuilding Research Program, but so far we have not made significant progress. A necessary prerequisite for this "supplier integration" is extensive standardization of ship components, yet another area in which the Soviets have achieved significantly greater progress than we have. Additional areas of Soviet advantage are the presence of a multilevel research and development infrastructure well supported by highly educated scientists, engineering and technical personnel; and better integration of formally educated engineering and technical personnel into the ship production process. In his conclusion, the author lists a number of problems facing the Soviet economy that adversely affect shipbuilding productivity. Perhaps behind this listing we can delve out some potential U.S. shipbuilding advantages. First, production systems in U.S. shipyards (with the possible exception of naval shipyards) are probably more flexible and adjustable to meet new circ*mstances as a consequence of not being constrained by a burdensome centralized bureaucracy, as is the case with Soviet shipyards. Next, such initiatives as the Ship Production Committee's "Human Resources Innovation" projects stand a better chance of achieving product-oriented "production team" relationship among labor, management, and technical personnel than the more rigid Soviet system, especially in view of the ability of U.S. shipyard management to offer meaningful financial incentives without the kind of bureaucratic constraints imposed in the Soviet system. Finally, the current U.S. Navy/shipbuilding industry cooperative effort to develop a common engineering database should lead to a highly integrated and disciplined ship design, construction, operation, and maintenance system for naval ships (and subsequently for commercial ships) that will ultimately restore the U.S. shipbuilding process to a leadership position in the world marketplace (additional references [16] and [17]).On that tentatively positive note, it seems fitting to close this discussion with a question: Is the author aware of any similar Soviet effort to develop an integrated computer-aided design, production and logistics support system? The author is to be congratulated on an excellent, comprehensive insight into the Soviet shipbuilding process and productivity improvement efforts that should give us all adequate cause not to be complacent in our own efforts. Peter M. Palermo, Naval Sea Systems Command The author presents an interesting paper that unfortunately leaves this reader with a number of unanswered questions. The paper is a paradox. It depicts a system consisting of a highly educated work force, advanced fabrication processes including the use of standardized hull modules, sophisticated materials and welding processes, and yet in the author's words they suffer from "low productivity, poor product quality, . . . and the rigid production systems which resists the introduction of new ideas." Is it possible that incentive, motivation, and morale play an equally significant role in achieving quality and producibility advances? Can the author discuss underlying reasons for quality problems in particular—or can we assume that the learning curves of Figs. 5 and Fig. 6 are representative of quality improvement curves? It has been my general impression that quality will improve with application of high-tech fabrication procedures, enclosed fabrication ways, availability of highly educated welding engineers on the building ways, and that productivity would improve with the implementation of modular or zone outfitting techniques coupled with the quality improvements. Can the author give his impressions of the impact of these innovations in the U.S. shipbuilding industry vis-a-vis the Soviet industry? Many of the welding processes cited in the paper are also familiar to the free world, with certain notable exceptions concerning application in Navy shipbuilding. For example, (1) electroslag welding is generally confined to single-pass welding of heavy plates; application to thinner plates—l1/4 in. and less when certified—would permit its use in more applications than heretofore. (2) Electron beam welding is generally restricted to high-technology machinery parts; vacuum chamber size restricts its use for larger components (thus it must be assumed that the Soviets have solved the vacuum chamber problem or have much larger chambers). (3) Likewise, laser welding has had limited use in U.S. shipbuilding. An interesting theme that runs throughout the paper, but is not explicitly addressed, is the quality of Soviet ship fitting. The use of high-tech welding processes and the mention of "remote controlled tooling for welding and X-ray testing the butt, and for following painting" imply significant ship fitting capabilities for fitting and positioning. This is particularly true if modules are built in one facility, outfitted and assembled elsewhere depending on the type of ship required. Any comments concerning Soviet ship fitting capabilities would be appreciated. The discussion on modular construction seems to indicate that the Soviets have a "standard hull module" that is used for different types of vessels, and if the use of these hull modules permit increasing hull length without changes to the fore and aft ends, it can be assumed that they are based on a standard structural design. That being the case, the midship structure will be overdesigned for many applications and optimally designed for very few. Recognizing that the initial additional cost for such a piece of hull structure is relatively minimal, it cannot be forgotten that the lifecycle costs for transporting unnecessary hull weight around can have significant fuel cost impacts. If I perceived the modular construction approach correctly, then I am truly intrigued concerning the methods for handling the distributive systems. In particular, during conversion when the ship is lengthened, how are the electrical, fluid, communications, and other distributive systems broken down, reassembled and tested? "Quick connect couplings" for these type systems at the module breaks is one particular area where economies can be achieved when zone construction methods become the order of the day in U.S. Navy ships. The author's comments in this regard would be most welcome. The design process as presented is somewhat different than U.S. Navy practice. In U.S. practice, Preliminary and Contract design are developed by the Navy. Detail design, the development of the working drawings, is conducted by the lead shipbuilder. While the detail design drawings can be used by follow shipbuilders, flexibility is permitted to facilitate unique shipbuilding or outfitting procedures. Even the contract drawings supplied by the Navy can be modified— upon Navy approval—to permit application of unique shipbuilder capabilities. The large number of college-trained personnel entering the Soviet shipbuilding and allied fields annually is mind-boggling. According to the author's estimation, a minimum of about 6500 college graduates—5000 of which have M.S. degrees—enter these fields each year. It would be most interesting to see a breakdown of these figures—in particular, how many naval architects and welding engineers are included in these figures? These are disciplines with relatively few personnel entering the Navy design and shipbuilding field today. For example, in 1985 in all U.S. colleges and universities, there were only 928 graduates (B.S., M.S. and Ph.D.) in marine, naval architecture and ocean engineering and only 1872 graduates in materials and metallurgy. The number of these graduates that entered the U.S. shipbuilding field is unknown. Again, the author is to be congratulated for providing a very thought-provoking paper. Frank J. Long, Win/Win Strategies This paper serves not only as a chronicle of some of the productivity improvement efforts in Soviet shipbuilding but also as an important reminder of the fruits of those efforts. While most Americans have an appreciation of the strengths of the Russian Navy, this paper serves to bring into clearer focus the Russians' entire maritime might in its naval, commercial, and fishing fleets. Indeed, no other nation on earth has a greater maritime capability. It is generally acknowledged that the Soviet Navy is the largest in the world. When considering the fact that the commercial and fishing fleets are, in many military respects, arms of the naval fleet, we can more fully appreciate how awesome Soviet maritime power truly is. The expansion of its maritime capabilities is simply another but highly significant aspect of Soviet worldwide ambitions. The development and updating of "Setka Typov Su dov" (Table of Vessel Classes), which the author describes is a classic example of the Soviet planning process. As the author states, "A mighty fishing and commercial fleet was built in accordance with a 'Setka' which was originally developed in the 1960's. And an even more impressive example is the rapid expansion of the Soviet Navy." In my opinion it is not mere coincidence that the Russians embarked on this course in the 1960's. That was the beginning of the coldest of cold war periods—Francis Gary Power's U-2 plane was downed by the Russians on May 1, 1960; the mid-May 1960 Four Power Geneva Summit was a bust; the Berlin Wall was erected in 1961 and, in 1962, we had the Cuban Missile Crisis. The United States maritime embargo capability in that crisis undoubtedly influenced the Soviet's planning process. It is a natural and normal function of a state-controlled economy with its state-controlled industries to act to bring about the controlled productivity improvement developments in exactly the key areas discussed in the author's paper. As the author states, "All innovations at Soviet shipyards have originated at two main sources:domestic development andadaptation of new ideas introduced by leading foreign yards, or most likely a combination of both. Soviet shipbuilders are very fast learners; moreover, their own experience is quite substantial." The Ship Production Committee of SNAME has organized its panels to conduct research in many of these same areas for productivity improvement purposes. For example, addressing the areas of technology and equipment are Panels SP-1 and 3, Shipbuilding Facilities and Environmental Effects, and Panel SP-7, Shipbuilding Welding. Shipbuilding methods are the province of SP-2; outfitting and production aids and engineering and scientific support are the province of SP-4, Design Production Integration. As I read through the descriptions of the processes that led to the productivity improvements, I was hoping to learn more about the organizational structure of Soviet shipyards, the managerial hierarchy and how work is organized by function or by craft in the shipyard. (I would assume that for all intents and purposes, all Russian yards are organized in the same way.) American shipyard management is wedded to the notion that American shipbuilding suffers immeasurably from a productivity standpoint because of limitations on management's ability to assign workers across craft lines. It is unlikely that this limitation exists in Soviet shipyards. If it does not, how is the unfettered right of assignment optimized? What are the tangible, measurable results? I believe it would have been helpful, also, for the author to have dedicated some of the paper to one of the most important factors in improvement in the labor-intensive shipbuilding industry—the shipyard worker. There are several references to worker problems—absenteeism, labor shortage, poor workmanship, and labor discipline. The reader is left with the impression that the Russians believe that either those are unsolvable problems or have a priority ranking significantly inferior to the organizational, technical, and design efforts discussed. As a case in point, the author devotes a complete section to engineering education and professional training but makes no mention of education or training programs for blue-collar workers. It would seem that a paper on productivity improvement efforts in Soviet shipbuilding would address this most important element. My guess is that the Russians have considerable such efforts underway and it would be beneficial for us to learn of them.

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Esta investigación nos sitúa frente a la temática de la demencia y da cuenta de las construcciones sociales que se tejen en relación a esta, considerando la vivencia y narrativas de quienes están en contacto cotidiano con los adultos mayores que han sido diagnosticados con esta enfermedad, como son los familiares, cuidadores, entornos comunitarios e institucionales. Se instala la pregunta: "¿cómo estructuran y significan la realidad de la demencia los agentes sociales que interactúan cotidianamente con las personas mayores con ese diagnóstico clínico?" (p. 30). En relación a lo anterior, es importante precisar que la perspectiva planteada en la investigación observa la demencia más allá de su categoría diagnóstica, abriendo paso a las percepciones de quienes conviven con esta realidad a diario, y que construyen significados propios, lidiando con la incertidumbre que la demencia tiene en sus vidas. Es así como vemos que las comunidades van generando sentido ante aquello que aparece como disruptivo, distinto y atemorizante, y donde los discursos médicos se hacen insuficientes como contexto explicativo. Como lo ilustran las experiencias a las cuales se les da voz en este libro, la demencia es una vivencia que fractura la realidad de quienes la padecen, así como su entorno más cercano, generando una crisis en las organizaciones previas de las familias. Sentimientos de extrañeza, miedo, confusión, vergüenza, son plasmados en los relatos, en los que se percibe la desesperanza, el aislamiento y sufrimiento de parte de familiares y protagonistas del cuidado. Hay una visión negativa y estigmatizada de la vejez, que a la vez alcanza en sus atribuciones a los cuidadores. Aparece una suerte de ‘contagio’ a la devaluación que se hace de la persona con demencia, la cual alcanza a su entorno familiar más cercano e influye en el proceso de marginación social de quienes son parte de este (pp. 95-189). Por otra parte, en el relato de los actores comunitarios se evidencia la falta de procedimientos y confusión frente a quienes quedan como responsables de manejar situaciones en las que existen personas identificadas con demencia en el espacio público. Entonces, se hace lo que se puede con los recursos disponibles, quedando expuesto que esta es una temática en la cual no hay claridad suficiente, preparación, ni dispositivos adecuados que puedan acoger las demandas de cuidado de adultos mayores con demencia, dejándolos muchas veces en situaciones de vulnerabilidad y desamparo (pp. 189-223 ). A partir de estos relatos en torno a la demencia y su complejo entramado, es posible reflexionar acerca de la forma en que los individuos y sociedades nos relacionamos, dando cuenta de la organización de los cuidados y regímenes de género presentes en nuestro país, las ideas en torno a la vejez, la enfermedad y la dependencia, experiencias que están fuertemente atravesadas por las profundas desigualdades en las realidades materiales y culturales de Chile. Todo esto, estructurado en un contexto neoliberal que mercantiliza la enfermedad (p. 141) y en el cual la lógica de derechos ha quedado subordinada a una segmentación de los recursos, reproduciendo a la vez la idea de un país que se divide en quintiles, y en el que las ofertas de ayuda son enmarcadas desde discursos asistencialistas (Aguirre, 2011, pp. 90-91; Arriagada y Todaro, 2012, pp. 63-64; Arriagada, 2011, pp. 5-6). Quisiera detenerme en torno a la temática del cuidado, que es uno de los protagonistas y ejes centrales de este libro. Preguntarse acerca de la organización de los cuidados conlleva observar la forma en la cual, desde los distintos sectores de la sociedad, este ha sido significado y distribuido, comprendiendo cuál es la participación del Estado, el mercado, las comunidades y las familias en este proceso, especialmente en los grupos que son considerados más dependientes, como es el caso de los adultos mayores diagnosticados con demencia (Lister et al., 2007, p. 2; Lutz, 2008, p. 2). El régimen de cuidados de una sociedad está conformado por las creencias y valoraciones asociadas a esta labor, incluyendo las expectativas relacionadas con la forma adecuada de proveerlo, las prácticas sociales existentes, los discursos dominantes, la historia en políticas públicas en la materia y las relaciones de poder que están insertas en la distribución del cuidado (Williams, 2010, p. 390). Chile y Latinoamérica han sido caracterizados como regímenes de cuidados ‘familistas’. Esto significa que las familias y, al interior de estas las mujeres, han sido históricamente las responsables de la provisión de cuidados en la sociedad (p. 141). Como podemos ver, desde los distintos subcampos investigados en este libro, el protagonismo del cuidado queda en manos de las mujeres, situación que es transversal en todas las clases sociales, en las llamadas cuidadoras formales e informales, incluso en quienes participan en este campo desde la producción científica. Sin embargo, esto aparece como una realidad que no es cuestionada en los discursos, observándose desde el relato de los sistemas familiares que el lugar del cuidador está prescrito (p. 107), y que resulta en una especie de continuidad de las labores previas que eran realizadas por una mujer del grupo familiar. El modelo de familia tradicional, conformado por el hombre proveedor y la mujer madre y dueña de casa, discurso realzado desde la arena política (Molano Mijangos, Robert y Domínguez, 2012, p. 17; Sunkel, 2007, pp. 175-176; Jelin, 2007, pp. 97-98), se ve reflejado en la forma en que las familias asumen el cuidado del adulto mayor con demencia, siendo las mujeres quienes tienen el rol de cuidadoras y los hombres de proveedores, distribuciones que se encuentran naturalizadas en los relatos de los entrevistados. Por otra parte, la devaluación del cuidado como un trabajo natural e intrínsecamente femenino (p. 29), se ha trasladado al mercado del trabajo, con precarización y bajos salarios en el rubro de las cuidadoras formales, definición de formalidad, que como se señala en el libro invita a ser cuestionada dadas las condiciones expuestas. En los relatos puede dimensionarse el grado de demandas y exigencias que esta labor requiere, y el desgaste físico y emocional que ella conlleva. Se observa, además, un carácter sacrificial del cuidado en los familiares, lo que se traspasa a quienes ejercen esta labor de forma pagada, respecto de quienes se espera una ‘vocación de servicio’, más allá de conocimientos específicos de las tareas que aquel implica (pp. 223-271). De esta forma se invisibilizan y devalúan las dificultades y grado de expertiz que se requieren para ejercer la labor de cuidado. Esto resulta muy conveniente en una lógica neoliberal de mercantilización de la salud (p. 141), ya que podemos hacer más ‘eficientes’ los servicios si lo que requerimos es un mano de obra barata, no calificada, es decir, mujeres haciendo lo que saben hacer por naturaleza: cuidar. Desde las experiencias expuestas, se concluye que el Estado y sus instituciones no son visibilizadas como una red de apoyo por parte de quienes conviven con la demencia en los entornos familiares, salvo proyectos concretos que aparecen como excepciones (p. 122). Junto con esto, la opción de institucionalización es devaluada, y existe una imagen negativa de los establecimientos de larga estadía, expresándose la creencia de que la familia es la que debe hacerse cargo del cuidado del adulto mayor con demencia, incluso por parte de quienes realizan esta labor dentro de las mismas instituciones. Esto nos invita a cuestionarnos respecto de la forma en que concebimos y actuamos frente a la vejez y la enfermedad, y en relación al cuidado de quienes quedan señalados como dependientes. Resulta fundamental dar espacio a que emerjan las experiencias de quienes se han sentido marginados, invisibilizados y desempoderados frente a las formas en que nos organizamos como sociedad ante la vejez y la enfermedad. A la vez, es necesario preguntarse cómo conectar estas realidades de quienes están en este contacto cotidiano, con la llamada ‘agenda institucional’, volviéndola una discusión que se abre al ámbito político, y no se queda restringida a la esfera familiar y femenina, reproduciendo las dicotomías de lo público y privado. Si bien en el libro se ilustra que existen esfuerzos en esta línea, estando en construcción un Plan para las Demencias en Chile para este año 2015 (pp. 63-78), se vuelve relevante que las intervenciones que emerjan de estas políticas públicas aparezcan vinculadas a las realidades materiales, de información y apoyo, que son expresadas por quienes conviven con la demencia a diario. Junto a esto, necesitamos políticas públicas que no sean neutrales a las diferencias estructurales que están insertas en nuestra sociedad, y que no sigan recreando segmentaciones sociales y reproduciendo desigualdades de género (Williams, 2001, p. 487). Por lo tanto, es necesario mirar el cuidado en su contexto de relaciones, visibilizándolo como una actividad significativa e indispensable para un desarrollo sustentable. Requiere cuestionar el régimen de cuidado actual, así como las políticas públicas existentes, que desde su acción u omisión excluyen a ciertos grupos y favorecen a otros. Además, resulta indispensable considerar las dimensiones materiales que caracterizan la provisión de cuidados, lo cual implica importantes esfuerzos en términos de tiempo y recursos financieros (Williams, 2001, p. 487). Por último, se necesita enfatizar la relevancia de desprivatizar el cuidado, y volverlo un asunto de interés público y prioridad política, respecto del cual se considere tanto a las personas dependientes, y sus cuidadores, especialmente en aquellas materias ligadas a la protección social, los sistemas de salud y servicios sociales (Williams, 2001, p. 487). Para finalizar, quisiera enfatizar que este libro representa una forma de conectar entre la llamada ‘agenda sistémica’ y la ‘agenda institucional’ (pp. 63-78). Nos permite mirar desde la perspectiva de quienes generalmente quedan marginados de los discursos dominantes, y cuestionar y desnaturalizar los órdenes actuales. El tema de la vejez, la demencia y el cuidado, constituyen una realidad que nos alcanza a todos, tarde o temprano, por lo cual este libro se convierte en una interesante invitación a observar y reflexionar en torno a las narrativas y creencias que se construyen en nuestra sociedad frente a estas experiencias. Referencias bibliográficas Aguirre, R. (2011). El reparto del cuidado en América Latina. En Duran, M. (coord..), El trabajo de cuidado en América Latina y España (pp. 89-104). Madrid: Fundación Carolina, Documento de trabajo. Arriagada, I. (2011). La organización social de los cuidados y vulneración de derechos en Chile. Santiago: ONU MUJERES, CEM (Centro de Estudios de la Mujer). Arriagada, I., Todaro, R. (2012). Cadenas globales de cuidados: El papel de las migrantes peruanas en la provisión de cuidados en Chile. Santiago: ONU MUJERES, CEM (Centro de Estudios de la Mujer). Jelin, E. (2007). Capitulo IV: Las familias latinoamericanas en el marco de las transformaciones globales. En Arriagada, I. (coord.), Familia y políticas publicas en Latino América: una historia de desencuentros (pp. 93-124). CEPAL UNFPA Santiago: Naciones Unidas. Lister, R., Williams, F., Anttonen, A., Bussemaker, J., Gerhard, U., Heinen, J., Johansson, S., Leira, A., Siim, B., Tobio, C., Gavanas. A. (2007). Gendering Citizenship in Western Europe: New Challenges for Citizenship Research in a Cross-National Context. Bristol: The Policy Press. Lutz, H. (2008). Introduction: Migrant Domestic Workers in Europe. En H. Lutz. (ed.), Migration and Domestic Work: A European Perspective on a Global Theme (pp. 1-10). Farnham and Burlingtonn: Ashgate Publishing Company. Molano Mijangos, A., Robert, E., García Dominguez M. (2012). Cadenas globales de cuidados: síntesis de resultados de nueve estudios en América Latina y España. Santo Domingo, República Dominicana: Onu Mujeres. Sunkel, G. (2011). Capitulo VII: Regímenes de bienestar y políticas de familia en América Latina. En I. Arriagada (coord.), Familia y políticas públicas en Latinoamérica: una historia de desencuentros (pp. 171-184). Santiago: CEPAL-UNFPA, Naciones Unidas. Williams, F. (2001). In and beyond New Labour: towards a new political ethics of care. Critical Social Policy 21, 467-493. (2010). Migration and Care: Themes, Concepts and Challenges. Social Policy and Society 9 (3), 385-396.

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The post-Dayton Bosnia and Herzegovina, state community in which the war stopped at the end of 1995, has many unsolved questions, many problems in all the segments of life, just like in the area of education. With regard to complex traditional, religious and national structure and everything which was a consequence of life in such society, it is hard, but inevitable, to arrange, plan and conduct affairs from different areas of the society and state immediately after the conflict. However, when peace was restored by the intercession of the international community, all aspects of life were being consolidated gradually, at one level, and among them educational system at all the levels. With regard to changed social circ*mstances, new state organization and forming of government, with all constitutional principles and legal regulation, it was hard to establish normal flows in society. In the same way it was complicated to organize education as the society activity especially because of different national, political, traditional and language interests of nations in BiH. However, despite all difficulties and interruptions certain solutions were made in education in order that every constitutive nation in BiH has its own system, which is, in contact with others, completed in the arranged reciprocity and active correlation, making a common complex educational system in BiH. On that basis, regardless of all the attempts of unitarianism from bigger nations, and regardless of weaker position of the Croatian nation in the government bodies, from which many negative consequences emerged, it gains the right to official usage of its own language in education and all other segments. In that way the Croats will, in their own language, make the textbooks and other literature as the basis of educational process, which will, through democratic procedures, with regard to both home and foreign circ*mstances and harmonization by the European standards, completely come closer to the European education system.

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Introduction Most developed countries, including Australia, have a strong focus on national, state and local strategies for emergency management and response in the face of disasters and crises. This framework can include coping with catastrophic dislocation, service disruption, injury or loss of life in the face of natural disasters such as major fires, floods, earthquakes or other large-impact natural events, as well as dealing with similar catastrophes resulting from human actions such as bombs, biological agents, cyber-attacks targeting essential services such as communications networks, or other crises affecting large populations. Emergency management frameworks for crisis and disaster response are distinguished by their focus on the domestic context for such events; that is, how to manage and assist the ways in which civilian populations, who are for the most part inexperienced and untrained in dealing with crises and disasters, are able to respond and behave in such situations so as to minimise the impacts of a catastrophic event. Even in countries like Australia that demonstrate a strong public commitment to cultural pluralism and social cohesion, ethno-cultural diversity can be seen as a risk or threat to national security and values at times of political, natural, economic and/or social tensions and crises. Australian government policymakers have recently focused, with increasing intensity, on “community resilience” as a key element in countering extremism and enhancing emergency preparedness and response. In some sense, this is the result of a tacit acknowledgement by government agencies that there are limits to what they can do for domestic communities should such a catastrophic event occur, and accordingly, the focus in recent times has shifted to how governments can best help people to help themselves in such situations, a key element of the contemporary “resilience” approach. Yet despite the robustly multicultural nature of Australian society, explicit engagement with Australia’s cultural diversity flickers only fleetingly on this agenda, which continues to pursue approaches to community resilience in the absence of understandings about how these terms and formations may themselves need to be diversified to maximise engagement by all citizens in a multicultural polity. There have been some recent efforts in Australia to move in this direction, for example the Australian Emergency Management Institute (AEMI)’s recent suite of projects with culturally and linguistically diverse (CALD) communities (2006-2010) and the current Australia-New Zealand Counter-Terrorism Committee-supported project on “Harnessing Resilience Capital in Culturally Diverse Communities to Counter Violent Extremism” (Grossman and Tahiri), which I discuss in a longer forthcoming version of this essay (Grossman). Yet the understanding of ethno-cultural identity and difference that underlies much policy thinking on resilience remains problematic for the way in which it invests in a view of the cultural dimensions of community resilience as relic rather than resource – valorising the preservation of and respect for cultural norms and traditions, but silent on what different ethno-cultural communities might contribute toward expanded definitions of both “community” and “resilience” by virtue of the transformative potential and existing cultural capital they bring with them into new national and also translocal settings. For example, a primary conclusion of the joint program between AEMI and the Australian Multicultural Commission is that CALD communities are largely “vulnerable” in the context of disasters and emergency management and need to be better integrated into majority-culture models of theorising and embedding community resilience. This focus on stronger national integration and the “vulnerability” of culturally diverse ethno-cultural communities in the Australian context echoes the work of scholars beyond Australia such as McGhee, Mouritsen (Reflections, Citizenship) and Joppke. They argue that the “civic turn” in debates around resurgent contemporary nationalism and multicultural immigration policies privileges civic integration over genuine two-way multiculturalism. This approach sidesteps the transculturational (Ortiz; Welsch; Mignolo; Bennesaieh; Robins; Stein) aspects of contemporary social identities and exchange by paying lip-service to cultural diversity while affirming a neo-liberal construct of civic values and principles as a universalising goal of Western democratic states within a global market economy. It also suggests a superficial tribute to cultural diversity that does not embed diversity comprehensively at the levels of either conceptualising or resourcing different elements of Australian transcultural communities within the generalised framework of “community resilience.” And by emphasising cultural difference as vulnerability rather than as resource or asset, it fails to acknowledge the varieties of resilience capital that many culturally diverse individuals and communities may bring with them when they resettle in new environments, by ignoring the question of what “resilience” actually means to those from culturally diverse communities. In so doing, it also avoids the critical task of incorporating intercultural definitional diversity around the concepts of both “community” and “resilience” used to promote social cohesion and the capacity to recover from disasters and crises. How we might do differently in thinking about the broader challenges for multiculturalism itself as a resilient transnational concept and practice? The Concept of Resilience The meanings of resilience vary by disciplinary perspective. While there is no universally accepted definition of the concept, it is widely acknowledged that resilience refers to the capacity of an individual to do well in spite of exposure to acute trauma or sustained adversity (Liebenberg 219). Originating in the Latin word resilio, meaning ‘to jump back’, there is general consensus that resilience pertains to an individual’s, community’s or system’s ability to adapt to and ‘bounce back’ from a disruptive event (Mohaupt 63, Longstaff et al. 3). Over the past decade there has been a dramatic rise in interest in the clinical, community and family sciences concerning resilience to a broad range of adversities (Weine 62). While debate continues over which discipline can be credited with first employing resilience as a concept, Mohaupt argues that most of the literature on resilience cites social psychology and psychiatry as the origin for the concept beginning in the mid-20th century. The pioneer researchers of what became known as resilience research studied the impact on children living in dysfunctional families. For example, the findings of work by Garmezy, Werner and Smith and Rutter showed that about one third of children in these studies were coping very well despite considerable adversities and traumas. In asking what it was that prevented the children in their research from being negatively influenced by their home environments, such research provided the basis for future research on resilience. Such work was also ground-breaking for identifying the so-called ‘protective factors’ or resources that individuals can operationalise when dealing with adversity. In essence, protective factors are those conditions in the individual that protect them from the risk of dysfunction and enable recovery from trauma. They mitigate the effects of stressors or risk factors, that is, those conditions that predispose one to harm (Hajek 15). Protective factors include the inborn traits or qualities within an individual, those defining an individual’s environment, and also the interaction between the two. Together, these factors give people the strength, skills and motivation to cope in difficult situations and re-establish (a version of) ‘normal’ life (Gunnestad). Identifying protective factors is important in terms of understanding the particular resources a given sociocultural group has at its disposal, but it is also vital to consider the interconnections between various protective mechanisms, how they might influence each other, and to what degree. An individual, for instance, might display resilience or adaptive functioning in a particular domain (e.g. emotional functioning) but experience significant deficits in another (e.g. academic achievement) (Hunter 2). It is also essential to scrutinise how the interaction between protective factors and risk factors creates patterns of resilience. Finally, a comprehensive understanding of the interrelated nature of protective mechanisms and risk factors is imperative for designing effective interventions and tailored preventive strategies (Weine 65). In short, contemporary thinking about resilience suggests it is neither entirely personal nor strictly social, but an interactive and iterative combination of the two. It is a quality of the environment as much as the individual. For Ungar, resilience is the complex entanglements between “individuals and their social ecologies [that] will determine the degree of positive outcomes experienced” (3). Thinking about resilience as context-dependent is important because research that is too trait-based or actor-centred risks ignoring any structural or institutional forces. A more ecological interpretation of resilience, one that takes into a person’s context and environment into account, is vital in order to avoid blaming the victim for any hardships they face, or relieving state and institutional structures from their responsibilities in addressing social adversity, which can “emphasise self-help in line with a neo-conservative agenda instead of stimulating state responsibility” (Mohaupt 67). Nevertheless, Ungar posits that a coherent definition of resilience has yet to be developed that adequately ‘captures the dual focus of the individual and the individual’s social ecology and how the two must both be accounted for when determining the criteria for judging outcomes and discerning processes associated with resilience’ (7). Recent resilience research has consequently prompted a shift away from vulnerability towards protective processes — a shift that highlights the sustained capabilities of individuals and communities under threat or at risk. Locating ‘Culture’ in the Literature on Resilience However, an understanding of the role of culture has remained elusive or marginalised within this trend; there has been comparatively little sustained investigation into the applicability of resilience constructs to non-western cultures, or how the resources available for survival might differ from those accessible to western populations (Ungar 4). As such, a growing body of researchers is calling for more rigorous inquiry into culturally determined outcomes that might be associated with resilience in non-western or multicultural cultures and contexts, for example where Indigenous and minority immigrant communities live side by side with their ‘mainstream’ neighbours in western settings (Ungar 2). ‘Cultural resilience’ considers the role that cultural background plays in determining the ability of individuals and communities to be resilient in the face of adversity. For Clauss-Ehlers, the term describes the degree to which the strengths of one’s culture promote the development of coping (198). Culturally-focused resilience suggests that people can manage and overcome stress and trauma based not on individual characteristics alone, but also from the support of broader sociocultural factors (culture, cultural values, language, customs, norms) (Clauss-Ehlers 324). The innate cultural strengths of a culture may or may not differ from the strengths of other cultures; the emphasis here is not so much comparatively inter-cultural as intensively intra-cultural (VanBreda 215). A culturally focused resilience model thus involves “a dynamic, interactive process in which the individual negotiates stress through a combination of character traits, cultural background, cultural values, and facilitating factors in the sociocultural environment” (Clauss-Ehlers 199). In understanding ways of ‘coping and hoping, surviving and thriving’, it is thus crucial to consider how culturally and linguistically diverse minorities navigate the cultural understandings and assumptions of both their countries of origin and those of their current domicile (Ungar 12). Gunnestad claims that people who master the rules and norms of their new culture without abandoning their own language, values and social support are more resilient than those who tenaciously maintain their own culture at the expense of adjusting to their new environment. They are also more resilient than those who forego their own culture and assimilate with the host society (14). Accordingly, if the combination of both valuing one’s culture as well as learning about the culture of the new system produces greater resilience and adaptive capacities, serious problems can arise when a majority tries to acculturate a minority to the mainstream by taking away or not recognising important parts of the minority culture. In terms of resilience, if cultural factors are denied or diminished in accounting for and strengthening resilience – in other words, if people are stripped of what they possess by way of resilience built through cultural knowledge, disposition and networks – they do in fact become vulnerable, because ‘they do not automatically gain those cultural strengths that the majority has acquired over generations’ (Gunnestad 14). Mobilising ‘Culture’ in Australian Approaches to Community Resilience The realpolitik of how concepts of resilience and culture are mobilised is highly relevant here. As noted above, when ethnocultural difference is positioned as a risk or a threat to national identity, security and values, this is precisely the moment when vigorously, even aggressively, nationalised definitions of ‘community’ and ‘identity’ that minoritise or disavow cultural diversities come to the fore in public discourse. The Australian evocation of nationalism and national identity, particularly in the way it has framed policy discussion on managing national responses to disasters and threats, has arguably been more muted than some of the European hysteria witnessed recently around cultural diversity and national life. Yet we still struggle with the idea that newcomers to Australia might fall on the surplus rather than the deficit side of the ledger when it comes to identifying and harnessing resilience capital. A brief example of this trend is explored here. From 2006 to 2010, the Australian Emergency Management Institute embarked on an ambitious government-funded four-year program devoted to strengthening community resilience in relation to disasters with specific reference to engaging CALD communities across Australia. The program, Inclusive Emergency Management with CALD Communities, was part of a wider Australian National Action Plan to Build Social Cohesion, Harmony and Security in the wake of the London terrorist bombings in July 2005. Involving CALD community organisations as well as various emergency and disaster management agencies, the program ran various workshops and agency-community partnership pilots, developed national school education resources, and commissioned an evaluation of the program’s effectiveness (Farrow et al.). While my critique here is certainly not aimed at emergency management or disaster response agencies and personnel themselves – dedicated professionals who often achieve remarkable results in emergency and disaster response under extraordinarily difficult circ*mstances – it is nevertheless important to highlight how the assumptions underlying elements of AEMI’s experience and outcomes reflect the persistent ways in which ethnocultural diversity is rendered as a problem to be surmounted or a liability to be redressed, rather than as an asset to be built upon or a resource to be valued and mobilised. AEMI’s explicit effort to engage with CALD communities in building overall community resilience was important in its tacit acknowledgement that emergency and disaster services were (and often remain) under-resourced and under-prepared in dealing with the complexities of cultural diversity in emergency situations. Despite these good intentions, however, while the program produced some positive outcomes and contributed to crucial relationship building between CALD communities and emergency services within various jurisdictions, it also continued to frame the challenge of working with cultural diversity as a problem of increased vulnerability during disasters for recently arrived and refugee background CALD individuals and communities. This highlights a common feature in community resilience-building initiatives, which is to focus on those who are already ‘robust’ versus those who are ‘vulnerable’ in relation to resilience indicators, and whose needs may require different or additional resources in order to be met. At one level, this is a pragmatic resourcing issue: national agencies understandably want to put their people, energy and dollars where they are most needed in pursuit of a steady-state unified national response at times of crisis. Nor should it be argued that at least some CALD groups, particularly those from new arrival and refugee communities, are not vulnerable in at least some of the ways and for some of the reasons suggested in the program evaluation. However, the consistent focus on CALD communities as ‘vulnerable’ and ‘in need’ is problematic, as well as partial. It casts members of these communities as structurally and inherently less able and less resilient in the context of disasters and emergencies: in some sense, as those who, already ‘victims’ of chronic social deficits such as low English proficiency, social isolation and a mysterious unidentified set of ‘cultural factors’, can become doubly victimised in acute crisis and disaster scenarios. In what is by now a familiar trope, the description of CALD communities as ‘vulnerable’ precludes asking questions about what they do have, what they do know, and what they do or can contribute to how we respond to disaster and emergency events in our communities. A more profound problem in this sphere revolves around working out how best to engage CALD communities and individuals within existing approaches to disaster and emergency preparedness and response. This reflects a fundamental but unavoidable limitation of disaster preparedness models: they are innately spatially and geographically bounded, and consequently understand ‘communities’ in these terms, rather than expanding definitions of ‘community’ to include the dimensions of community-as-social-relations. While some good engagement outcomes were achieved locally around cross-cultural knowledge for emergency services workers, the AEMI program fell short of asking some of the harder questions about how emergency and disaster service scaffolding and resilience-building approaches might themselves need to change or transform, using a cross-cutting model of ‘communities’ as both geographic places and multicultural spaces (Bartowiak-Théron and Crehan) in order to be more effective in national scenarios in which cultural diversity should be taken for granted. Toward Acknowledgement of Resilience Capital Most significantly, the AEMI program did not produce any recognition of the ways in which CALD communities already possess resilience capital, or consider how this might be drawn on in formulating stronger community initiatives around disaster and threats preparedness for the future. Of course, not all individuals within such communities, nor all communities across varying circ*mstances, will demonstrate resilience, and we need to be careful of either overgeneralising or romanticising the kinds and degrees of ‘resilience capital’ that may exist within them. Nevertheless, at least some have developed ways of withstanding crises and adapting to new conditions of living. This is particularly so in connection with individual and group behaviours around resource sharing, care-giving and social responsibility under adverse circ*mstances (Grossman and Tahiri) – all of which are directly relevant to emergency and disaster response. While some of these resilient behaviours may have been nurtured or enhanced by particular experiences and environments, they can, as the discussion of recent literature above suggests, also be rooted more deeply in cultural norms, habits and beliefs. Whatever their origins, for culturally diverse societies to achieve genuine resilience in the face of both natural and human-made disasters, it is critical to call on the ‘social memory’ (Folke et al.) of communities faced with responding to emergencies and crises. Such wellsprings of social memory ‘come from the diversity of individuals and institutions that draw on reservoirs of practices, knowledge, values, and worldviews and is crucial for preparing the system for change, building resilience, and for coping with surprise’ (Adger et al.). Consequently, if we accept the challenge of mapping an approach to cultural diversity as resource rather than relic into our thinking around strengthening community resilience, there are significant gains to be made. For a whole range of reasons, no diversity-sensitive model or measure of resilience should invest in static understandings of ethnicities and cultures; all around the world, ethnocultural identities and communities are in a constant and sometimes accelerated state of dynamism, reconfiguration and flux. But to ignore the resilience capital and potential protective factors that ethnocultural diversity can offer to the strengthening of community resilience more broadly is to miss important opportunities that can help suture the existing disconnects between proactive approaches to intercultural connectedness and social inclusion on the one hand, and reactive approaches to threats, national security and disaster response on the other, undermining the effort to advance effectively on either front. This means that dominant social institutions and structures must be willing to contemplate their own transformation as the result of transcultural engagement, rather than merely insisting, as is often the case, that ‘other’ cultures and communities conform to existing hegemonic paradigms of being and of living. In many ways, this is the most critical step of all. A resilience model and strategy that questions its own culturally informed yet taken-for-granted assumptions and premises, goes out into communities to test and refine these, and returns to redesign its approach based on the new knowledge it acquires, would reflect genuine progress toward an effective transculturational approach to community resilience in culturally diverse contexts.References Adger, W. Neil, Terry P. Hughes, Carl Folke, Stephen R. Carpenter and Johan Rockström. “Social-Ecological Resilience to Coastal Disasters.” Science 309.5737 (2005): 1036-1039. ‹http://www.sciencemag.org/content/309/5737/1036.full> Bartowiak-Théron, Isabelle, and Anna Corbo Crehan. “The Changing Nature of Communities: Implications for Police and Community Policing.” Community Policing in Australia: Australian Institute of Criminology (AIC) Reports, Research and Policy Series 111 (2010): 8-15. Benessaieh, Afef. “Multiculturalism, Interculturality, Transculturality.” Ed. A. Benessaieh. Transcultural Americas/Ameriques Transculturelles. Ottawa: U of Ottawa Press/Les Presses de l’Unversite d’Ottawa, 2010. 11-38. Clauss-Ehlers, Caroline S. “Sociocultural Factors, Resilience and Coping: Support for a Culturally Sensitive Measure of Resilience.” Journal of Applied Developmental Psychology 29 (2008): 197-212. Clauss-Ehlers, Caroline S. “Cultural Resilience.” Encyclopedia of Cross-Cultural School Psychology. Ed. C. S. Clauss-Ehlers. New York: Springer, 2010. 324-326. Farrow, David, Anthea Rutter and Rosalind Hurworth. Evaluation of the Inclusive Emergency Management with Culturally and Linguistically Diverse (CALD) Communities Program. Parkville, Vic.: Centre for Program Evaluation, U of Melbourne, July 2009. ‹http://www.ag.gov.au/www/emaweb/rwpattach.nsf/VAP/(9A5D88DBA63D32A661E6369859739356)~Final+Evaluation+Report+-+July+2009.pdf/$file/Final+Evaluation+Report+-+July+2009.pdf>.Folke, Carl, Thomas Hahn, Per Olsson, and Jon Norberg. “Adaptive Governance of Social-Ecological Systems.” Annual Review of Environment and Resources 30 (2005): 441-73. ‹http://arjournals.annualreviews.org/doi/pdf/10.1146/annurev.energy.30.050504.144511>. Garmezy, Norman. “The Study of Competence in Children at Risk for Severe Psychopathology.” The Child in His Family: Children at Psychiatric Risk. Vol. 3. Eds. E. J. Anthony and C. Koupernick. New York: Wiley, 1974. 77-97. Grossman, Michele. “Resilient Multiculturalism? Diversifying Australian Approaches to Community Resilience and Cultural Difference”. Global Perspectives on Multiculturalism in the 21st Century. Eds. B. E. de B’beri and F. Mansouri. London: Routledge, 2014. Grossman, Michele, and Hussein Tahiri. Harnessing Resilience Capital in Culturally Diverse Communities to Counter Violent Extremism. Canberra: Australia-New Zealand Counter-Terrorism Committee, forthcoming 2014. Grossman, Michele. “Cultural Resilience and Strengthening Communities”. Safeguarding Australia Summit, Canberra. 23 Sep. 2010. ‹http://www.safeguardingaustraliasummit.org.au/uploader/resources/Michele_Grossman.pdf>. Gunnestad, Arve. “Resilience in a Cross-Cultural Perspective: How Resilience Is Generated in Different Cultures.” Journal of Intercultural Communication 11 (2006). ‹http://www.immi.se/intercultural/nr11/gunnestad.htm>. Hajek, Lisa J. “Belonging and Resilience: A Phenomenological Study.” Unpublished Master of Science thesis, U of Wisconsin-Stout. Menomonie, Wisconsin, 2003. Hunter, Cathryn. “Is Resilience Still a Useful Concept When Working with Children and Young People?” Child Family Community Australia (CFA) Paper 2. Melbourne: Australian Institute of Family Studies, 2012.Joppke, Christian. "Beyond National Models: Civic Integration Policies for Immigrants in Western Europe". West European Politics 30.1 (2007): 1-22. Liebenberg, Linda, Michael Ungar, and Fons van de Vijver. “Validation of the Child and Youth Resilience Measure-28 (CYRM-28) among Canadian Youth.” Research on Social Work Practice 22.2 (2012): 219-226. Longstaff, Patricia H., Nicholas J. Armstrong, Keli Perrin, Whitney May Parker, and Matthew A. Hidek. “Building Resilient Communities: A Preliminary Framework for Assessment.” Homeland Security Affairs 6.3 (2010): 1-23. ‹http://www.hsaj.org/?fullarticle=6.3.6>. McGhee, Derek. The End of Multiculturalism? Terrorism, Integration and Human Rights. Maidenhead: Open U P, 2008.Mignolo, Walter. Local Histories/Global Designs: Coloniality, Subaltern Knowledges, and Border Thinking. Princeton: Princeton U P, 2000. Mohaupt, Sarah. “Review Article: Resilience and Social Exclusion.” Social Policy and Society 8 (2009): 63-71.Mouritsen, Per. "The Culture of Citizenship: A Reflection on Civic Integration in Europe." Ed. R. Zapata-Barrero. Citizenship Policies in the Age of Diversity: Europe at the Crossroad." Barcelona: CIDOB Foundation, 2009: 23-35. Mouritsen, Per. “Political Responses to Cultural Conflict: Reflections on the Ambiguities of the Civic Turn.” Ed. P. Mouritsen and K.E. Jørgensen. Constituting Communities. Political Solutions to Cultural Conflict, London: Palgrave, 2008. 1-30. Ortiz, Fernando. Cuban Counterpoint: Tobacco and Sugar. Trans. Harriet de Onís. Intr. Fernando Coronil and Bronislaw Malinowski. Durham, NC: Duke U P, 1995 [1940]. Robins, Kevin. The Challenge of Transcultural Diversities: Final Report on the Transversal Study on Cultural Policy and Cultural Diversity. Culture and Cultural Heritage Department. Strasbourg: Council of European Publishing, 2006. Rutter, Michael. “Protective Factors in Children’s Responses to Stress and Disadvantage.” Annals of the Academy of Medicine, Singapore 8 (1979): 324-38. Stein, Mark. “The Location of Transculture.” Transcultural English Studies: Fictions, Theories, Realities. Eds. F. Schulze-Engler and S. Helff. Cross/Cultures 102/ANSEL Papers 12. Amsterdam and New York: Rodopi, 2009. 251-266. Ungar, Michael. “Resilience across Cultures.” British Journal of Social Work 38.2 (2008): 218-235. First published online 2006: 1-18. In-text references refer to the online Advance Access edition ‹http://bjsw.oxfordjournals.org/content/early/2006/10/18/bjsw.bcl343.full.pdf>. VanBreda, Adrian DuPlessis. Resilience Theory: A Literature Review. Erasmuskloof: South African Military Health Service, Military Psychological Institute, Social Work Research & Development, 2001. Weine, Stevan. “Building Resilience to Violent Extremism in Muslim Diaspora Communities in the United States.” Dynamics of Asymmetric Conflict 5.1 (2012): 60-73. Welsch, Wolfgang. “Transculturality: The Puzzling Form of Cultures Today.” Spaces of Culture: City, Nation World. Eds. M. Featherstone and S. Lash. London: Sage, 1999. 194-213. Werner, Emmy E., and Ruth S. Smith. Vulnerable But Invincible: A Longitudinal Study of\ Resilience and Youth. New York: McGraw Hill, 1982. NotesThe concept of ‘resilience capital’ I offer here is in line with one strand of contemporary theorising around resilience – that of resilience as social or socio-ecological capital – but moves beyond the idea of enhancing general social connectedness and community cohesion by emphasising the ways in which culturally diverse communities may already be robustly networked and resourceful within micro-communal settings, with new resources and knowledge both to draw on and to offer other communities or the ‘national community’ at large. In effect, ‘resilience capital’ speaks to the importance of finding ‘the communities within the community’ (Bartowiak-Théron and Crehan 11) and recognising their capacity to contribute to broad-scale resilience and recovery.I am indebted for the discussion of the literature on resilience here to Dr Peta Stephenson, Centre for Cultural Diversity and Wellbeing, Victoria University, who is working on a related project (M. Grossman and H. Tahiri, Harnessing Resilience Capital in Culturally Diverse Communities to Counter Violent Extremism, forthcoming 2014).

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The general who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple ere the battle is fought. — Sun TzuWorld War II saw a proliferation of maps. From command posts to the pages of National Geographic to the pages of daily newspapers, they were everywhere (Schulten). The era also saw substantive developments in cartography, especially with respect to the topographical maps that feature in our selected films. This essay offers a preliminary examination of the battle-map as depicted in two films about the Second World War: Franklin J. Shaffner’s biopic Patton (1970) and Jack Smight’s epic Midway (1976). In these films, maps, charts, or tableaux (the three-dimensional models upon which are plotted the movements of battalions, fleets, and so on) emerge as an expression of both martial and cinematic strategy. As a rear-view representation of the relative movements of personnel and materiel in particular battle arenas, the map and its accessories (pins, tape, markers, and so forth) trace the broad military dispositions of Patton’s 2nd Corp (Africa), Seventh Army (Italy) and Third Army (Western Europe) and the relative position of American and Japanese fleets in the Pacific. In both Patton and Midway, the map also emerges as a simple mode of narrative plotting: as the various encounters in the two texts play out, the battle-map more or less contemporaneously traces the progress of forces. It also serves as a foreshadowing device, not just narratively, but cinematically: that which is plotted in advance comes to pass (even if as preliminary movements before catastrophe), but the audience is also cued for the cinematic chaos and disjuncture that almost inevitably ensues in the battle scenes proper.On one hand, then, this essay proposes that at the fundamental level of fabula (seen through either the lens of historical hindsight or through the eyes of the novice who knows nothing of World War II), the annotated map is engaged both strategically and cinematically: as a stage upon which commanders attempt to act out (either in anticipation, or retrospectively) the intricate, but grotesque, ballet of warfare — and as a reflection of the broad, sequential, sweeps of conflict. While, in War and Cinema, Paul Virilio offers the phrase ‘the logistics of perception’ (1), in this this essay we, on the other hand, consider that, for those in command, the battle-map is a representation of the perception of logistics: the big picture of war finds rough indexical representation on a map, but (as Clausewitz tells us) chance, the creative agency of individual commanders, and the fog of battle make it far less probable (than is the case in more specific mappings, such as, say, the wedding rehearsal) that what is planned will play out with any degree of close correspondence (On War 19, 21, 77-81). Such mapping is, of course, further problematised by the processes of abstraction themselves: indexicality is necessarily a reduction; a de-realisation or déterritorialisation. ‘For the military commander,’ writes Virilio, ‘every dimension is unstable and presents itself in isolation from its original context’ (War and Cinema 32). Yet rehearsal (on maps, charts, or tableaux) is a keying activity that seeks to presage particular real world patterns (Goffman 45). As suggested above, far from being a rhizomatic activity, the heavily plotted (as opposed to thematic) business of mapping is always out of joint: either a practice of imperfect anticipation or an equally imperfect (pared back and behind-the-times) rendition of activity in the field. As is argued by Tolstoj in War and Peace, the map then presents to the responder a series of tensions and ironies often lost on the masters of conflict themselves. War, as Tostoj proposes, is a stochastic phenomenon while the map is a relatively static, and naive, attempt to impose order upon it. Tolstoj, then, pillories Phull (in the novel, Pfuhl), the aptly-named Prussian general whose lock-stepped obedience to the science of war (of which the map is part) results in the abject humiliation of 1806:Pfuhl was one of those theoreticians who are so fond of their theory that they lose sight of the object of that theory - its application in practice. (Vol. 2, Part 1, Ch. 10, 53)In both Patton and Midway, then, the map unfolds not only as an epistemological tool (read, ‘battle plan’) or reflection (read, the near contemporaneous plotting of real world affray) of the war narrative, but as a device of foreshadowing and as an allegory of command and its profound limitations. So, in Deleuzian terms, while emerging as an image of both time and perception, for commanders and filmgoers alike, the map is also something of a seduction: a ‘crystal-image’ situated in the interstices between the virtual and the actual (Deleuze 95). To put it another way, in our films the map emerges as an isomorphism: a studied plotting in which inheres a counter-text (Goffman 26). As a simple device of narrative, and in the conventional terms of latitude and longitude, in both Patton and Midway, the map, chart, or tableau facilitate the plotting of the resources of war in relation to relief (including island land masses), roads, railways, settlements, rivers, and seas. On this syntagmatic plane, in Greimasian terms, the map is likewise received as a canonical sign of command: where there are maps, there are, after all, commanders (Culler 13). On the other hand, as suggested above, the battle-map (hereafter, we use the term to signify the conventional paper map, the maritime chart, or tableau) materialises as a sanitised image of the unknown and the grotesque: as apodictic object that reduces complexity and that incidentally banishes horror and affect. Thus, the map evolves, in the viewer’s perception, as an ironic sign of all that may not be commanded. This is because, as an emblem of the rational order, in Patton and Midway the map belies the ubiquity of battle’s friction: that defined by Clausewitz as ‘the only concept which...distinguishes real war from war on paper’ (73). ‘Friction’ writes Clausewitz, ‘makes that which appears easy in War difficult in reality’ (81).Our work here cannot ignore or side-step the work of others in identifying the core cycles, characteristics of the war film genre. Jeanine Basinger, for instance, offers nothing less than an annotated checklist of sixteen key characteristics for the World War II combat film. Beyond this taxonomy, though, Basinger identifies the crucial role this sub-type of film plays in the corpus of war cinema more broadly. The World War II combat film’s ‘position in the evolutionary process is established, as well as its overall relationship to history and reality. It demonstrates how a primary set of concepts solidifies into a story – and how they can be interpreted for a changing ideology’ (78). Stuart Bender builds on Basinger’s taxonomy and discussion of narrative tropes with a substantial quantitative analysis of the very building blocks of battle sequences. This is due to Bender’s contention that ‘when a critic’s focus [is] on the narrative or ideological components of a combat film [this may] lead them to make assumptions about the style which are untenable’ (8). We seek with this research to add to a rich and detailed body of knowledge by redressing a surprising omission therein: a conscious and focussed analysis of the use of battle-maps in war cinema. In Patton and in Midway — as in War and Peace — the map emerges as an emblem of an intergeneric dialogue: as a simple storytelling device and as a paradigmatic engine of understanding. To put it another way, as viewer-responders with a synoptic perspective we perceive what might be considered a ‘double exposure’: in the map we see what is obviously before us (the collision of represented forces), but an Archimedean positioning facilitates the production of far more revelatory textual isotopies along what Roman Jakobson calls the ‘axis of combination’ (Linguistics and Poetics 358). Here, otherwise unconnected signs (in our case various manifestations and configurations of the battle-map) are brought together in relation to particular settings, situations, and figures. Through this palimpsest of perspective, a crucial binary emerges: via the battle-map we see ‘command’ and the sequence of engagement — and, through Greimasian processes of axiological combination (belonging more to syuzhet than fabula), elucidated for us are the wrenching ironies of warfare (Culler 228). Thus, through the profound and bound motif of the map (Tomashevsky 69), are we empowered to pass judgement on the map bearers who, in both films, present as the larger-than-life heroes of old. Figure 1.While we have scope only to deal with the African theatre, Patton opens with a dramatic wide-shot of the American flag: a ‘map’, if you will, of a national history forged in war (Fig. 1). Against this potent sign of American hegemony, as he slowly climbs up to the stage before it, the general appears a diminutive figure -- until, via a series of matched cuts that culminate in extreme close-ups, he manifests as a giant about to play his part in a great American story (Fig. 2).Figure 2.Some nineteen minutes into a film, having surveyed the carnage of Kasserine Pass (in which, in February 1943, the Germans inflicted a humiliating defeat on the Americans) General Omar Bradley is reunited with his old friend and newly-nominated three-star general, George S. Patton Jr.. Against a backdrop of an indistinct topographical map (that nonetheless appears to show the front line) and the American flag that together denote the men’s authority, the two discuss the Kasserine catastrophe. Bradley’s response to Patton’s question ‘What happened at Kasserine?’ clearly illustrates the tension between strategy and real-world engagement. While the battle-plan was solid, the Americans were outgunned, their tanks were outclassed, and (most importantly) their troops were out-disciplined. Patton’s concludes that Rommel can only be beaten if the American soldiers are fearless and fight as a cohesive unit. Now that he is in command of the American 2nd Corp, the tide of American martial fortune is about to turn.The next time Patton appears in relation to the map is around half an hour into the two-and-three-quarter-hour feature. Here, in the American HQ, the map once more appears as a simple, canonical sign of command. Somewhat carelessly, the map of Europe seems to show post-1945 national divisions and so is ostensibly offered as a straightforward prop. In terms of martial specifics, screenplay writer Francis Ford Coppola apparently did not envisage much close scrutiny of the film’s maps. Highlighted, instead, are the tensions between strategy as a general principle and action on the ground. As British General Sir Arthur Coningham waxes lyrical about allied air supremacy, a German bomber drops its payload on the HQ, causing the map of Europe to (emblematically) collapse forward into the room. Following a few passes by the attacking aircraft, the film then cuts to a one second medium shot as a hail of bullets from a Heinkel He 111 strike a North African battle map (Fig. 3). Still prone, Patton remarks: ‘You were discussing air supremacy, Sir Arthur.’ Dramatising a scene that did take place (although Coningham was not present), Schaffner’s intention is to allow Patton to shoot holes in the British strategy (of which he is contemptuous) but a broader objective is the director’s exposé of the more general disjuncture between strategy and action. As the film progresses, and the battle-map’s allegorical significance is increasingly foregrounded, this critique becomes definitively sharper.Figure 3.Immediately following a scene in which an introspective Patton walks through a cemetery in which are interred the remains of those killed at Kasserine, to further the critique of Allied strategy the camera cuts to Berlin’s high command and a high-tech ensemble of tableaux, projected maps, and walls featuring lights, counters, and clocks. Tasked to research the newly appointed Patton, Captain Steiger walks through the bunker HQ with Hitler’s Chief of Staff, General Jodl, to meet with Rommel — who, suffering nasal diphtheria, is away from the African theatre. In a memorable exchange, Steiger reveals that Patton permanently attacks and never retreats. Rommel, who, following his easy victory at Kasserine, is on the verge of total tactical victory, in turn declares that he will ‘attack and annihilate’ Patton — before the poet-warrior does the same to him. As Clausewitz has argued, and as Schaffner is at pains to point out, it seems that, in part, the outcome of warfare has more to do with the individual consciousness of competing warriors than it does with even the most exquisite of battle-plans.Figure 4.So, even this early in the film’s runtime, as viewer-responders we start to reassess various manifestations of the battle-map. To put it as Michelle Langford does in her assessment of Schroeter’s cinema, ‘fragments of the familiar world [in our case, battle-maps] … become radically unfamiliar’ (Allegorical Images 57). Among the revelations is that from the flag (in the context of close battle, all sense of ‘the national’ dissolves), to the wall map, to the most detailed of tableau, the battle-plan is enveloped in the fog of war: thus, the extended deeply-focussed scenes of the Battle of El Guettar take us from strategic overview (Patton’s field glass perspectives over what will soon become a Valley of Death) to what Boris Eichenbaum has called ‘Stendhalian’ scale (The Young Tolstoi 105) in which, (in Patton) through more closely situated perspectives, we almost palpably experience the Germans’ disarray under heavy fire. As the camera pivots between the general and the particular (and between the omniscient and the nescient) the cinematographer highlights the tension between the strategic and the actual. Inasmuch as it works out (and, as Schaffner shows us, it never works out completely as planned) this is the outcome of modern martial strategy: chaos and unimaginable carnage on the ground that no cartographic representation might capture. As Patton observes the destruction unfold in the valley below and before him, he declares: ‘Hell of a waste of fine infantry.’ Figure 5.An important inclusion, then, is that following the protracted El Guettar battle scenes, Schaffner has the (symbolically flag-draped) casket of Patton’s aide, Captain Richard N. “Dick” Jenson, wheeled away on a horse-drawn cart — with the lonely figure of the mourning general marching behind, his ironic interior monologue audible to the audience: ‘I can't see the reason such fine young men get killed. There are so many battles yet to fight.’ Finally, in terms of this brief and partial assessment of the battle-map in Patton, less than an hour in, we may observe that the map is emerging as something far more than a casual prop; as something more than a plotting of battlelines; as something more than an emblem of command. Along a new and unexpected axis of semantic combination, it is now manifesting as a sign of that which cannot be represented nor commanded.Midway presents the lead-up to the eponymous naval battle of 1942. Smight’s work is of interest primarily because the battle itself plays a relatively small role in the film; what is most important is the prolonged strategising that comprises most of the film’s run time. In Midway, battle-tables and fleet markers become key players in the cinematic action, second almost to the commanders themselves. Two key sequences are discussed here: the moment in which Yamamoto outlines his strategy for the attack on Midway (by way of a decoy attack on the Aleutian Islands), and the scene some moments later where Admiral Nimitz and his assembled fleet commanders (Spruance, Blake, and company) survey their own plan to defend the atoll. In Midway, as is represented by the notion of a fleet-in-being, the oceanic battlefield is presented as a speculative plane on which commanders can test ideas. Here, a fleet in a certain position projects a radius of influence that will deter an enemy fleet from attacking: i.e. ‘a fleet which is able and willing to attack an enemy proposing a descent upon territory which that force has it in charge to protect’ (Colomb viii). The fleet-in-being, it is worth noting, is one that never leaves port and, while it is certainly true that the latter half of Midway is concerned with the execution of strategy, the first half is a prolonged cinematic game of chess, with neither player wanting to move lest the other has thought three moves ahead. Virilio opines that the fleet-in-being is ‘a new idea of violence that no longer comes from direct confrontation and bloodshed, but rather from the unequal properties of bodies, evaluation of the number of movements allowed them in a chosen element, permanent verification of their dynamic efficiency’ (Speed and Politics 62). Here, as in Patton, we begin to read the map as a sign of the subjective as well as the objective. This ‘game of chess’ (or, if you prefer, ‘Battleships’) is presented cinematically through the interaction of command teams with their battle-tables and fleet markers. To be sure, this is to show strategy being developed — but it is also to prepare viewers for the defamiliarised representation of the battle itself.The first sequence opens with a close-up of Admiral Yamamoto declaring: ‘This is how I expect the battle to develop.’ The plan to decoy the Americans with an attack on the Aleutians is shown via close-ups of the conveniently-labelled ‘Northern Force’ (Fig. 6). It is then explained that, twenty-four hours later, a second force will break off and strike south, on the Midway atoll. There is a cut from closeups of the pointer on the map to the wider shot of the Japanese commanders around their battle table (Fig. 7). Interestingly, apart from the opening of the film in the Japanese garden, and the later parts of the film in the operations room, the Japanese commanders are only ever shown in this battle-table area. This canonically positions the Japanese as pure strategists, little concerned with the enmeshing of war with political or social considerations. The sequence ends with Commander Yasimasa showing a photograph of Vice Admiral Halsey, who the Japanese mistakenly believe will be leading the carrier fleet. Despite some bickering among the commanders earlier in the film, this sequence shows the absolute confidence of the Japanese strategists in their plan. The shots are suitably languorous — averaging three to four seconds between cuts — and the body language of the commanders shows a calm determination. The battle-map here is presented as an index of perfect command and inevitable victory: each part of the plan is presented with narration suggesting the Japanese expect to encounter little resistance. While Yasimasa and his clique are confident, the other commanders suggest a reconnaissance flight over Pearl Harbor to ascertain the position of the American fleet; the fear of fleet-in-being is shown here firsthand and on the map, where the reconnaissance planes are placed alongside the ship markers. The battle-map is never shown in full: only sections of the naval landscape are presented. We suggest that this is done in order to prepare the audience for the later stages of the film: as in Patton (from time to time) the battle-map here is filmed abstractly, to prime the audience for the abstract montage of the battle itself in the film’s second half.Figure 6.Figure 7.Having established in the intervening running time that Halsey is out of action, his replacement, Rear Admiral Spruance, is introduced to the rest of the command team. As with all the important American command and strategy meetings in the film, this is done in the operations room. A transparent coordinates board is shown in the foreground as Nimitz, Spruance and Rear Admiral Fletcher move through to the battle table. Behind the men, as they lean over the table, is an enormous map of the world (Fig. 8). In this sequence, Nimitz freely admits that while he knows each Japanese battle group’s origin and heading, he is unsure of their target. He asks Spruance for his advice:‘Ray, assuming what you see here isn’t just an elaborate ruse — Washington thinks it is, but assuming they’re wrong — what kind of move do you suggest?’This querying is followed by Spruance glancing to a particular point on the map (Fig. 9), then a cut to a shot of models representing the aircraft carriers Hornet, Enterprise & Yorktown (Fig. 10). This is one of the few model/map shots unaccompanied by dialogue or exposition. In effect, this shot shows Spruance’s thought process before he responds: strategic thought presented via cinematography. Spruance then suggests situating the American carrier group just northeast of Midway, in case the Japanese target is actually the West Coast of the United States. It is, in effect, a hedging of bets. Spruance’s positioning of the carrier group also projects that group’s sphere of influence around Midway atoll and north to essentially cut off Japanese access to the US. The fleet-in-being is presented graphically — on the map — in order to, once again, cue the audience to match the later (edited) images of the battle to these strategic musings.In summary, in Midway, the map is an element of production design that works alongside cinematography, editing, and performance to present the notion of strategic thought to the audience. In addition, and crucially, it functions as an abstraction of strategy that prepares the audience for the cinematic disorientation that will occur through montage as the actual battle rages later in the film. Figure 8.Figure 9.Figure 10.This essay has argued that the battle-map is a simulacrum of the weakest kind: what Baudrillard would call ‘simulacra of simulation, founded on information, the model’ (121). Just as cinema itself offers a distorted view of history (the war film, in particular, tends to hagiography), the battle-map is an over-simplification that fails to capture the physical and psychological realities of conflict. We have also argued that in both Patton and Midway, the map is not a ‘free’ motif (Tomashevsky 69). Rather, it is bound: a central thematic device. In the two films, the battle-map emerges as a crucial isomorphic element. On the one hand, it features as a prop to signify command and to relay otherwise complex strategic plottings. At this syntagmatic level, it functions alongside cinematography, editing, and performance to give audiences a glimpse into how military strategy is formed and tested: a traditional ‘reading’ of the map. But on the flip side of what emerges as a classic structuralist binary, is the map as a device of foreshadowing (especially in Midway) and as a depiction of command’s profound limitations. Here, at a paradigmatic level, along a new axis of combination, a new reading of the map in war cinema is proposed: the battle-map is as much a sign of the subjective as it is the objective.ReferencesBasinger, Jeanine. The World War II Combat Film: Anatomy of a Genre. Middletown, CT: Columbia UP, 1986.Baudrillard, Jean. Simulacra and Simulation. Ann Arbour: U of Michigan Press, 1994.Bender, Stuart. Film Style and the World War II Combat Genre. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2013.Clausewitz, Carl. On War. Vol. 1. London: Kegan Paul, 1908.Colomb, Philip Howard. Naval Warfare: Its Ruling Principles and Practice Historically Treated. 3rd ed. London: W.H. Allen & Co, 1899.Culler, Jonathan. Structuralist Poetics. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975.Deleuze, Gilles. Cinema 2: The Time-Image. London: Continuum, 2005.Eichenbaum, Boris. The Young Tolstoi. Ann Arbor: Ardis, 1972.Goffman, Erving. Frame Analysis. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1976.Jakobson, Roman. "Linguistics and Poetics." Style in Language. Ed. T. Sebebeok. Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1960. 350—77.Langford, Michelle. Allegorical Images: Tableau, Time and Gesture in the Cinema of Werner Schroeter. Bristol: Intellect, 2006.Midway. Jack Smight. Universal Pictures, 1976. Film.Patton. Franklin J. Schaffner. 20th Century Fox, 1970. Film.Schulten, Susan. World War II Led to a Revolution in Cartography. New Republic 21 May 2014. 16 June 2017 <https://newrepublic.com/article/117835/richard-edes-harrison-reinvented-mapmaking-world-war-2-americans>.Tolstoy, Leo. War and Peace. Vol. 2. London: Folio, 1997.Tomashevsky, Boris. "Thematics." Russian Formalist Criticism: Four Essays. Eds. L. Lemon and M. Reis, Lincoln: U. Nebraska Press, 2012. 61—95.Tzu, Sun. The Art of War. San Diego: Canterbury Classics, 2014.Virilio, Paul. Speed and Politics. Paris: Semiotext(e), 2006.Virilio, Paul. War and Cinema: The Logistics of Perception. London: Verso, 1989.

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Visando contribuir para o Plano de Gestão (Manejo) da Floresta Nacional de Ipanema (FLONA), o presente trabalho objetivou espacializar sua vegetação natural potencial e realizar o mapeamento da vegetação e usos atuais das terras, oferecendo subsídios básicos para seu planejamento ambiental. Para tanto, foi elaborado um croqui, espacializando a vegetação potencial da FLONA, utilizando: as descrições da paisagem de viagens de naturalistas (Saint-Hilaire, Spix e Martius) ao Brasil, no século XIX; estudos mais recentes sobre a vegetação da FLONA e a caracterização edáfica da área apresentada pela Carta de Solos da Fazenda Ipanema (escala 1:10.000). Com base na interpretação de fotos aéreas (escala 1:25.000 – Terrafoto, 1972) e verificações de campo, organizou-se o mapa de Vegetação e Usos Atuais das Terras (na escala 1:35.000). Considerando-se os conceitos de clímax climático e clímaces edáficos concluiuse que a vegetação potencial da FLONA seria de Floresta Estacional Semidecidual com manchas das diversas fisionomias de cerrado, limitadas em seu desenvolvimento pela ação do fogo, que no passado teria causas naturais. The potential natural vegetation and current land use mapping of Ipanema National Forest, Iperó/SP: conservation and environmental management Abstract Aiming at contributing to the management plan of the Ipanema National Forest, the present research set out to make a map of the potential natural vegetation and land current usage, offering basic aid to environmental planning. Moreover, a sketch-map was prepared, the potential FLONA vegetation, by means of: details of naturalist’s trekking routes (Saint- Hilaire, Spix and Martius) in Brazil, in the nineteenth century; more recent studies of the FLONA vegetation; and the edaphic characterization of the area presented by the Soil Chart of Ipanema Farm (scale 1:10.000). Data were collected based on the interpretation of aerial photos (scale 1:25.000 – Terrafoto, 1972) and site inspections, as well as the map of Vegetation and the Current Usage of the Land (scale 1:35.000). Based on the concepts of climatic climax and edaphic climaxes it was concluded that FLONA potential vegetation would be a seasonal semi-deciduous forest with diverse semblances of scrub land, restricted in its development by fire acts, which in the past were natural causes.

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Introduction Cookbooks are an exceptional written record of what is largely an oral tradition. They have been described as “magician’s hats” due to their ability to reveal much more than they seem to contain (Wheaton, “Finding”). The first book printed in Germany was the Guttenberg Bible in 1456 but, by 1490, printing was introduced into almost every European country (Tierney). The spread of literacy between 1500 and 1800, and the rise in silent reading, helped to create a new private sphere into which the individual could retreat, seeking refuge from the community (Chartier). This new technology had its effects in the world of cookery as in so many spheres of culture (Mennell, All Manners). Trubek notes that cookbooks are the texts most often used by culinary historians, since they usually contain all the requisite materials for analysing a cuisine: ingredients, method, technique, and presentation. Printed cookbooks, beginning in the early modern period, provide culinary historians with sources of evidence of the culinary past. Historians have argued that social differences can be expressed by the way and type of food we consume. Cookbooks are now widely accepted as valid socio-cultural and historic documents (Folch, Sherman), and indeed the link between literacy levels and the protestant tradition has been expressed through the study of Danish cookbooks (Gold). From Apicius, Taillevent, La Varenne, and Menon to Bradley, Smith, Raffald, Acton, and Beeton, how can both manuscript and printed cookbooks be analysed as historic documents? What is the difference between a manuscript and a printed cookbook? Barbara Ketchum Wheaton, who has been studying cookbooks for over half a century and is honorary curator of the culinary collection in Harvard’s Schlesinger Library, has developed a methodology to read historic cookbooks using a structured approach. For a number of years she has been giving seminars to scholars from multidisciplinary fields on how to read historic cookbooks. This paper draws on the author’s experiences attending Wheaton’s seminar in Harvard, and on supervising the use of this methodology at both Masters and Doctoral level (Cashman; Mac Con Iomaire, and Cashman). Manuscripts versus Printed Cookbooks A fundamental difference exists between manuscript and printed cookbooks in their relationship with the public and private domain. Manuscript cookbooks are by their very essence intimate, relatively unedited and written with an eye to private circulation. Culinary manuscripts follow the diurnal and annual tasks of the household. They contain recipes for cures and restoratives, recipes for cleansing products for the house and the body, as well as the expected recipes for cooking and preserving all manners of food. Whether manuscript or printed cookbook, the recipes contained within often act as a reminder of how laborious the production of food could be in the pre-industrialised world (White). Printed cookbooks draw oxygen from the very fact of being public. They assume a “literate population with sufficient discretionary income to invest in texts that commodify knowledge” (Folch). This process of commoditisation brings knowledge from the private to the public sphere. There exists a subset of cookbooks that straddle this divide, for example, Mrs. Rundell’s A New System of Domestic Cookery (1806), which brought to the public domain her distillation of a lifetime of domestic experience. Originally intended for her daughters alone, Rundell’s book was reprinted regularly during the nineteenth century with the last edition printed in 1893, when Mrs. Beeton had been enormously popular for over thirty years (Mac Con Iomaire, and Cashman). Barbara Ketchum Wheaton’s Structured Approach Cookbooks can be rewarding, surprising and illuminating when read carefully with due effort in understanding them as cultural artefacts. However, Wheaton notes that: “One may read a single old cookbook and find it immensely entertaining. One may read two and begin to find intriguing similarities and differences. When the third cookbook is read, one’s mind begins to blur, and one begins to sense the need for some sort of method in approaching these documents” (“Finding”). Following decades of studying cookbooks from both sides of the Atlantic and writing a seminal text on the French at table from 1300-1789 (Wheaton, Savouring the Past), this combined experience negotiating cookbooks as historical documents was codified, and a structured approach gradually articulated and shared within a week long seminar format. In studying any cookbook, regardless of era or country of origin, the text is broken down into five different groupings, to wit: ingredients; equipment or facilities; the meal; the book as a whole; and, finally, the worldview. A particular strength of Wheaton’s seminars is the multidisciplinary nature of the approaches of students who attend, which throws the study of cookbooks open to wide ranging techniques. Students with a purely scientific training unearth interesting patterns by developing databases of the frequency of ingredients or techniques, and cross referencing them with other books from similar or different timelines or geographical regions. Patterns are displayed in graphs or charts. Linguists offer their own unique lens to study cookbooks, whereas anthropologists and historians ask what these objects can tell us about how our ancestors lived and drew meaning from life. This process is continuously refined, and each grouping is discussed below. Ingredients The geographic origins of the ingredients are of interest, as is the seasonality and the cost of the foodstuffs within the scope of each cookbook, as well as the sensory quality both separately and combined within different recipes. In the medieval period, the use of spices and large joints of butchers meat and game were symbols of wealth and status. However, when the discovery of sea routes to the New World and to the Far East made spices more available and affordable to the middle classes, the upper classes spurned them. Evidence from culinary manuscripts in Georgian Ireland, for example, suggests that galangal was more easily available in Dublin during the eighteenth century than in the mid-twentieth century. A new aesthetic, articulated by La Varenne in his Le Cuisinier Francois (1651), heralded that food should taste of itself, and so exotic ingredients such as cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger were replaced by the local bouquet garni, and stocks and sauces became the foundations of French haute cuisine (Mac Con Iomaire). Some combinations of flavours and ingredients were based on humoral physiology, a long held belief system based on the writings of Hippocrates and Galen, now discredited by modern scientific understanding. The four humors are blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm. It was believed that each of these humors would wax and wane in the body, depending on diet and activity. Galen (131-201 AD) believed that warm food produced yellow bile and that cold food produced phlegm. It is difficult to fathom some combinations of ingredients or the manner of service without comprehending the contemporary context within they were consumeSome ingredients found in Roman cookbooks, such as “garum” or “silphium” are no longer available. It is suggested that the nearest substitute for garum also known as “liquamen”—a fermented fish sauce—would be Naam Plaa, or Thai fish sauce (Grainger). Ingredients such as tea and white bread, moved from the prerogative of the wealthy over time to become the staple of the urban poor. These ingredients, therefore, symbolise radically differing contexts during the seventeenth century than in the early twentieth century. Indeed, there are other ingredients such as hominy (dried maize kernel treated with alkali) or grahams (crackers made from graham flour) found in American cookbooks that require translation to the unacquainted non-American reader. There has been a growing number of food encyclopaedias published in recent years that assist scholars in identifying such commodities (Smith, Katz, Davidson). The Cook’s Workplace, Techniques, and Equipment It is important to be aware of the type of kitchen equipment used, the management of heat and cold within the kitchen, and also the gradual spread of the industrial revolution into the domestic sphere. Visits to historic castles such as Hampton Court Palace where nowadays archaeologists re-enact life below stairs in Tudor times give a glimpse as to how difficult and labour intensive food production was. Meat was spit-roasted in front of huge fires by spit boys. Forcemeats and purees were manually pulped using mortar and pestles. Various technological developments including spit-dogs, and mechanised pulleys, replaced the spit boys, the most up to date being the mechanised rotisserie. The technological advancements of two hundred years can be seen in the Royal Pavilion in Brighton where Marie-Antoinin Carême worked for the Prince Regent in 1816 (Brighton Pavilion), but despite the gleaming copper pans and high ceilings for ventilation, the work was still back breaking. Carême died aged forty-nine, “burnt out by the flame of his genius and the fumes of his ovens” (Ackerman 90). Mennell points out that his fame outlived him, resting on his books: Le Pâtissier Royal Parisien (1815); Le Pâtissier Pittoresque (1815); Le Maître d’Hôtel Français (1822); Le Cuisinier Parisien (1828); and, finally, L’Art de la Cuisine Française au Dix-Neuvième Siècle (1833–5), which was finished posthumously by his student Pluméry (All Manners). Mennell suggests that these books embody the first paradigm of professional French cuisine (in Kuhn’s terminology), pointing out that “no previous work had so comprehensively codified the field nor established its dominance as a point of reference for the whole profession in the way that Carême did” (All Manners 149). The most dramatic technological changes came after the industrial revolution. Although there were built up ovens available in bakeries and in large Norman households, the period of general acceptance of new cooking equipment that enclosed fire (such as the Aga stove) is from c.1860 to 1910, with gas ovens following in c.1910 to the 1920s) and Electricity from c.1930. New food processing techniques dates are as follows: canning (1860s), cooling and freezing (1880s), freeze drying (1950s), and motorised delivery vans with cooking (1920s–1950s) (den Hartog). It must also be noted that the supply of fresh food, and fish particularly, radically improved following the birth, and expansion of, the railways. To understand the context of the cookbook, one needs to be aware of the limits of the technology available to the users of those cookbooks. For many lower to middle class families during the twentieth century, the first cookbook they would possess came with their gas or electrical oven. Meals One can follow cooked dishes from the kitchen to the eating place, observing food presentation, carving, sequencing, and serving of the meal and table etiquette. Meal times and structure changed over time. During the Middle Ages, people usually ate two meals a day: a substantial dinner around noon and a light supper in the evening (Adamson). Some of the most important factors to consider are the manner in which meals were served: either à la française or à la russe. One of the main changes that occurred during the nineteenth century was the slow but gradual transfer from service à la française to service à la russe. From medieval times to the middle of the nineteenth century the structure of a formal meal was not by “courses”—as the term is now understood—but by “services”. Each service could comprise of a choice of dishes—both sweet and savoury—from which each guest could select what appealed to him or her most (Davidson). The philosophy behind this form of service was the forementioned humoral physiology— where each diner chose food based on the four humours of blood, yellow bile, black bile, or phlegm. Also known as le grand couvert, the à la française method made it impossible for the diners to eat anything that was beyond arm’s length (Blake, and Crewe). Smooth service, however, was the key to an effective à la russe dinner since servants controlled the flow of food (Eatwell). The taste and temperature of food took centre stage with the à la russe dinner as each course came in sequence. Many historic cookbooks offer table plans illustrating the suggested arrangement of dishes on a table for the à la française style of service. Many of these dishes might be re-used in later meals, and some dishes such as hashes and rissoles often utilised left over components of previous meals. There is a whole genre of cookbooks informing the middle class cooks how to be frugal and also how to emulate haute cuisine using cheaper or ersatz ingredients. The number dining and the manner in which they dined also changed dramatically over time. From medieval to Tudor times, there might be hundreds dining in large banqueting halls. By the Elizabethan age, a small intimate room where master and family dined alone replaced the old dining hall where master, servants, guests, and travellers had previously dined together (Spencer). Dining tables remained portable until the 1780s when tables with removable leaves were devised. By this time, the bread trencher had been replaced by one made of wood, or plate of pewter or precious metal in wealthier houses. Hosts began providing knives and spoons for their guests by the seventeenth century, with forks also appearing but not fully accepted until the eighteenth century (Mason). These silver utensils were usually marked with the owner’s initials to prevent their theft (Flandrin). Cookbooks as Objects and the World of Publishing A thorough examination of the manuscript or printed cookbook can reveal their physical qualities, including indications of post-publication history, the recipes and other matter in them, as well as the language, organization, and other individual qualities. What can the quality of the paper tell us about the book? Is there a frontispiece? Is the book dedicated to an employer or a patron? Does the author note previous employment history in the introduction? In his Court Cookery, Robert Smith, for example, not only mentions a number of his previous employers, but also outlines that he was eight years working with Patrick Lamb in the Court of King William, before revealing that several dishes published in Lamb’s Royal Cookery (1710) “were never made or practis’d (sic) by him and others are extreme defective and imperfect and made up of dishes unknown to him; and several of them more calculated at the purses than the Gôut of the guests”. Both Lamb and Smith worked for the English monarchy, nobility, and gentry, but produced French cuisine. Not all Britons were enamoured with France, however, with, for example Hannah Glasse asserting “if gentlemen will have French cooks, they must pay for French tricks” (4), and “So much is the blind folly of this age, that they would rather be imposed on by a French Booby, than give encouragement to an good English cook” (ctd. in Trubek 60). Spencer contextualises Glasse’s culinary Francophobia, explaining that whilst she was writing the book, the Jacobite army were only a few days march from London, threatening to cut short the Hanoverian lineage. However, Lehmann points out that whilst Glasse was overtly hostile to French cuisine, she simultaneously plagiarised its receipts. Based on this trickling down of French influences, Mennell argues that “there is really no such thing as a pure-bred English cookery book” (All Manners 98), but that within the assimilation and simplification, a recognisable English style was discernable. Mennell also asserts that Glasse and her fellow women writers had an enormous role in the social history of cooking despite their lack of technical originality (“Plagiarism”). It is also important to consider the place of cookbooks within the history of publishing. Albala provides an overview of the immense outpouring of dietary literature from the printing presses from the 1470s. He divides the Renaissance into three periods: Period I Courtly Dietaries (1470–1530)—targeted at the courtiers with advice to those attending banquets with many courses and lots of wine; Period II The Galenic Revival (1530–1570)—with a deeper appreciation, and sometimes adulation, of Galen, and when scholarship took centre stage over practical use. Finally Period III The Breakdown of Orthodoxy (1570–1650)—when, due to the ambiguities and disagreements within and between authoritative texts, authors were freer to pick the ideas that best suited their own. Nutrition guides were consistent bestsellers, and ranged from small handbooks written in the vernacular for lay audiences, to massive Latin tomes intended for practicing physicians. Albala adds that “anyone with an interest in food appears to have felt qualified to pen his own nutritional guide” (1). Would we have heard about Mrs. Beeton if her husband had not been a publisher? How could a twenty-five year old amass such a wealth of experience in household management? What role has plagiarism played in the history of cookbooks? It is interesting to note that a well worn copy of her book (Beeton) was found in the studio of Francis Bacon and it is suggested that he drew inspiration for a number of his paintings from the colour plates of animal carcasses and butcher’s meat (Dawson). Analysing the post-publication usage of cookbooks is valuable to see the most popular recipes, the annotations left by the owner(s) or user(s), and also if any letters, handwritten recipes, or newspaper clippings are stored within the leaves of the cookbook. The Reader, the Cook, the Eater The physical and inner lives and needs and skills of the individuals who used cookbooks and who ate their meals merit consideration. Books by their nature imply literacy. Who is the book’s audience? Is it the cook or is it the lady of the house who will dictate instructions to the cook? Numeracy and measurement is also important. Where clocks or pocket watches were not widely available, authors such as seventeenth century recipe writer Sir Kenelm Digby would time his cooking by the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. Literacy amongst protestant women to enable them to read the Bible, also enabled them to read cookbooks (Gold). How did the reader or eater’s religion affect the food practices? Were there fast days? Were there substitute foods for fast days? What about special occasions? Do historic cookbooks only tell us about the food of the middle and upper classes? It is widely accepted today that certain cookbook authors appeal to confident cooks, while others appeal to competent cooks, and others still to more cautious cooks (Bilton). This has always been the case, as has the differentiation between the cookbook aimed at the professional cook rather than the amateur. Historically, male cookbook authors such as Patrick Lamb (1650–1709) and Robert Smith targeted the professional cook market and the nobility and gentry, whereas female authors such as Eliza Acton (1799–1859) and Isabella Beeton (1836–1865) often targeted the middle class market that aspired to emulate their superiors’ fashions in food and dining. How about Tavern or Restaurant cooks? When did they start to put pen to paper, and did what they wrote reflect the food they produced in public eateries? Conclusions This paper has offered an overview of Barbara Ketchum Wheaton’s methodology for reading historic cookbooks using a structured approach. It has highlighted some of the questions scholars and researchers might ask when faced with an old cookbook, regardless of era or geographical location. By systematically examining the book under the headings of ingredients; the cook’s workplace, techniques and equipment; the meals; cookbooks as objects and the world of publishing; and reader, cook and eater, the scholar can perform magic and extract much more from the cookbook than seems to be there on first appearance. References Ackerman, Roy. The Chef's Apprentice. London: Headline, 1988. Adamson, Melitta Weiss. Food in Medieval Times. Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood P, 2004. Albala, Ken. Eating Right in the Renaissance. Ed. Darra Goldstein. Berkeley: U of California P, 2002. Beeton, Isabella. Beeton's Book of Household Management. London: S. Beeton, 1861. Bilton, Samantha. “The Influence of Cookbooks on Domestic Cooks, 1900-2010.” Petit Propos Culinaires 94 (2011): 30–7. Blake, Anthony, and Quentin Crewe. Great Chefs of France. London: Mitchell Beazley/ Artists House, 1978. Brighton Pavilion. 12 Jun. 2013 ‹http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/interactive/2011/sep/09/brighton-pavilion-360-interactive-panoramic›. Cashman, Dorothy. “An Exploratory Study of Irish Cookbooks.” Unpublished Master's Thesis. M.Sc. Dublin: Dublin Institute of Technology, 2009. Chartier, Roger. “The Practical Impact of Writing.” Trans. Arthur Goldhammer. A History of Private Lives: Volume III: Passions of the Renaissance. Ed. Roger Chartier. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Belknap P of Harvard U, 1989. 111-59. Davidson, Alan. The Oxford Companion to Food. New York: Oxford U P, 1999. Dawson, Barbara. “Francis Bacon and the Art of Food.” The Irish Times 6 April 2013. den Hartog, Adel P. “Technological Innovations and Eating out as a Mass Phenomenon in Europe: A Preamble.” Eating out in Europe: Picnics, Gourmet Dining and Snacks since the Late Eighteenth Century. Eds. Mark Jacobs and Peter Scholliers. Oxford: Berg, 2003. 263–80. Eatwell, Ann. “Á La Française to À La Russe, 1680-1930.” Elegant Eating: Four Hundred Years of Dining in Style. Eds. Philippa Glanville and Hilary Young. London: V&A, 2002. 48–52. Flandrin, Jean-Louis. “Distinction through Taste.” Trans. Arthur Goldhammer. A History of Private Lives: Volume III : Passions of the Renaissance. Ed. Roger Chartier. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Belknap P of Harvard U, 1989. 265–307. Folch, Christine. “Fine Dining: Race in Pre-revolution Cuban Cookbooks.” Latin American Research Review 43.2 (2008): 205–23. Glasse, Hannah. The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy; Which Far Exceeds Anything of the Kind Ever Published. 4th Ed. London: The Author, 1745. Gold, Carol. Danish Cookbooks: Domesticity and National Identity, 1616-1901. Seattle: U of Washington P, 2007. Grainger, Sally. Cooking Apicius: Roman Recipes for Today. Totnes, Devon: Prospect, 2006. Hampton Court Palace. “The Tudor Kitchens.” 12 Jun 2013 ‹http://www.hrp.org.uk/HamptonCourtPalace/stories/thetudorkitchens› Katz, Solomon H. Ed. Encyclopedia of Food and Culture (3 Vols). New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 2003. Kuhn, T. S. The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1962. Lamb, Patrick. Royal Cookery:Or. The Complete Court-Cook. London: Abel Roper, 1710. Lehmann, Gilly. “English Cookery Books in the 18th Century.” The Oxford Companion to Food. Ed. Alan Davidson. Oxford: Oxford U P, 1999. 277–9. Mac Con Iomaire, Máirtín. “The Changing Geography and Fortunes of Dublin’s Haute Cuisine Restaurants 1958–2008.” Food, Culture & Society 14.4 (2011): 525–45. Mac Con Iomaire, Máirtín, and Dorothy Cashman. “Irish Culinary Manuscripts and Printed Cookbooks: A Discussion.” Petit Propos Culinaires 94 (2011): 81–101. Mason, Laura. Food Culture in Great Britain. Ed. Ken Albala. Westport CT.: Greenwood P, 2004. Mennell, Stephen. All Manners of Food. 2nd ed. Chicago: U of Illinois P, 1996. ---. “Plagiarism and Originality: Diffusionism in the Study of the History of Cookery.” Petit* Propos Culinaires 68 (2001): 29–38. Sherman, Sandra. “‘The Whole Art and Mystery of Cooking’: What Cookbooks Taught Readers in the Eighteenth Century.” Eighteenth Century Life 28.1 (2004): 115–35. Smith, Andrew F. Ed. The Oxford Companion to American Food and Drink. New York: Oxford U P, 2007. Spencer, Colin. British Food: An Extraordinary Thousand Years of History. London: Grub Street, 2004. Tierney, Mark. Europe and the World 1300-1763. Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 1970. Trubek, Amy B. Haute Cuisine: How the French Invented the Culinary Profession. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 2000. Wheaton, Barbara. “Finding Real Life in Cookbooks: The Adventures of a Culinary Historian”. 2006. Humanities Research Group Working Paper. 9 Sep. 2009 ‹http://www.phaenex.uwindsor.ca/ojs/leddy/index.php/HRG/article/view/22/27›. Wheaton, Barbara Ketcham. Savouring the Past: The French Kitchen and Table from 1300-1789. London: Chatto & Windus, 1983. White, Eileen, ed. The English Cookery Book: Historical Essays. Proceedings of the 16th Leeds Symposium on Food History 2001. Devon: Prospect, 2001.

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When you sit down to eat your delicious meal, it's better that you don't know that most of what you are eating came off a plane from Miami. And before it got on a plane in Miami, who knows where it came from? A good guess is that it came from a place like Antigua first, where it was grown dirt-cheap, went to Miami, and came back. There is a world of something in this, but I can't go into it right now.-- Jamaica Kincaid (14) The exhibit of Argentinean Art that recently travelled to the Phoenix Art Museum in the United States, Cantos Paralelos: Visual Parody in Contemporary Argentinean Art1, features the works of nine contemporary artists, among them Victor Grippo, whose fascination with food pairs economy and chemistry, politics and psychology. Three of his works in the exhibition are particularly interesting to students of food and culture who wish to appreciate art which reveals the structures that become relevant when one begins to consider the larger cultural implications of food: Analogy IV2, The Baker's Little Case3, and The Artist's Dinner4. These works explore presences and absences and so call attention to processes by which the existence of an object outside of the self is established as processes of "othering", as processes involved discursively with food. The art of Victor Grippo exists, on one hand, as a representation of the "other", and, on the other hand, it participates in the structuring of that representation. It is thus made to be a representation of the process of "othering". His art, in other words, creates what it would represent. While Grippo questions the process by which discourse on food becomes discourse on the "other" -- and while he leaves us to understand that the movement from one to the other is itself a process of "othering" involving food and the self -- he presents us with a perspective on how this transformation could occur, suggesting that it is the effect of heat, the effect of the application of excessive heat, a technique of "blackening". NVictor Grippo's sculptural instalments using objects from everyday life encourage a new attention to the relationship between product and process in the making of art and food. Grippo plays with the existence of the work of art as "not-quite-product" through references to the Dada movement in the use of "ready-mades", found objects and everyday materials. In refusing to enter into a hierarchical system that informs the choice of artistic product represented, Grippo rethinks the relationship between product and process in the making both of food and art by simply choosing to valorise process. His work specifically addresses the tension between product and process in food manufacturing through the use of food objects in varying states where the effects of the process, baking or cooking, are visible -- a burnt loaf of bread in The Baker's Little Case, and in The Artist's Dinner, the comparison established, between a dried kernel of corn, a kernel of popped corn to whose initial state a little heat has been applied, and a burnt kernel of corn which has been heated too much and has thereby not been able to "pop". The clue to decoding the transformative process invoked by Grippo's The Artist's Dinner is that it is self-reflexive; it has to do with discourse itself. InThe Artist's Dinner, an installation containing plates of food on a table, Grippo combines object and text on one of the plates with the following equation that alternates between object and script: dried corn kernel (actual object on the plate) "+ heat =" piece of popcorn (actual object on the plate); dried corn kernel (object...) "+ excessive heat =" a burnt corn kernel (object...). While this "not-quite-product" is displayed as object -- we have the presentation of what is on the plate as a product like the other food items that sit on the other plates, but what is on this plate is actually the recipe for a process -- it makes manifest the process involved in the transformed food and which also makes apparent a demonisation of "blackness" that bases itself on ideas about form and function: the extreme case of heat application which results in blackness also results in a product that is unable to be consumed, and in relation to the object preceding it, a product that is wasteful. It is the sum of the visual and the textual, the visual effects of the heating process on the object combined with the listing of the elemental ingredients that make up the object, that offers itself as the discursive space in Grippo's works such as The Artist's Dinner and The Baker's Little Case. Victor Grippo has found a visual recipe for conveying the plasticity of the transformation of energy that occurs as energy crosses borders. This observation is applicable to food substances as well as to cultural substances which food comes to signify (a transformative process in itself). Grippo has found this recipe in his fascination with the effects of heat on various substances, how what we know as an element is altered, made "other" by heat. Societal politics are related to how food signifies cultural identity and it is social critique that ties other elements in Grippo's work together so that the process of transformation that is represented in his pieces is understood as a process of making "other", of "othering" in the cultural sphere. Grippo's work is a graphic (plastic) discourse on the nature of how the addition of heat works in a system of "othering", how discourses on food that would otherwise seem innocuous could be transformed when under "fire", that is, how extremes of process, when put into question, actually reveal cultural "othering". In both the context of the exhibition and in Argentina's larger political context, his perspective is from the "other's" side, as he who has been "othered". Victor Grippo, discussing the influence that his parents' lives had on his work, describes his experience of artistic development in the following terms: "a ceaseless clarity informed my curiosity, my search for a meaning: a path out of darkness towards a glimmer of light" (qtd. in Ramírez 224). His project verges on a confrontation with the notion of demonising that which is dark by associating what is dark with what is "other". The food items present in his work produce a critique of the Argentinean economy and class structure -- the foods are those of the poor: potatoes, eggs, bread -- as well as a critique of the place of the artist in Argentinean society: the sparse dinner is that of the artist, but the table is, in effect, empty, except for the viewer who does not partake but who just passes through the art exhibit. The emptiness of this set table evokes the mass disappearances of Argentinean citizens and intellectuals who have come to be known as "Los Desaparecidos" ("The Disappeared") and who are "present" as a recurring theme in the exhibition: whose presence is produced by the process of showing them to be absent, or of symbolically "othering". Grippo's articulation of the importance of food in constructing selfhood on a national scale and the importance of food in denying selfhood to those we wish to "other" on an international scale is countered by his choice of foods to include in the installations which acts as an examination of identity on a personal level: Grippo's parents were immigrants from Italy who settled in the province of Junín and whom Grippo refers to in this respect as "'eaters of garlic and onion' (and potatoes)" (qtd. in Ramírez 221, 224). His use of the potato is also symbolic of a larger identity that makes reference to the history of colonisation by the Europeans: the potato is native to the Americas and it was only introduced to Europe as a result of the Conquest. Grippo's vision of the process by which food becomes consciousness is an "en-lightening" vision of discourse as a process that transforms food into identity, and thus, by unmasking processes of "othering" food Grippo unmasks processes of "othering" identity. By exceeding the limits of a process by which a substance is transformed (i.e. through the application of too much "heat"), the product can be destroyed. He displays this with items of food in order to simultaneously display how the subjectivity, the identity of certain peoples can be destroyed. It is here that the ethics of Grippo's graphics comes "to light" in the sense of coming to be understood, as well as in the sense of being developed out of how he approaches heat, for the heating process itself remains invisible, its presence only invoked by the visible product, only apparent in the contrast between the piece of popcorn and the dried kernel of corn next to it; done even to "excess" the heating process remains invisible, however its presence is accused by the state of the product, in the display of the burnt corn kernel. The passage at the beginning of this text from Jamaica Kincaid's A Small Place talks about the power and the processes of transformation involved in the movement of food across borders. In this passage Kincaid echoes the dynamic found in the work of Victor Grippo, but where Grippo deals on an individual and national level, Kincaid takes an international approach. This larger scale that operates in A Small Place only reinforces the ideological nature of the dynamic played out in the works of both Grippo and Kincaid: the nature of the process of this transformation is driven by -- while at the same time it reproduces -- a system of political power that refuses to be made present in discourse that seeks to target it. It is this system to which Kincaid refers when she speaks of the "world of something" that is inherent in the global movement of food but which she cannot articulate; although it is this system that participates in processes of "othering", the system itself also remains "other". Grippo contributes to an understanding of this political system in attempting to pin down the contexts concerned by the movement of energy across borders: whether those borders are between the territories of self and other, between interior and exterior, or between the contrasted states of a product that has undergone a transformation. It is in the physical representations of these transformations into "other" that Grippo suggests a genealogy of discourse on how products refer to the processes that made them; how, whether it be in regard to food or in regard to the cultural "other", the effects of a process can be traced but the particulars of it remain hidden. Grippo's contribution reminds us what is lost through process. He reminds us that political and ideological processes, if taken to extreme limits, consume the very object they sought to produce. It is perhaps in the precarious balance between a consciousness of identity and an awareness of the object which represents it, as evidenced in Victor Grippo's work, that we are to find a recipe for undoing the process of making "other". Footnotes 1. The exhibition catalogue written by Mari Carmen Ramírez is available from Amazon.Com, and from the University of Texas Press, http://ftp.cc.utexas.edu/utpress/books/ramcap.html. The University of Texas has a website devoted to the exhibit, http://www.utexas.edu/cofa/hag/cantos2.html, and the Phoenix Art Museum's on-line archives of past exhibitions also has a site at http://www.phxart.org/index_events.html. 2. Analogy IV is a table where one half is covered by a white cloth and the other half is covered by a black cloth. On the white side there is a porcelain plate with three potatoes on it; there is a metal fork on one side of the plate and a metal knife on the other. The black side of the table repeats the same scene but in Plexiglas: there is a Plexiglas dish on which are three Plexiglas "potatoes" and which is flanked by a Plexiglas fork and knife set. 3. The Baker's Little Case (Homage to Marcel Duchamp) is a Plexiglas case containing a partial loaf of burnt bread. Underneath the bread is the title followed by the word equation: "flour + water + heat (excessive)". The case is a reference to Duchamp's use of the "valise" in his own work. 4. The Artist's Dinner consists of a large table with five stools seen through (or around) the frame of an open doorway and on which are placed four ceramic plates with food on them, and one empty plate. References Counihan, Carole, and Penny Van Esterik. Food and Culture: A Reader. New York: Routledge, 1997. De Certeau, Michel. Heterologies: Discourse on the Other. (Theory and History of Literature vol. 17.) Trans. Brian Massumi. Minneapolis, Minnesota: U of Minneapolis P, 1986. Kincaid, Jamaica. A Small Place. New York: Plume, 1988. Lakoff, George, and Mark Johnson. Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1980. Ramírez, Mari Carmen. Cantos Paralelos: Visual Parody in Contemporary Argentinean Art. University of Texas at Austin: Jack S. Blanton Museum of Art, 1999. Scapp, Ron, and Brian Seitz, eds. Eating Culture. Albany: State U of New York P, 1998. Todorov, Tzvetan. The Conquest of America. Trans. Richard Howard. New York: Harper, 1984. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Lynn Houston. "A Recipe for 'Blackened "Other"': Process and Product in the Work of Victor Grippo." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.7 (1999). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9910/grippo.php>. Chicago style: Lynn Houston, "A Recipe for 'Blackened "Other"': Process and Product in the Work of Victor Grippo," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 7 (1999), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9910/grippo.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Lynn Houston. (1999) A recipe for "blackened 'other'": process and product in the work of Victor Grippo. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(7). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9910/grippo.php> ([your date of access]).

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The nation’s social agenda for improving education and training has converged with national economic forces (Hornbeck & Salamon, 1991). The emphasis on lifelong learning of the workforce through education, training and development, demands for ever-improving productivity and significant technological advancements have required new tools to deliver education and training at a distance when and where it is requiredneeded. With the emergence of online learning, organizations have reaped the rewards of a well-educated and trained workforce. Yet, in surveys, educators reported that strategic planning was not being conducted for online learning programs (Berge & Muilenburg, 2001; McNickle & Cameron, 2003), and what planning that was done was deficient in areas such as policy (U. S. General Accounting Office, 2003) and organizational culture (European Union, 2003). Sawyer (2005) found that the leaders and managers of online learning programs (from from the academic community, business and industry, the non-profit sector and government) needed hhelp developing and executing strategic plans for their programs, people and systemsave ha. When evaluating whether to move content to (or develop content for) an e-Learning program, deciding to purchase tools and/or content, internally designing a new distributed learning system, or beginning to plan for the future, Sawyer (2005) found that the state of the research at that time left the decision maker(s) to make critical choices based on their skill (and/or desire) to assemble and analyze the necessary information that would lead to relevant considerations being taken into account. One large area where the hleaders and managers of online learning programs needed help developing and executing strategic plans for their programs was that they needed a single source that could be located and leveraged to gain an insight into online learning’s goals, benefits or problems to use as a decision aid or analysis tool. Until now, a comprehensive list did not exist. Sawyer’s 2005 study was designed to present a comprehensive list of online learning’s goals, benefits and problems that could be applied as a decision aid/analysis tool to aid in strategic planning. This paper presents some of the key findings from this exploratory study which used the emergent, inductive approach of content analysis to conduct a cross case analysis of 607 research reports published over a two year period to establish the existence and frequency of the dependent variables goals, benefits and problems. This analysis resulted in the identification of 61 goals that have been set for online learning programs, 131 benefits that have been documented, and 371 problems that have been encountered. Conceptual and relational analysis were concurrently applied to identify key concepts and their semantic relationships which resulted in the development of a concept map that, when combined with the content analysis, led to the identification of seven recommended online learning communities, as well as a consolidated planning and decision aid to help decision-makers in their strategic planning effort.

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Since September 11, Muslims in Australia have experienced a heightened level of religiously and racially motivated vilification (Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission). These fears were poignantly expressed in a letter to the Editor of The West Australian newspaper from a Muslim woman shortly after the London terror attacks: All I want to say is that for those out there who might have kamikaze ideas of doing such an act here in Australia, please think of others (us) in your own community. The ones who will get hurt are your own, especially we the women who are an obvious target in the public and have to succumb to verbal abuse most of the time. Dealing with abuse and hatred from some due to 9/11 and Bali is not something I want to go through again. (21) The atmosfear of terror finds many expressions among the Muslim communities in Australia: the fear of backlash from some sectors of the wider community; the fear of subversion of Islamic identity in meeting the requirements of a politically defined “moderate” Islam; the fear of being identified as a potential terrorist or “person of interest” and the fear of potentially losing the rights bestowed on all other citizens. This fear or fears are grounded in the political and the media response to terrorism that perpetuates a popular belief that Muslims, as a culturally and religiously incompatible “other”, pose a threat to the Australian collective identity and, ostensibly, to Australia’s security. At the time of publication, for example, there was mob violence involving 5,000 young people converging on Sydney’s Cronulla beach draped in Australian flags singing Waltzing Matilda and Advance Australia Fair as well as chanting “kill the Lebs”, “no more Lebs” (Lebanese). The mob was itself brought together by a series of SMS messages, appealing to participants to “help support Leb and Wog bashing day” and to “show solidarity” against a government-identified “threat to Aussie identity” (The West Australian). Since September 11 and the ensuing war on terror, a new discourse of terrorism has emerged as a way of expressing how the world has changed and defining a state of constant alert (Altheide). “The war on terror” refers as much to a perpetual state of alertness as it does to a range of strategic operations, border control policies, internal security measures and public awareness campaigns such as “be alert, not alarmed”. According to a poll published in The Sydney Morning Herald in April 2004, 68 per cent of Australians believed that Australia was at threat of an imminent terrorist attack (Michaelsen). In a major survey in Australia immediately after the September 11 attacks Dunn & Mahtani found that more than any other cultural or ethnic group, Muslims and people from the Middle East were thought to be unable to fit into Australia. Two thirds of those surveyed believed that humanity could be sorted into natural categories of race, with the majority feeling that Australia was weakened by people of different ethnic origins. Fifty-four per cent of those surveyed, mainly women, said they would be concerned if a relative of theirs married a Muslim. The majority of the Muslim population, not surprisingly, has gone into a “siege mentality” (Hanna). The atmosfear of terror in the Western world is a product of the media and political construction of the West as perpetually at threat of a terrorist attack from a foreign, alien, politically defined “other”, where “insecurity…is the new normal” (Massumi 31). Framed in a rhetoric that portrays it as a battle for the Western values of democracy and freedom, the “war on terror” becomes not just an event in space and time but a metonym for a new world order, drawing on distinctions between “us” and “them” and “the West” and “others” (Osuri and Banerjee) and motivating collective identity based on a construction of “us” as victims and “them” as the objects of fear, concern and suspicion. The political response to the war on terror has inculcated an atmosfear of terror where Australian Muslims are identified as the objects of this fear. The fear of terrorism is being modulated through government and the popular media to perpetuate a state of anxiety that finds expression in the heightened levels of concern and suspicion over a perceived threat. In the case of the war on terror, this threat is typically denoted as radical Islam and, by inference, Australian Muslims. In his exposition of political fear, Corey Robin notes that a central element of political fear is that it is often not read as such – rendering it alien to analysis, critical debate and understanding. Nowhere is this more salient than in the rhetoric on the war on terror characterised by the familiar invocation of terms like democracy and freedom to make distinctions between “the West and the rest” and to legitimise references to civilised and uncivilised worlds. In his speech delivered at the United Nations Security Council Ministerial Session on Terrorism on 20 January 2003, Colin Powell invoked the rhetoric of a clash of civilisations and urged, “we must rid the civilised world of this cancer … We must rise to the challenge with actions that will ride the globe of terrorism and create a world in which all God’s children can live without fear”. It is this construction of the war on terror as a global battle between “the West and the rest” that enables and facilitates the affective response to political fear – a reaffirmation of identity and membership of a collective. As Robin states: Understanding the objects of our fear as less than political allows us to treat them as intractable foes. Nothing can be done to accommodate them: they can only be killed or contained. Understanding the objects of our fear as not political also renews us as a collective. Afraid, we are like the audience in a crowded theatre confronting a man falsely shouting fire: united, not because we share similar beliefs of aspiration but because we are equally threatened. (6) This response has found expression in the perception of Muslims as an alien, culturally incompatible and utterly threatening other, creating a state of social tension where the public’s anxiety has been and continues to be directed at Australian Muslims who visibly represent the objects of the fear of terror. The Australian Government’s response to the war on terror exemplifies what Brian Massumi terms “affective modulation” whereby the human response to the fear of terror, that of a reinforcement and renewal of collective identity, has been modulated and transformed from an affective response to an affective state of anxiety – what the authors term the atmosfear of terror. Affect for Massumi can be inscribed in the flesh as “traces of experience” – an accumulation of affects. It is in this way that Massumi views affect as “autonomous” (Megan Watkins also makes this argument, and has further translated Massumi's notions into the idea of pedagogic affect/effect). In the Australian context, after more than four years of collected traces of experiences of images of threat, responses to terrorism have become almost reflexive – even automated. Affective modulation in the Australian context relies on the regenerative capacity of fear, in Massumi’s terms its “ontogenetic powers” (45) to create an ever-present threat and maintain fear as a way of life. The introduction of a range of counter-terrorism strategies, internal-security measures, legislative amendments and policies, often without public consultation and timed to coincide with “new” terror alerts is testimony to the affective machinations of the Australian government in its response to the war on terror. Virilio and Lotringer called “pure war” the psychological state that happens when people know that they live in a world where the potential for sudden and absolute destruction exists. It is not the capacity for destruction so much as the continual threat of sudden destruction that creates this psychology. Keith Spence has stated that in times of crisis the reasoned negotiation of risk is marginalised. The counter-terrorism legislation introduced in response to the war on terror is, arguably, the most drastic anti-libertarian measures Australia has witnessed and constitutes a disproportionate response to Australia’s overall risk profile (Michaelsen). Some of these measures would once have seemed an unthinkable assault on civil liberties and unreasonably authoritarian. Yet in the war on terror, notes Jessica Stern, framed as a global war of good versus evil, policies and strategies that once seemed impossible suddenly become constructed as rationale, if not prudent. Since September 11, the Australian government has progressively introduced a range of counter-terrorism measures including over 30 legislative amendments and, more recently, increased powers for the police to detain persons of interest suspected of sedition. In the wake of the London bombings, the Prime Minister called a summit with Muslim representatives from around the nation. In the two hours that they met, the summit developed a Statement of Principles committing members of Muslim communities to combat radicalisation and pursue “moderate” Islam. As an affective machination, the summit presents as a useful political tool for modulating the existing anxieties in the Australian populace. The very need for a summit of this nature and for the development of a Statement of Principles (later endorsed by the Council of Australian Governments or COAG) sends a lucid message to the Australian public. Not only are Australian Muslims responsible for terrorism but they also have the capacity to prevent or minimise the threat of an attack in Australia. Already the focus of at least a decade of negative stereotyping in the popular Australia media (Brasted), Australian Muslims all too quickly and easily became agents in the Government’s affective tactics. The policy response to the war on terror has given little consideration to the social implications of sustaining a fear of terrorism, placing much emphasis on security- focused counter-terrorism measures rather than education and dialogue. What governments and communities need to address is the affective aspects of the atmosfear of terror. Policy makers can begin by becoming self-reflexive and developing an understanding of the real impact of fear and the affective modulation of this fear. Communities can start by developing an understanding of how policy induced fear is affecting them. To begin this process of reflection, governments and communities need to recognise fear of terrorism as a political tool. Psychological explanations for fear or trauma are important, especially if we are to plan policy responses to them. However, if we are to fight against policy-induced fear, we need to better understand and recognise affective modulation as a process that is not reducible to individual psychology. Viewed from the perspective of affect, the atmosfear of terror reveals an attempt to modulate public anxiety and sustain a sense of Australia as perpetually at threat from a culturally incompatible and irreconcilable “other”. References Altheide, David. L. “Consuming Terrorism.” Symbolic Interaction 27.3 (2004): 289–308. Brasted, Howard, V. “Contested Representations in Historical Perspective: Images of Islam and the Australian Press 1950-2000”. In A. Saeed & S. Akbarzadeh, Muslim Communities in Australia. Sydney: U of NSW P, 2001. Dunn, K.M., and M. Mahtani. “Media Representations of Ethnic Minorities.” Progress in Planning 55.3 (2001): 63–72. Dunn, K.M. “The Cultural Geographies of Citizenship in Australia.” Geography Bulletin 33.1 (2001): 4–8. “Genesis of Cronulla’s Ugly Sunday Began Years Ago.” The West Australian 2005: 11. Green, Lelia. “Did the World Really Change on 9/11?” Australian Journal of Communication 29.2 (2002): 1–14. Hanna, D. 2003. “Siege Mentality: Current Australian Response.” Salam July-Aug. (2003): 12–4. Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission. Ismaa – Listen: National Consultations on Eliminating Prejudice against Arab and Muslim Australians. Sydney: Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission, 2004. Kerbaj, Richard. “Clerics Still Preaching Hatred of West.” The Australian 3 Nov. 2005. Kinnvall, Catarina. “Globalization and Religious Nationalism: Self, Identity, and the Search for Ontological Security.” Political Psychology 25.5 (2004): 741. “Letters to the Editor.” The West Australian 25 July 2005: 21. Massumi, Brian. “Fear (The Spectrum Said).” Positions 13.1 (2005): 31–48. Massumi, Brian. “The Autonomy of Affect.” In P. Patton, ed., Deleuze: A Critical Reader. Cambridge, Mass.: Blackwell, 1996. “Meeting with Islamic Community Leaders, Statement of Principles.” 23 Aug. 2005. http://www.pm.gov.au/news/media_releases/media_Release1524.html> Michaelsen, Christopher. “Antiterrorism Legislation in Australia: A Proportionate Response to the Terrorist Threat?” Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 28.4 (2005): 321–40. Osuri, Goldie, and Subhabrata Bobby Banerjee. “White Diasporas: Media Representations of September 11 and the Unbearable Whiteness of Being in Australia.” Social Semiotics 14.2 (2004): 151–71. Powell, Colin. “Ridding the World of Global Terrorism: No Countries or Citizens are Safe.” Vital Speeches of the Day 69.8 (2003): 230–3. Robin, Corey. Fear: The History of a Political Idea. New York: Oxford UP, 2004. Spence, Keith. “World Risk Society and War against Terror.” Political Studies 53.2 (2005): 284–304. Stern, Jessica. “Fearing Evil.” Social Research 71.4 (2004): 1111–7. “Terrorism Chronology.” Parliament of Australia Parliamentary Library. http://www.aph.gov.au/library/intguide/law/terrorism.htm> Tomkins, Silvan. Affect, Imagery and Consciousness. New York: Springer Publishing, 1962. Virilio, Paul, and Sylvere Lotringer. Pure War. New York: Semio-text(e), 1997. Watkins, Megan. “Pedagogic Affect/Effect: Teaching Writing in the Primary Years of School.” Presented at Redesigning Pedagogy: Research, Policy, Practice Conference. Singapore: National Institute of Education, 31 May 2005. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Aly, Anne, and Mark Balnaves. "The Atmosfear of Terror: Affective Modulation and the War on Terror." M/C Journal 8.6 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0512/04-alybalnaves.php>. APA Style Aly, A., and M. Balnaves. (Dec. 2005) "The Atmosfear of Terror: Affective Modulation and the War on Terror," M/C Journal, 8(6). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0512/04-alybalnaves.php>.

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Abstract:

India has one of the world’s highest proportions of plant-based consumers relative to its total population (Sawe). However, the view that India is a predominantly vegetarian nation is likely inaccurate, as recent findings from the 2014 Indian Census indicate that only three in ten Indians self-identity as vegetarian (Census of India). Other studies similarly estimate the prevalence of vegetarianism to range from about 25% (Mintel Global) to about 40% (Euromonitor International; Statista, “Share”), and many Indians are shifting from strict plant-based diets to more flexible versions of plant-based eating (Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations). When it comes to meat eating, poultry is the most widely consumed (USDA Foreign Agricultural Service; Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development). Some claim that the changing consumer landscape is also eroding traditional taboos associated with beef and buffalo meat consumption (Kala; Bansal), with many tending to underreport their meat consumption due to religious and cultural stigmas (Bansal).This change in food choices is driven by several factors, such as increasing urbanisation (Devi et al.), rising disposable incomes (Devi et al.; Rukhmini), globalisation, and cross-cultural influences (Majumdar; Sinha). Today, the urban middle-class is one of India’s fastest growing consumer segments (Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania), and the rise in the consumption of animal products is primarily occurring in urban India (National Sample Survey Office), making this an important market to investigate.From a global perspective, while many Western nations are increasingly adopting plant-based diets (Eswaran), the growth in meat consumption is predicted to mainly come from emerging markets (OECD/FAO) like India. With these points in mind, the purpose of this study was to explore contemporary eating practices in urban India and to understand how social structures, cultures, and traditions influence these practices. The findings indicate that the key reasons why many are transitioning away from plant-based diets are the rise of new and diverse meat-based foods in urban India, emerging tastes for meat-based cuisines, and meat becoming to be viewed as a status symbol. These factors are further elaborated upon in this article.MethodA key question of this research was “What are eating practices like in urban India today?” The question itself is a challenge, given India’s varied cultures and traditions, along with its myriad eating practices. Given this diversity, the study used an exploratory qualitative approach, where the main mode of data gathering was twenty-five unstructured individual face-to-face interviews, each approximately sixty minutes in duration. The discussions were left largely open to allow participants to share their unique eating practices and reflect on how their practices are shaped by other socio-cultural practices. The research used an iterative study design, which entailed cycles of simultaneous data collection, analysis, and subsequent adaptations made to some questions to refine the emerging theory. Within the defined parameters of the research objectives, saturation was adequately reached upon completion of twenty-five interviews.The sample comprised Mumbai residents aged 23 to 45 years, which is fairly representative given about a third of India’s population is aged under 40 (Central Intelligence Agency). Mumbai was selected as it is one of India’s largest cities (Central Intelligence Agency) and is considered the country’s commercial capital (Raghavan) and multicultural hub (Gulliver). The interviews were conducted at a popular restaurant in downtown Mumbai. The interviews were conducted predominantly in English, as it is India’s subsidiary official language (Central Intelligence Agency) and the participants were comfortable conversing in English. The sample included participants from two of India’s largest religions—Hindus (80%) and Muslims (13%) (Registrar General and Census Commissioner of India), and comprised an even split of males and females.The Market Research Society of India has developed a socio-economic classification (SEC) grid that segments urban households into twelve groups (Market Research Society of India). This segmentation is based on two questions: level of education—from illiteracy to a postgraduate degree—and the ownership of eleven items that range from fairly basic (e.g., electricity connection, gas stove) to relatively sophisticated (e.g., refrigerator, personal computer). As previous qualitative work has found that education levels and disposable incomes can significantly impact one’s ability to make informed and deliberate food choices (Khara), and given meat is a relatively expensive commodity in India (Puskar-Pasewicz), the study focused on the most affluent segments—i.e., SEC A1 and some of SEC A2.It is said that researcher values and predispositions are to some extent inseparable from the research process, and therefore that potential researcher bias must be managed by being self-aware, looking for contradictory data, and being open to different interpretations of the data (Ogden). As the interviewer is a vegan of Indian ethnicity, she attempted to manage researcher bias in several ways. Triangulation of data sources (e.g., interviews, observations, product analysis) helped provide a multi-faceted understanding of the topic (Patton). The discussion guide and findings were also discussed with researchers from different cultural and dietary backgrounds. It is also argued that when a researcher shares the same background as the participants—as was the case in this study—participants may remain silent on certain issues, as they may assume the researcher knows the context and nuances in relation to these issues (McGinn). This arose in some instances as some participants said, “it’s standard stuff you know?” The interviewer hence took an “outsider” role, stating “I’ll need to know what standard stuff is”, so as to reduce any expectation that she ought to understand the social norms, conventions, and cultural practices related to the issue (Leckie). This helped yield more elaborate discussions and greater insight into the topic from the participant’s own unique perspective.The Rise of New and Diverse Meat-based Foods in Urban India Since the early 1990s, which marked the beginning of globalisation in India, urban Indian food culture has undergone a significant change as food imports have been liberalised and international food brands have made their way into the domestic market (Vepa). As a result, India’s major urban centres appear to be witnessing a food revolution:Bombay has become so metropolitan, I mean it always was but it’s so much more in terms of food now … and it’s so tempting. (Female, age 32)The changing food culture has also seen an increase in new dishes, such as a lamb burger stuffed with blue cheese, and the desire to try out exotic meats such as octopus, camel, rabbit, and emu. Many participants described themselves as “food obsessed” and living in a “present and continuous state of food”, where “we finish a meal and we’ve already started discussing our next meal”.In comparison, traditional plant-based foods were seen to have not undergone the same transformation and were described as “boring” and “standard” in comparison to the more interesting and diverse meat-based dishes:a standard restaurant menu, you don’t have all the different leafy vegetables…It’s mostly a few paneer and this or that—and upon that they don’t do much justice to the vegetable itself. It’s the same masala which they mix in it so everything tastes the same to me. So that’s a big difference when you consider meats. If I eat chicken in different preparations it has a different taste, if I have fish each has a different taste. (Male, age 29)If I’m going out and I’m spending, then I’m not going to eat the same thing which I eat at home every day which is veg food ... I will always pick the non-vegetarian option. (Male, age 32)Liberalisation and the transformation of the local media landscape also appears to have encouraged a new form of consumerism (Sinha). One participant described how an array of new TV channels and programmes have opened up new horizons for food:The whole visual attraction of food, getting it into your living room or into your bedroom and showing you all this great stuff … [There are now] kiddie birthdays which are MasterChef birthdays. There are MasterChef team building activities … So food is very big and I think media has had a very, very large role to play in that. (Female, age 40+)In a similar vein, digital media has also helped shape the food revolution. India has the world’s second largest number of Internet users (Statista, Internet) and new technology seems to have changed the way urban Indians interact with food:We are using social sites. We see all the cooking tips and all the recipes. I have a wife and she’s like, “Oh, let’s cook it!” (Male, age 25)I see everything on YouTube and food channels and all that. I really like the presentation, how they just a little they cook the chicken breast. (Female, age 42)Smartphones and apps have also made access to new cuisines easier, and some participants have become accustomed to instant gratification, givendelivery boys who can satisfy your craving by delivering it to you … You order food from “Zomato” at twelve o’clock, one o’clock also. And order from “Sigree” in the morning also nowadays … more delivery options are there in India. (Male, age 30)This may also partially explain the growing popularity of fusion foods, which include meat-based variations of traditional plant-based dishes, such as meat-filled dosas and parathas.Emerging Tastes for Meat-based Cuisines Many highlighted the sensory pleasure derived from meat eating itself, focusing on a broad range of sensory qualities:There’s the texture, there’s the smell, there’s aroma, there’s the taste itself … Now imagine if chicken or beef was as soft as paneer, we probably wouldn’t enjoy it as much. There’s a bit of that pull. (Female, age 32)Some discussed adopting a plant-based diet for health-related reasons but also highlighted that the experience, overall, was short of satisfactory:I was doing one week of GM Diet … one day it was full of fruits, then one day it was full of vegetables. And then in the third day, when it was actually the chicken part, frankly speaking even I enjoyed … you just cannot have veggies everyday. (Female, age 35)Only eating veg, I think my whole mouth was, I think gone bad. Because I really wanted to have something … keema [minced meat]. (Female, age 38)Plant-based foods, in comparison to meat-based dishes, were described as “bland”, “boring”, and lacking in the “umami zing”. Even if cooked in the same spices, plant-based foods were still seen to be wanting:you have chicken curry and soya bean curry made from the same masala … but if you replace meat with some other substitutes, you’re gonna be able to tell the difference ... the taste of meat, I feel, is better than the taste of a vegetable. (Male, age 32)The thing is, vegetarian dishes are bland … They don’t get the feeling of the spices in the vegetarian dish ... So when you are eating something juicy, having a bite, it’s a mouthful thing. Vegetarian dishes are not mouthful. (Male, age 25)At the end of a vegetarian meal … I think that maybe [it is] a lack of fullness … I’m eating less because you get bored after a while. (Female, age 32)Tasting the Forbidden FruitIn India, chicken is considered to be widely acceptable, as pork is forbidden to Muslims and beef is prohibited for Hindus (Devi et al.; Jishnu). However, the desire for new flavours seems to be pushing the boundaries of what is deemed acceptable, as highlighted in the discussion below with a 25-year-old male Muslim participant:Participant: When I go out with my friends then I try new things like bacon.Moderator: Bacon?Participant: Yeah... when I went with my colleagues to this restaurant in Bandra—it’s called Saltwater Cafe. And they had this chicken burger with bacon wrapped on it.Moderator: Okay.Participant: And I didn’t know at the time that it’s bacon … They didn’t tell me what we are having … When I had it, I told them that it’s tasting like different, totally different, like I haven’t had this in my life.Moderator: Yeah.Participant: And when they told me that it’s bacon then, I thought, okay fine. Something new I can have. Now I’m old enough to make my own choices.Similarly, several Hindu participants expressed similar sentiments about beef consumption:One of our friends, he used to have beef. He said this tastes better than chicken so I tried it. (Male, age 30)I ended up ordering beef which I actually would never eat ... But then everyone was like, it’s a must try ... So I start off with eating the gravy and then it entices me. That’s when I go and try the meat. (Female, aged 23)Although studies on meat eating in India are limited, it seems that many prefer to consume meats outside the home (Suresh; Devi et al.), away from the watchful eyes of parents, partners and, in some instances, the neighbours:My dad would say if you want to eat beef or anything have it outside but don’t bring it home. (Male, age 29)One of my friends … he keeps secret from his girlfriend … he come with us and eat [meat] and tell us not to tell her. (Male, age 26)People around have a little bit of a different view towards people eating non-veg in that area—so we wouldn’t openly talk about eating non-veg when somebody from the locality is around. (Female, age 32)Further to this point, some discussed a certain thrill that arose from pushing social boundaries by eating these forbidden meats:feel excited ... it gave me confidence also. I didn’t know ... my own decision. Something that is riskier in my life, which I hadn’t done before. (Male, age 25)Meat as a Status SymbolIn urban India, meat is increasingly considered a status symbol (Roy; Esselborn; Goswami). Similarly, several participants highlighted that meat-based dishes tend to be cooked for special occasions:non-vegetarian meals [at home] were perceived as being more elaborate and more lavish probably as compared to vegetarian meals. (Male, age 34)Dal [a lentil dish] is one of the basic things which we don’t make in the house when you have guests, or when you have an occasion … We usually make biryani…gravies of chicken or mutton. (Female, age 38)Success in urban India tends to be measured through one’s engagement with commodities that hold status-enhancing appeal (Mathur), and this also appears to apply to eating practices. Among meat-eating communities, it was found that serving only plant-based foods on special occasions was potentially seen as “low grade” and not quite socially acceptable:It’s just considered not something special. In fact, you would be judged…they would be like, “Oh my God, they only served us vegetables.” (Female, age 32)If you are basically from a Gujarati family, you are helpless. You have to serve that thing [vegetarian food] ... But if you are a non-vegetarian … if you serve them veg, it looks too low grade. (Female, age 38)In fact, among some families, serving “simple vegetarian food” tended to be associated with sombre occasions such as funerals, where one tends to avoid eating certain foods that give rise to desires, such as meat. This is elaborated upon in the below discussion with a Hindu participant (female, aged 40+):Participant: So an aunt of mine passed away a little over a year ago … traditionally we have this 13 day thing where you eat—We call it “Oshoge”… the khaana [food] is supposed to be neutral.Moderator: The khaana is supposed to be vegetarian?Participant: Yeah, it’s not just vegetarian … You’re supposed to have very simple vegetarian food like boiled food or you know dahi [plain yoghurt] and puffed rice … after a day of that, we were all looking at each other and then my cousin said, “Let me teach you how to fillet fish.” Similarly, a Muslim participant mentioned how serving certain dishes—such as dal, a common vegetarian dish—tends to be reserved for funeral occasions and is therefore considered socially unacceptable for other occasions:I’m calling a guest and I make dal chawal [lentils and rice] okay? They will think, arrey yeh kya yeh mayat ka khaana hai kya? [oh what is this, is the food for a corpse or what]? ... I can make it on that particular day when somebody has died in the family ... but then whenever guest is at home, or there is an occasion, we cannot make dal. (Female, age 38)ConclusionUrban India is experiencing a shift in norms around food choices, as meat-based dishes appear to have become symbolic of the broader changing landscape. Meat is not only eaten for its sensory properties but also because of its sociocultural associations. In comparison, many plant-based foods are perceived as relatively bland and uninteresting. This raises the question of how to make plant-based eating more appealing, both in terms of social significance and sensory enjoyment. In view of the attachment to familiar customs against the backdrop of a rapidly changing urban culture (Sinha; Venkatesh), perhaps plant-based foods could be re-introduced to the urban Indian as a blend of Western novelty and traditional familiarity (Majumdar), thereby representing the “the new along with the old” (Sinha 18), and hence enhancing their status. 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Kindle edition. 11 Apr. 2019 <https://www.amazon.com/Cultural-Encyclopedia-Vegetarianism-Margaret-Puskar-Pasewicz/dp/0313375569>.Raghavan, Chakravarthi. “Mumbai.” Encyclopædia Britannica Online. 2019. 2 Apr. 2019 <https://www.britannica.com/place/Mumbai>.Registrar General and Census Commissioner of India, The. “Religion.” Office of the Registrar General and Census Commissioner, India, 2011. 29 Apr. 2019 <http://censusindia.gov.in/Census_And_You/religion.aspx>.Roy, Sandip. “The New Indian Pariahs: Vegetarians.” National Public Radio 28 Feb. 2012. 2 Apr. 2019 <https://www.npr.org/2012/02/28/147038163/the-new-indian-pariahs-vegetarians>.Rukhmini, S. “Eating Habits Vary Across Classes: NSSO.” The Hindu 5 Jul. 2014. 30 Mar. 2019 <http://www.thehindu.com/news/national/eating-habits-vary-across-classes-nsso/article6178320.ece>.Sawe, Benjamin. “Countries with the Highest Rates of Vegetarianism.” Worldatlas.Com 1 May 2017. 2 Apr. 2019 <https://www.worldatlas.com/articles/countries-with-the-highest-rates-of-vegetarianism.html>.Sinha, Dheeraj. Consumer India: Inside the Indian Mind and Wallet. Singapore: John Wiley, 2011. Kindle Edition. 11 Apr. 2019 <https://www.amazon.com/Consumer-India-Inside-Indian-Wallet-ebook/dp/B004OC071M>.Statista: The Statistics Portal. Internet Usage in India 2017. 1 Apr. 2019 <https://www.statista.com/study/22628/internet-usage-in-india-statista-dossier/>.———. Share of Vegetarianism Among Young Adults Across India in 2016. 2016. 2 Apr. 2019 <https://www.statista.com/statistics/733753/vegetarianism-among-young-adults-india/>.Suresh, A. “Consumers’ Attitude Towards Meat Consumption in India: Insights from a Survey in Two Metropolitan Cities.” Livestock Research for Rural Development 28.3 (2016): 1–7. 2 Apr. 2019 <http://www.lrrd.org/lrrd28/3/sure28045.htm>.USDA Foreign Agricultural Service. India: Poultry and Poultry Products Annual 2016. USDA, 2016. 2 Apr. 2019 <https://gain.fas.usda.gov/Recent%20GAIN%20Publications/Poultry%20and%20Poultry%20Products%20Annual%202016_New%20Delhi_India_12-1-2016.pdf>.Venkatesh, Alladi. “India’s Changing Consumer Economy: A Cultural Perspective.” Proceedings of the Advances in Consumer Research Volume 21. Eds. Chris T. Allen, and Deborah R. John. Provo: Association for Consumer Research, 1994. 323–28. 2 Apr. 2019 <http://www.acrwebsite.org/search/view-conference-proceedings.aspx?Id=7614>.Vepa, Swarna. “Impact of Globalization on the Food Consumption of Urban India.” Globalization of Food Systems in Developing Countries: Impact on Food Security and Nutrition. Rome: Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, 2004. 215–30. 2 Apr. 2019 <http://www.fao.org/docrep/pdf/007/y5736e/y5736e02.pdf>.Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania. “Retail in India: Capturing the Opportunities of a Complex Consumer Class.” Knowledge@Wharton, 2008. 29 Mar. 2019 <http://knowledge.wharton.upenn.edu/article/retail-in-india-capturing-the-opportunities-of-a-complex-consumer-class/>.Willett, Walter, et al. “Food in the Anthropocene: The EAT–Lancet Commission on Healthy Diets from Sustainable Food Systems.” The Lancet 393 (2019): 447–92.

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Cultural sociologists (Bourdieu; DiMaggio, “Cultural Capital”, “Classification”; Gans; Lamont & Foumier; Halle; Erickson) wrote about high culture and popular culture in an attempt to explain the growing social and economic inequalities, to find consensus on culture hierarchies, and to analyze cultural complexities. Halle states that this categorisation of culture into “high culture” and “popular culture” underlined most of the debate on culture in the last fifty years. Gans contends that both high culture and popular culture are stereotypes, public forms of culture or taste cultures, each sharing “common aesthetic values and standards of tastes” (8). However, this article is not concerned with these categorisations, or macro analysis. Rather, it is a reflection piece that inquires if opera, which is usually considered high culture, has become more equal to popular culture, and why some directors change the time and place of opera plots, whereas others will stay true to the original setting of the story. I do not consider these productions “adaptations,” but “post-modern morphologies,” and I will refer to this later in the paper. In other words, the paper is seeking to explain a social phenomenon and explore the underlying motives by quoting interviews with directors. The word ‘opera’ is defined in Elson’s Music Dictionary as: “a form of musical composition evolved shortly before 1600, by some enthusiastic Florentine amateurs who sought to bring back the Greek plays to the modern stage” (189). Hence, it was an experimentation to revive Greek music and drama believed to be the ideal way to express emotions (Grout 186). It is difficult to pinpoint the exact moment when stage directors started changing the time and place of the original settings of operas. The practice became more common after World War II, and Peter Brook’s Covent Garden productions of Boris Godunov (1948) and Salome (1949) are considered the prototypes of this practice (Sutcliffe 19-20). Richard Wagner’s grandsons, the brothers Wieland and Wolfgang Wagner are cited in the music literature as using technology and modern innovations in staging and design beginning in the early 1950s. Brief Background into the History of Opera Grout contends that opera began as an attempt to heighten the dramatic expression of language by intensifying the natural accents of speech through melody supported by simple harmony. In the late 1590s, the Italian composer Jacopo Peri wrote what is considered to be the first opera, but most of it has been lost. The first surviving complete opera is Euridice, a version of the Orpheus myth that Peri and Giulio Caccini jointly set to music in 1600. The first composer to understand the possibilities inherent in this new musical form was Claudio Monteverdi, who in 1607 wrote Orfeo. Although it was based on the same story as Euridice, it was expanded to a full five acts. Early opera was meant for small, private audiences, usually at court; hence it began as an elitist genre. After thirty years of being private, in 1637, opera went public with the opening of the first public opera house, Teatro di San Cassiano, in Venice, and the genre quickly became popular. Indeed, Monteverdi wrote his last two operas, Il ritorno d’Ulisse in patria and L’incoronazione di Poppea for the Venetian public, thereby leading the transition from the Italian courts to the ‘public’. Both operas are still performed today. Poppea was the first opera to be based on a historical rather than a mythological or allegorical subject. Sutcliffe argues that opera became popular because it was a new mixture of means: new words, new music, new methods of performance. He states, “operatic fashion through history may be a desire for novelty, new formulas displacing old” (65). By the end of the 17th century, Venice alone had ten opera houses that had produced more than 350 operas. Wealthy families purchased season boxes, but inexpensive tickets made the genre available to persons of lesser means. The genre spread quickly, and various styles of opera developed. In Naples, for example, music rather than the libretto dominated opera. The genre spread to Germany and France, each developing the genre to suit the demands of its audiences. For example, ballet became an essential component of French opera. Eventually, “opera became the profligate art as large casts and lavish settings made it the most expensive public entertainment. It was the only art that without embarrassment called itself ‘grand’” (Boorstin 467). Contemporary Opera Productions Opera continues to be popular. According to a 2002 report released by the National Endowment for the Arts, 6.6 million adults attended at least one live opera performance in 2002, and 37.6 million experienced opera on television, video, radio, audio recording or via the Internet. Some think that it is a dying art form, while others think to the contrary, that it is a living art form because of its complexity and “ability to probe deeper into the human experience than any other art form” (Berger 3). Some directors change the setting of operas with perhaps the most famous contemporary proponent of this approach being Peter Sellars, who made drastic changes to three of Mozart’s most famous operas. Le Nozze di Figaro, originally set in 18th-century Seville, was set by Sellars in a luxury apartment in the Trump Tower in New York City; Sellars set Don Giovanni in contemporary Spanish Harlem rather than 17th century Seville; and for Cosi Fan Tutte, Sellars chose a diner on Cape Cod rather than 18th century Naples. As one of the more than six million Americans who attend live opera each year, I have experienced several updated productions, which made me reflect on the convergence or cross-over between high culture and popular culture. In 2000, I attended a production of Don Giovanni at the Estates Theatre in Prague, the very theatre where Mozart conducted the world premiere in 1787. In this production, Don Giovanni was a fashion designer known as “Don G” and drove a BMW. During the 1999-2000 season, Los Angeles Opera engaged film director Bruce Beresford to direct Verdi’s Rigoletto. Beresford updated the original setting of 16th century Mantua to 20th century Hollywood. The lead tenor, rather than being the Duke of Mantua, was a Hollywood agent known as “Duke Mantua.” In the first act, just before Marullo announces to the Duke’s guests that the jester Rigoletto has taken a mistress, he gets the news via his cell phone. Director Ian Judge set the 2004 production of Le Nozze di Figaro in the 1950s. In one of the opening productions of the 2006-07 LA opera season, Vincent Patterson also chose the 1950s for Massenet’s Manon rather than France in the 1720s. This allowed the title character to appear in the fourth act dressed as Marilyn Monroe. Excerpts from the dress rehearsal can be seen on YouTube. Most recently, I attended a production of Ariane et Barbe-Bleu at the Paris Opera. The original setting of the Maeterlinck play is in Duke Bluebeard’s castle, but the time period is unclear. However, it is doubtful that the 1907 opera based on an 1899 play was meant to be set in what appeared to be a mental institution equipped with surveillance cameras whose screens were visible to the audience. The critical and audience consensus seemed to be that the opera was a musical success but a failure as a production. James Shore summed up the audience reaction: “the production team was vociferously booed and jeered by much of the house, and the enthusiastic applause that had greeted the singers and conductor, immediately went nearly silent when they came on stage”. It seems to me that a new class-related taste has emerged; the opera genre has shot out a subdivision which I shall call “post-modern morphologies,” that may appeal to a larger pool of people. Hence, class, age, gender, and race are becoming more important factors in conceptualising opera productions today than in the past. I do not consider these productions as new adaptations because the libretto and the music are originals. What changes is the fact that both text and sound are taken to a higher dimension by adding iconographic images that stimulate people’s brains. When asked in an interview why he often changes the setting of an opera, Ian Judge commented, “I try to find the best world for the story and characters to operate in, and I think you have to find a balance between the period the author set it in, the period he conceived it in and the nature of theatre and audiences at that time, and the world we live in.” Hence, the world today is complex, interconnected, borderless and timeless because of advanced technologies, and updated opera productions play with symbols that offer multiple meanings that reflect the world we live in. It may be that television and film have influenced opera production. Character tenor Graham Clark recently observed in an interview, “Now the situation has changed enormously. Television and film have made a lot of things totally accessible which they were not before and in an entirely different perception.” Director Ian Judge believes that television and film have affected audience expectations in opera. “I think audiences who are brought up on television, which is bad acting, and movies, which is not that good acting, perhaps require more of opera than stand and deliver, and I have never really been happy with someone who just stands and sings.” Sociologist Wendy Griswold states that culture reflects social reality and the meaning of a particular cultural object (such as opera), originates “in the social structures and social patterns it reflects” (22). Screens of various technologies are embedded in our lives and normalised as extensions of our bodies. In those opera productions in which directors change the time and place of opera plots, use technology, and are less concerned with what the composer or librettist intended (which we can only guess), the iconographic images create multi valances, textuality similar to Mikhail Bakhtin’s notion of multiplicity of voices. Hence, a plurality of meanings. Plàcido Domingo, the Eli and Edyth Broad General Director of Los Angeles Opera, seeks to take advantage of the company’s proximity to the film industry. This is evidenced by his having engaged Bruce Beresford to direct Rigoletto and William Friedkin to direct Ariadne auf Naxos, Duke Bluebeard’s Castle and Gianni Schicchi. Perhaps the most daring example of Domingo’s approach was convincing Garry Marshall, creator of the television sitcom Happy Days and who directed the films Pretty Woman and The Princess Diaries, to direct Jacques Offenbach’s The Grand duch*ess of Gerolstein to open the company’s 20th anniversary season. When asked how Domingo convinced him to direct an opera for the first time, Marshall responded, “he was insistent that one, people think that opera is pretty elitist, and he knew without insulting me that I was not one of the elitists; two, he said that you gotta make a funny opera; we need more comedy in the operetta and opera world.” Marshall rewrote most of the dialogue and performed it in English, but left the “songs” untouched and in the original French. He also developed numerous sight gags and added characters including a dog named Morrie and the composer Jacques Offenbach himself. Did it work? Christie Grimstad wrote, “if you want an evening filled with witty music, kaleidoscopic colors and hilariously good singing, seek out The Grand duch*ess. You will not be disappointed.” The FanFaire Website commented on Domingo’s approach of using television and film directors to direct opera: You’ve got to hand it to Plàcido Domingo for having the vision to draw on Hollywood’s vast pool of directorial talent. Certainly something can be gained from the cross-fertilization that could ensue from this sort of interaction between opera and the movies, two forms of entertainment (elitist and perennially struggling for funds vs. popular and, it seems, eternally rich) that in Los Angeles have traditionally lived separate lives on opposite sides of the tracks. A wider audience, for example, never a problem for the movies, can only mean good news for the future of opera. So, did the Marshall Plan work? Purists of course will always want their operas and operettas ‘pure and unadulterated’. But with an audience that seemed to have as much fun as the stellar cast on stage, it sure did. Critic Alan Rich disagrees, calling Marshall “a representative from an alien industry taking on an artistic product, not to create something innovative and interesting, but merely to insult.” Nevertheless, the combination of Hollywood and opera seems to work. The Los Angeles Opera reported that the 2005-2006 season was its best ever: “ticket revenues from the season, which ended in June, exceeded projected figures by nearly US$900,000. Seasonal attendance at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion stood at more than 86% of the house’s capacity, the largest percentage in the opera’s history.” Domingo continues with the Hollywood connection in the upcoming 2008-2009 season. He has reengaged William Friedkin to direct two of Puccini’s three operas titled collectively as Il Trittico. Friedkin will direct the two tragedies, Il Tabarro and Suor Angelica. Although Friedkin has already directed a production of the third opera in Il Trittico for Los Angeles, the comedy Gianni Schicchi, Domingo convinced Woody Allen to make his operatic directorial debut with this work. This can be viewed as another example of the desire to make opera and popular culture more equal. However, some, like Alan Rich, may see this attempt as merely insulting rather than interesting and innovative. With a top ticket price in Los Angeles of US$238 per seat, opera seems to continue to be elitist. Berger (2005) concurs with this idea and gives his rationale for elitism: there are rich people who support and attend the opera; it is an imported art from Europe that causes some marginalisation; opera is not associated with something being ‘moral,’ a concept engrained in American culture; it is expensive to produce and usually funded by kings, corporations, rich people; and the opera singers are rare –usually one in a million who will have the vocal quality to sing opera arias. Furthermore, Nicholas Kenyon commented in the early 1990s: “there is suspicion that audiences are now paying more and more money for their seats to see more and more money spent on stage” (Kenyon 3). Still, Garry Marshall commented that the budget for The Grand duch*ess was US$2 million, while his budget for Runaway Bride was US$72 million. Kenyon warns, “Such popularity for opera may be illusory. The enjoyment of one striking aria does not guarantee the survival of an art form long regarded as over-elitist, over-recondite, and over-priced” (Kenyon 3). A recent development is the Metropolitan Opera’s decision to simulcast live opera performances from the Met stage to various cinemas around the world. These HD transmissions began with the 2006-2007 season when six performances were broadcast. In the 2007-2008 season, the schedule has expanded to eight live Saturday matinee broadcasts plus eight recorded encores broadcast the following day. According to The Los Angeles Times, “the Met’s experiment of merging film with live performance has created a new art form” (Aslup). Whether or not this is a “new art form,” it certainly makes world-class live opera available to countless persons who cannot travel to New York and pay the price for tickets, when they are available. In the US alone, more than 350 cinemas screen these live HD broadcasts from the Met. Top ticket price for these performances at the Met is US$375, while the lowest price is US$27 for seats with only a partial view. Top price for the HD transmissions in participating cinemas is US$22. This experiment with live simulcasts makes opera more affordable and may increase its popularity; combined with updated stagings, opera can engage a much larger audience and hope for even a mass consumption. Is opera moving closer and closer to popular culture? There still seems to be an aura of elitism and snobbery about opera. However, Plàcido Domingo’s attempt to join opera with Hollywood is meant to break the barriers between high and popular culture. The practice of updating opera settings is not confined to Los Angeles. As mentioned earlier, the idea can be traced to post World War II England, and is quite common in Europe. Examples include Erich Wonder’s approach to Wagner’s Ring, making Valhalla, the mythological home of the gods and typically a mountaintop, into the spaceship Valhalla, as well as my own experience with Don Giovanni in Prague and Ariane et Barbe-Bleu in Paris. Indeed, Sutcliffe maintains, “Great classics in all branches of the arts are repeatedly being repackaged for a consumerist world that is increasingly and neurotically self-obsessed” (61). Although new operas are being written and performed, most contemporary performances are of operas by Verdi, Mozart, and Puccini (www.operabase.com). This means that audiences see the same works repeated many times, but in different interpretations. Perhaps this is why Sutcliffe contends, “since the 1970s it is the actual productions that have had the novelty value grabbed by the headlines. Singing no longer predominates” (Sutcliffe 57). If then, as Sutcliffe argues, “operatic fashion through history may be a desire for novelty, new formulas displacing old” (Sutcliffe 65), then the contemporary practice of changing the original settings is simply the latest “new formula” that is replacing the old ones. If there are no new words or new music, then what remains are new methods of performance, hence the practice of changing time and place. Opera is a complex art form that has evolved over the past 400 years and continues to evolve, but will it survive? The underlining motives for directors changing the time and place of opera performances are at least three: for aesthetic/artistic purposes, financial purposes, and to reach an audience from many cultures, who speak different languages, and who have varied tastes. These three reasons are interrelated. In 1996, Sutcliffe wrote that there has been one constant in all the arguments about opera productions during the preceding two decades: “the producer’s wish to relate the works being staged to contemporary circ*mstances and passions.” Although that sounds like a purely aesthetic reason, making opera relevant to new, multicultural audiences and thereby increasing the bottom line seems very much a part of that aesthetic. It is as true today as it was when Sutcliffe made the observation twelve years ago (60-61). My own speculation is that opera needs to attract various audiences, and it can only do so by appealing to popular culture and engaging new forms of media and technology. Erickson concludes that the number of upper status people who are exclusively faithful to fine arts is declining; high status people consume a variety of culture while the lower status people are limited to what they like. Research in North America, Europe, and Australia, states Erickson, attest to these trends. My answer to the question can stage directors make opera and popular culture “equal” is yes, and they can do it successfully. Perhaps Stanley Sharpless summed it up best: After his Eden triumph, When the Devil played his ace, He wondered what he could do next To irk the human race, So he invented Opera, With many a fiendish grin, To mystify the lowbrows, And take the highbrows in. References The Grand duch*ess. 2005. 3 Feb. 2008 < http://www.ffaire.com/duch*ess/index.htm >.Aslup, Glenn. “Puccini’s La Boheme: A Live HD Broadcast from the Met.” Central City Blog Opera 7 Apr. 2008. 24 Apr. 2008 < http://www.centralcityopera.org/blog/2008/04/07/puccini%E2%80%99s- la-boheme-a-live-hd-broadcast-from-the-met/ >.Berger, William. Puccini without Excuses. New York: Vintage, 2005.Boorstin, Daniel. The Creators: A History of Heroes of the Imagination. New York: Random House, 1992.Bourdieu, Pierre. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1984.Clark, Graham. “Interview with Graham Clark.” The KCSN Opera House, 88.5 FM. 11 Aug. 2006.DiMaggio, Paul. “Cultural Capital and School Success.” American Sociological Review 47 (1982): 189-201.DiMaggio, Paul. “Classification in Art.”_ American Sociological Review_ 52 (1987): 440-55.Elson, C. Louis. “Opera.” Elson’s Music Dictionary. Boston: Oliver Ditson, 1905.Erickson, H. Bonnie. “The Crisis in Culture and Inequality.” In W. Ivey and S. J. Tepper, eds. Engaging Art: The Next Great Transformation of America’s Cultural Life. New York: Routledge, 2007.Fanfaire.com. “At Its 20th Anniversary Celebration, the Los Angeles Opera Had a Ball with The Grand duch*ess.” 24 Apr. 2008 < http://www.fanfaire.com/duch*ess/index.htm >.Gans, J. Herbert. Popular Culture and High Culture: An Analysis and Evaluation of Taste. New York: Basic Books, 1977.Grimstad, Christie. Concerto Net.com. 2005. 12 Jan. 2008 < http://www.concertonet.com/scripts/review.php?ID_review=3091 >.Grisworld, Wendy. Cultures and Societies in a Changing World. Thousand Oaks, CA: Pine Forge Press, 1994.Grout, D. Jay. A History of Western Music. Shorter ed. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc, 1964.Halle, David. “High and Low Culture.” The Blackwell Encyclopedia of Sociology. London: Blackwell, 2006.Judge, Ian. “Interview with Ian Judge.” The KCSN Opera House, 88.5 FM. 22 Mar. 2006.Harper, Douglas. Online Etymology Dictionary. 2001. 19 Nov. 2006 < http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=opera&searchmode=none >.Kenyon, Nicholas. “Introduction.” In A. Holden, N. Kenyon and S. Walsh, eds. The Viking Opera Guide. New York: Penguin, 1993.Lamont, Michele, and Marcel Fournier. Cultivating Differences: Symbolic Boundaries and the Making of Inequality. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1992.Lord, M.G. “Shlemiel! Shlemozzle! And Cue the Soprano.” The New York Times 4 Sep. 2005.Los Angeles Opera. “LA Opera General Director Placido Domingo Announces Results of Record-Breaking 20th Anniversary Season.” News release. 2006.Marshall, Garry. “Interview with Garry Marshall.” The KCSN Opera House, 88.5 FM. 31 Aug. 2005.National Endowment for the Arts. 2002 Survey of Public Participation in the Arts. Research Division Report #45. 5 Feb. 2008 < http://www.nea.gov/pub/NEASurvey2004.pdf >.NCM Fanthom. “The Metropolitan Opera HD Live.” 2 Feb. 2008 < http://fathomevents.com/details.aspx?seriesid=622&gclid= CLa59NGuspECFQU6awodjiOafA >.Opera Today. James Sobre: Ariane et Barbe-Bleue and Capriccio in Paris – Name This Stage Piece If You Can. 5 Feb. 2008 < http://www.operatoday.com/content/2007/09/ariane_et_barbe_1.php >.Rich, Alan. “High Notes, and Low.” LA Weekly 15 Sep. 2005. 6 May 2008 < http://www.laweekly.com/stage/a-lot-of-night-music/high-notes-and-low/8160/ >.Sharpless, Stanley. “A Song against Opera.” In E. O. Parrott, ed. How to Be Tremendously Tuned in to Opera. New York: Penguin, 1990.Shore, James. Opera Today. 2007. 4 Feb. 2008 < http://www.operatoday.com/content/2007/09/ariane_et_barbe_1.php >.Sutcliffe, Tom. Believing in Opera. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton UP, 1996.YouTube. “Manon Sex and the Opera.” 24 Apr. 2008 < http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YiBQhr2Sy0k >.

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Photo by Ishan @seefromthesky on Unsplash ABSTRACT A strike to highlight the plight facing contract doctors which has been proposed has received mixed reactions from those within the profession and the public. This unprecedented nationwide proposal has the potential to cause real-world effects, posing an ethical dilemma. Although strikes are common, especially in high-income countries, these industrial actions by doctors in Malaysia are almost unheard of. Reviewing available evidence from various perspectives is therefore imperative to update the profession and the complexity of invoking this important human right. INTRODUCTION Contract doctors in Malaysia held a strike on July 26, 2021. COVID-19 cases are increasing in Malaysia. In June, daily cases ranged between 4,000 to 8,000 despite various public health measures. The R naught, which indicates the infectiousness of COVID-19, remains unchanged. During the pandemic, health care workers (HCWs) have been widely celebrated, resulting in a renewed appreciation of the risks that they face.[1] The pandemic has exposed flawed governance in the public healthcare system, particularly surrounding the employment of contract doctors. Contract doctors in Malaysia are doctors who have completed their medical training, as well as two years of internship, and have subsequently been appointed as medical officers for another two years. Contract doctors are not permanently appointed, and the system did not allow extensions after the two years nor does it offer any opportunity to specialize.[2] Last week, Parliament did decide to offer a two-year extension but that did not hold off the impending strike.[3] In 2016, the Ministry of Health introduced a contract system to place medical graduates in internship positions at government healthcare facilities across the country rather than placing them in permanent posts in the Public Service Department. Social media chronicles the issues that doctors in Malaysia faced. However, tensions culminated when and contract doctors called for a strike which ended up taking place in late July 2021. BACKGROUND Over the past decade, HCW strikes have arisen mostly over wages, work hours, and administrative and financial factors.[4] In 2012, the British Medical Association organized a single “day of action” by boycotting non-urgent care as a response to government pension reforms.[5] In Ireland, doctors went on strike for a day in 2013 to protest the austerity measures implemented by the EU in response to the global economic crisis. It involved a dispute over long working hours (100 hours per week) which violated EU employment laws and more importantly put patients’ lives at risk.[6] The strike resulted in the cancellation of 15,000 hospital appointments, but emergencies services were continued. Other major strikes have been organized in the UK to negotiate better pay for HCWs in general and junior doctors’ contracts specifically.[7] During the COVID-19 pandemic, various strikes have also been organized in Hong Kong, the US, and Bolivia due to various pitfalls in managing the pandemic.[8] A recent strike in August 2020 by South Korean junior doctors and medical students was organized to protest a proposed medical reform plan which did not address wage stagnation and unfair labor practices.[9] These demands are somewhat similar to the proposed strike by contract doctors in Malaysia. As each national health system operates within a different setting, these strikes should be examined in detail to understand the degree of self-interest involved versus concerns for patient’s welfare. l. The Malaysia Strike An anonymous group planned the current strike in Malaysia. The group used social media, garnering the attention of various key stakeholders including doctors, patients, government, and medical councils.[10] The organizers of the strike referred to their planned actions as a hartal. (Although historically a hartal involved a total shutdown of workplaces, offices, shops, and other establishments as a form of civil disobedience, the Malaysian contract doctors pledged no disturbance to healthcare working hours or services and intend a walk-out that is symbolic and reflective of a strike.)[11] The call to action mainly involved showing support for the contract doctors with pictures and placards. The doctors also planned the walk-out.[12] Despite earlier employment, contract medical doctors face many inequalities as opposed to their permanent colleagues. These include differences in basic salary, provisions of leave, and government loans despite doing the same job. The system disadvantages contract doctors offering little to no job security and limited career progression. Furthermore, reports in 2020 showed that close to 4,000 doctors’ contracts were expected to expire by May 2022, leaving their futures uncertain.[13] Some will likely be offered an additional two years as the government faces pressure from the workers. Between December 2016 and May 2021, a total of 23,077 contract doctors were reportedly appointed as medical officers, with only 789 receiving permanent positions.[14] It has been suggested that they are appointed into permanent positions based on merit but the criteria for the appointments remain unclear. Those who fail to acquire a permanent position inevitably seek employment elsewhere. During the COVID-19 pandemic, there have been numerous calls for the government to absorb contract doctors into the public service as permanent staff with normal benefits. This is important considering a Malaysian study that revealed that during the pandemic over 50 percent of medical personnel feel burned out while on duty.[15] This effort might be side-lined as the government prioritizes curbing the pandemic. As these issues remain neglected, the call for a strike should be viewed as a cry for help to reignite the discussions about these issues. ll. Right to strike The right to strike is recognized as a fundamental human right by the UN and the EU.[16] Most European countries also protect the right to strike in their national constitutions.[17] In the US, the Taft-Hartley Act in 1947 prohibited healthcare workers of non-profit hospitals to form unions and engage in collective bargaining. But this exclusion was repealed in 1947 and replaced with the requirement of a 10-day advanced written notice prior to any strike action.[18] Similarly, Malaysia also recognizes the right to dispute over labor matters, either on an individual or collective basis. The Industrial Relations Act (IRA) of 1967[19] describes a strike as: “the cessation of work by a body of workers acting in combination, or a concerted refusal or a refusal under a common understanding of a number of workers to continue to work or to accept employment, and includes any act or omission by a body of workers acting in combination or under a common understanding, which is intended to or does result in any limitation, restriction, reduction or cessation of or dilatoriness in the performance or execution of the whole or any part of the duties connected with their employment” According to the same act, only members of a registered trade union may legally participate in a strike with prior registration from the Director-General of Trade Unions.[20] Under Section 43 of the IRA, any strike by essential services (including healthcare) requires prior notice of 42 days to their employer.[21] Upon receiving the notice, the employer is responsible for reporting the particulars to the Director-General of Industrial Relations to allow a “cooling-off” period and appropriate action. Employees are also protected from termination if permitted by the Director-General and strike is legalized. The Malaysian contract healthcare workers’ strike was announced and transparent. Unfortunately, even after legalization, there is fear that the government may charge those participating in the legalized strike.[22] The police have announced they will pursue participants in the strike.[23] Even the Ministry of Health has issued a warning stating that those participating in the strike may face disciplinary actions from the ministry. However, applying these laws while ignoring the underlying issues may not bode well for the COVID-19 healthcare crisis. lll. Effects of a Strike on Health Care There is often an assumption that doctors’ strikes would unavoidably cause significant harm to patients. However, a systematic review examining several strikes involving physicians reported that patient mortality remained the same or fell during the industrial action.[24] A study after the 2012 British Medical Association strike has even shown that there were fewer in-hospital deaths on the day, both among elective and emergency populations, although neither difference was significant.[25] Similarly, a recent study in Kenya showed declines in facility-based mortality during strike months.[26] Other studies have shown no obvious changes in overall mortality during strikes by HCWs.[27] There is only one report of increased mortality associated with a strike in South Africa[28] in which all the doctors in the Limpopo province stopped providing any treatment to their patients for 20 consecutive days. During this time, only one hospital continued providing services to a population of 5.5 million people. Even though their data is incomplete, authors from this study found that the number of emergency room visits decreased during the strike, but the risks of mortality in the hospital for these patients increased by 67 percent.[29] However, the study compared the strike period to a randomly selected 20-day period in May rather than comparing an average of data taken from similar dates over previous years. This could greatly influence variations between expected annual hospital mortality possibly due to extremes in weather that may exacerbate pre-existing conditions such as heart failure during warmer months or selecting months with a higher incidence of viral illness such as influenza. Importantly, all strikes ensured that emergency services were continued, at least to the degree that is generally offered on weekends. Furthermore, many doctors still provide usual services to patients despite a proclaimed strike. For example, during the 2012 BMA strike, less than one-tenth of doctors were estimated to be participating in the strike.[30] Emergency care may even improve during strikes, especially those involving junior doctors who are replaced by more senior doctors.[31] The cancellation of elective surgeries may also increase the number of doctors available to treat emergency patients. Furthermore, the cancellation of elective surgery is likely to be responsible for transient decreases in mortality. Doctors also may get more rest during strike periods. Although doctor strikes do not seem to increase patient mortality, they can disrupt delivery of healthcare.[32] Disruptions in delivery of service from prolonged strikes can result in decline of in-patient admissions and outpatient service utilization, as suggested during strikes in the UK in 2016.[33] When emergency services were affected during the last strike in April, regular service was also significantly affected. Additionally, people might need to seek alternative sources of care from the private sector and face increased costs of care. HCWs themselves may feel guilty and demotivated because of the strikes. The public health system may also lose trust as a result of service disruption caused by high recurrence of strikes. During the COVID-19 pandemic, as the healthcare system remains stretched, the potential adverse effects resulting from doctor strikes remain uncertain and potentially disruptive. In the UK, it is an offence to “willfully and maliciously…endanger human life or cause serious bodily injury.”[34] Likewise, the General Medical Council (GMC) also requires doctors to ensure that patients are not harmed or put at risk by industrial action. In the US, the American Medical Association code of ethics prohibits strikes by physicians as a bargaining tactic, while allowing some other forms of collective bargaining.[35] However, the American College of Physicians prohibits all forms of work stoppages, even when undertaken for necessary changes to the healthcare system. Similarly, the Delhi Medical Council in India issued a statement that “under no circ*mstances doctors should resort to strike as the same puts patient care in serious jeopardy.”[36] On the other hand, the positions taken by the Malaysian Medical Council (MMC) and Malaysian Medical Association (MMA) on doctors’ strikes are less clear when compared to their Western counterparts. The MMC, in their recently updated Code of Professional Conduct 2019, states that “the public reputation of the medical profession requires that every member should observe proper standards of personal behavior, not only in his professional activities but at all times.” Strikes may lead to imprisonment and disciplinary actions by MMC for those involved. Similarly, the MMA Code of Medical Ethics published in 2002 states that doctors must “make sure that your personal beliefs do not prejudice your patients' care.”[37] The MMA which is traditionally meant to represent the voices of doctors in Malaysia, may hold a more moderate position on strikes. Although HCW strikes are not explicitly mentioned in either professional body’s code of conduct and ethics, the consensus is that doctors should not do anything that will harm patients and they must maintain the proper standard of behaviors. These statements seem too general and do not represent the complexity of why and how a strike could take place. Therefore, it has been suggested that doctors and medical organizations should develop a new consensus on issues pertaining to medical professional’s social contract with society while considering the need to uphold the integrity of the profession. Experts in law, ethics, and medicine have long debated whether and when HCW strikes can be justified. If a strike is not expected to result in patient harm it is perhaps acceptable.[38] Although these debates have centered on the potential risks that strikes carry for patients, these actions also pose risks for HCWs as they may damage morale and reputation.[39] Most fundamentally, strikes raise questions about what healthcare workers owe society and what society owes them. For strikes to be morally permissible and ethical, it is suggested that they must fulfil these three criteria:[40] a. Strikes should be proportionate, e., they ‘should not inflict disproportionate harm on patients’, and hospitals should as a minimum ‘continue to provide at least such critical services as emergency care.’ b. Strikes should have a reasonable hope of success, at least not totally futile however tough the political rhetoric is. c. Strikes should be treated as a last resort: ‘all less disruptive alternatives to a strike action must have been tried and failed’, including where appropriate ‘advocacy, dissent and even disobedience’. The current strike does not fulfil the criteria mentioned. As Malaysia is still burdened with a high number of COVID-19 cases, a considerable absence of doctors from work will disrupt health services across the country. Second, since the strike organizer is not unionized, it would be difficult to negotiate better terms of contract and career paths. Third, there are ongoing talks with MMA representing the fraternity and the current government, but the time is running out for the government to establish a proper long-term solution for these contract doctors. One may argue that since the doctors’ contracts will end in a few months with no proper pathways for specialization, now is the time to strike. However, the HCW right to strike should be invoked only legally and appropriately after all other options have failed. CONCLUSION The strike in Malaysia has begun since the drafting of this paper. Doctors involved assure that there will not be any risk to patients, arguing that the strike is “symbolic”.[41] Although an organized strike remains a legal form of industrial action, a strike by HCWs in Malaysia poses various unprecedented challenges and ethical dilemmas, especially during the pandemic. The anonymous and uncoordinated strike without support from the appropriate labor unions may only spark futile discussions without affirmative actions. It should not have taken a pandemic or a strike to force the government to confront the issues at hand. It is imperative that active measures be taken to urgently address the underlying issues relating to contract physicians. As COVID-19 continues to affect thousands of people, a prompt reassessment is warranted regarding the treatment of HCWs, and the value placed on health care. [1] Ministry of Health (MOH) Malaysia, “Current situation of COVID-19 in Malaysia.” http://covid-19.moh.gov.my/terkini (accessed Jul. 01, 2021). [2] “Future of 4,000 young doctors who are contract medical officers uncertain,” New Straits Times - November 26, 2020. https://www.nst.com.my/news/nation/2020/11/644563/future-4000-young-doctors-who-are-contract-medical-officers-uncertain [3] “Malaysia doctors strike, parliament meets as COVID strain shows,” Al Jazeera, July 26, 2021. https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2021/7/26/malaysia-doctors-strike-parliament-meets-as-covid-strains-grow [4] R. Essex and S. M. Weldon, “Health Care Worker Strikes and the Covid Pandemic,” N. Engl. J. Med., vol. 384, no. 24, p. e93, Jun. 2021, doi: 10.1056/NEJMp2103327; G. Russo et al., “Health workers’ strikes in low-income countries: the available evidence,” Bull. World Health Organ., vol. 97, no. 7, pp. 460-467H, Jul. 2019, doi: 10.2471/BLT.18.225755. [5] M. Ruiz, A. Bottle, and P. Aylin, “A retrospective study of the impact of the doctors’ strike in England on 21 June 2012,” J. R. Soc. Med., vol. 106, no. 9, pp. 362–369, 2013, doi: 10.1177/0141076813490685. [6] E. Quinn, “Irish Doctors Strike to Protest Work Hours Amid Austerity,” The Wall Street Journal, 2013. https://www.wsj.com/articles/no-headline-available-1381217911?tesla=y (accessed Jun. 29, 2021). [7] “NHS workers back strike action in pay row by 2-to-1 margin,” The Guardian, 2014. https://www.theguardian.com/society/2014/sep/18/nhs-workers-strike-pay-unison-england (accessed Jun. 29, 2021); M. Limb, “Thousands of junior doctors march against new contract,” BMJ, p. h5572, Oct. 2015, doi: 10.1136/bmj.h5572. [8] J. Parry, “China coronavirus: Hong Kong health staff strike to demand border closure as city records first death,” BMJ, vol. 368, no. February, p. m454, Feb. 2020, doi: 10.1136/bmj.m454; “MultiCare healthcare workers strike, urging need for more PPEs, staff support,” Q13 FOX, 2020. https://www.q13fox.com/news/health-care-workers-strike-urging-need-for-ppes-risks-on-patient-safety (accessed Jun. 29, 2021); “Bolivia healthcare workers launch strike in COVID-hit region,” Al Jazeera, 2021. https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2021/2/9/bolivia-healthcare-workers-strike-covid-hit-region (accessed Jun. 29, 2021). [9] K. Arin, “Why are Korean doctors striking?” The Korea Herald, 2020. http://www.koreaherald.com/view.php?ud=20200811000941 (accessed Jun. 29, 2021). [10] “Hartal Doktor Kontrak,” Facebook. https://www.facebook.com/hartaldoktorkontrak. [11] “Hartal,” Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary. https://www.oxfordlearnersdictionaries.com/definition/english/hartal (accessed Jun. 29, 2021). [12] “Hartal Doktor Kontrak,” Facebook. https://www.facebook.com/hartaldoktorkontrak. [13] R. Anand, “Underpaid and overworked, Malaysia’s contract doctors’ revolt amid Covid-19 surge,” The Straits Times, 2021. [14] Anand. [15] N. S. Roslan, M. S. B. Yusoff, A. R. Asrenee, and K. Morgan, “Burnout prevalence and its associated factors among Malaysian healthcare workers during covid-19 pandemic: An embedded mixed-method study,” Healthc., vol. 9, no. 1, 2021, doi: 10.3390/healthcare9010090. [16] Maina Kiai, “Report by the Special Rapporteur on the Right to Freedom of Peaceful Assembly and Association,” 2016. [Online]. Available: http://freeassembly.net/wp-content/uploads/2016/10/A.71.385_E.pdf. [17] ETUI contributors, Strike rules in the EU27 and beyond. The European Trade Union Institute. ETUI, 2007. [18] National Labor Relations Board, National Labor Relations Act. 1935, pp. 151–169. [19] Ministry of Human Resources, Industrial Relations Act 1967 (Act 177), no. October. 2015, pp. 1–76. [20] Article 10 of the Federal Constitution states that all citizens have the right to form associations including registered trade or labor unions. A secret ballot with two-third majority will suffice to call for a strike required for submission to the DGTU within 7 days as stated in Section 25(A) of the Trade Union Act 1959. [21] Ministry of Human Resources Malaysia, Guidelines on Strikes, Pickets and Lockouts in Malaysia. Putrajaya, 2011. [22] Ordinance Emergency which was declared in Malaysia since 12 January 2021. Under the Ordinance Emergency, the king or authorized personnel may, as deemed necessary, demand any resources. [23] “Malaysia doctors strike, parliament meets as COVID strain shows,” Al Jazeera, July 26, 2021. https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2021/7/26/malaysia-doctors-strike-parliament-meets-as-covid-strains-grow [24] S. A. Cunningham, K. Mitchell, K. M. Venkat Narayan, and S. Yusuf, “Doctors’ strikes and mortality: A review,” Soc. Sci. Med., vol. 67, no. 11, pp. 1784–1788, Dec. 2008, doi: 10.1016/j.socscimed.2008.09.044. [25] M. Ruiz, A. Bottle, and P. Aylin, “A retrospective study of the impact of the doctors’ strike in England on 21 June 2012,” J. R. Soc. Med., vol. 106, no. 9, pp. 362–369, 2013, doi: 10.1177/0141076813490685. [26] G. K. Kaguthi, V. Nduba, and M. B. Adam, “The impact of the nurses’, doctors’ and clinical officer strikes on mortality in four health facilities in Kenya,” BMC Health Serv. Res., vol. 20, no. 1, p. 469, Dec. 2020, doi: 10.1186/s12913-020-05337-9. [27] G. Ong’ayo et al., “Effect of strikes by health workers on mortality between 2010 and 2016 in Kilifi, Kenya: a population-based cohort analysis,” Lancet Glob. Heal., vol. 7, no. 7, pp. e961–e967, Jul. 2019, doi: 10.1016/S2214-109X (19)30188-3. [28] M. M. Z. U. Bhuiyan and A. Machowski, “Impact of 20-day strike in Polokwane Hospital (18 August - 6 September 2010),” South African Med. J., vol. 102, no. 9, p. 755, Aug. 2012, doi: 10.7196/SAMJ.6045. [29] M. M. Z. U. Bhuiyan and A. Machowski, “Impact of 20-day strike in Polokwane Hospital (18 August - 6 September 2010),” South African Med. J., vol. 102, no. 9, p. 755, Aug. 2012, doi: 10.7196/SAMJ.6045. [30] M. Ruiz, A. Bottle, and P. Aylin, “A retrospective study of the impact of the doctors’ strike in England on 21 June 2012,” J. R. Soc. Med., vol. 106, no. 9, pp. 362–369, 2013, doi: 10.1177/0141076813490685. [31] D. Metcalfe, R. Chowdhury, and A. Salim, “What are the consequences when doctors strike?” BMJ, vol. 351, no. November, pp. 1–4, 2015, doi: 10.1136/bmj.h6231. [32] D. Waithaka et al., “Prolonged health worker strikes in Kenya- perspectives and experiences of frontline health managers and local communities in Kilifi County,” Int. J. Equity Health, vol. 19, no. 1, pp. 1–15, 2020, doi: 10.1186/s12939-020-1131-y. [33] The study has shown that there were 9.1% reduction in admissions and around 6% fewer emergency cases and outpatient appointments than expected. An additional 52% increase in expected outpatient appointments cancelations were made by hospitals during that period. D. Furnivall, A. Bottle, and P. Aylin, “Retrospective analysis of the national impact of industrial action by English junior doctors in 2016,” BMJ Open, vol. 8, no. 1, p. e019319, Jan. 2018, doi: 10.1136/bmjopen-2017-019319. [34] D. Metcalfe, R. Chowdhury, and A. Salim, “What are the consequences when doctors strike?” BMJ, vol. 351, no. November, pp. 1–4, 2015, doi: 10.1136/bmj.h6231. [35] R. Essex and S. M. Weldon, “Health Care Worker Strikes and the Covid Pandemic,” N. Engl. J. Med., vol. 384, no. 24, p. e93, Jun. 2021, doi: 10.1056/NEJMp2103327. [36] M. Selemogo, “Criteria for a just strike action by medical doctors,” Indian J. Med. Ethics, vol. 346, no. 21, pp. 1609–1615, Jan. 2014, doi: 10.20529/IJME.2014.010. [37] Malaysian Medical Association, “Malaysian Medical Association Official Website.” https://mma.org.my (accessed Jun. 29, 2021). [38] M. Toynbee, A. A. J. Al-Diwani, J. Clacey, and M. R. Broome, “Should junior doctors strike?” J. Med. Ethics, vol. 42, no. 3, pp. 167–170, Mar. 2016, doi: 10.1136/medethics-2015-103310. [39] R. Essex and S. M. Weldon, “Health Care Worker Strikes and the Covid Pandemic,” N. Engl. J. Med., vol. 384, no. 24, p. e93, Jun. 2021, doi: 10.1056/NEJMp2103327. [40] M. Selemogo, “Criteria for a just strike action by medical doctors,” Indian J. Med. Ethics, vol. 346, no. 21, pp. 1609–1615, Jan. 2014, doi: 10.20529/IJME.2014.010; A. J. Roberts, “A framework for assessing the ethics of doctors’ strikes,” J. Med. Ethics, vol. 42, no. 11, pp. 698–700, Nov. 2016, doi: 10.1136/medethics-2016-103395. [41] “Malaysia doctors strike, parliament meets as COVID strain shows,” Al Jazeera, July 26, 2021. https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2021/7/26/malaysia-doctors-strike-parliament-meets-as-covid-strains-grow

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Fig 1: Image from a secret Rangoon fashion shoot. Photograph: Myanmar Photo Archive / Lukas Birk. Introduction NOTE: Rangoon, Burma has been known as Yangon, Myanmar, since 2006. I use Rangoon and Burma for the period prior to 2006 and Yangon and Myanmar for the period thereafter. In addition, I have removed the name of any activist currently in Myanmar due to the recent policy of executing political prisoners. On 1 February 2021, Myanmar was again plunged into political turmoil when the military illegally overthrew the country’s democratically elected government. This is the third time Myanmar, formally known as Burma, has been subject to a coup d’état; violent seizures of power took place in 1962 and in 1988-90. While those two earlier military governments met with opposition spearheaded by students and student organisations, in 2021 the military faced organised resistance through a mass Civil Disobedience Movement (CDM) initiated by government healthcare workers who refused to come to work. They were joined by private sector “strikes” and, perhaps most visible of all to western viewers, mass street demonstrations “led” by “Gen Z” activists—young people who had come of age during Myanmar’s brief decade of democracy. There is little doubt that the success of the CDM and associated protests is due to the widespread coverage and reach of social media as well as the creative communications skills of the country’s first “generation of digital natives”, who are sufficiently familiar and comfortable with social platforms to “participate and shape their identities in communication and dialogue with global digital media content” (Jordt et al. 12 ). The leveraging of global culture, including the use of English in protest signs, was notable in garnering international media coverage and so keeping Myanmar’s political plight front-of-mind with governments around the world. Yet this is not the whole story behind the effectiveness of these campaigns. As Lisa Brooten argues, contemporary networks are built on “decades of behind-the-scenes activism to build a multi-ethnic civil society” (East Asia Forum). The leading democracy activist, Min Ko Naing, aligned “veteran activists from previous generations with novice Gen Z activists”, declaring “this revolution represents a combination of Generations X, Y and Z in fighting against the military dictatorship’” (Jordt et al. 18). Similarly, the creative strategies used by 2021’s digital campaigners also build on protests by earlier generations of young, creative people. This paper looks at two creative protest across the generations. The first is “secret” fashion photography of the late 1970s collected in Lukas Birk’s Yangon Fashion 1979 – Fashion=Resistance. The second is the contemporary #100projectors campaign, a “projection project for Myanmar democracy movement against the military dictatorship” (in the interest of full disclosure, I took part in the #100projectors project). Drawing from the contemporary advertising principle of “segmentation”, the communications practice where potential consumers are divided into “subgroups … based on specific characteristics and needs” (WARC 1), as well as contemporary thinking on the “aesthetics” of “cosmopolitanism”, (Papastergiadis, Featherstone, and Christensen), I argue that contemporary creative strategies can be traced back to the creative tactics of resistance employed by earlier generations of protesters and their re-imagining of “national space and its politics” (Christensen 556) in the interstices of cosmopolitan Rangoon, Burma, and Yangon, Myanmar. #100projectors Myanmar experienced two distinct periods of military rule, the Socialist era between 1962 and 1988 under General Ne Win and the era under the State Law and Order Restoration Council – State Peace and Development Council between 1988 and 2011. These were followed by a semi-civilian era from 2011 to 2021 (Carlson 117). The coup in 2021 marks a return to extreme forms of control, censorship, and surveillance. Ne Win’s era of military rule saw a push for Burmanisation enforced through “significant cultural restrictions”, ostensibly to protect national culture and unity, but more likely to “limit opportunities for internal dissent” (Carlson 117). Cultural restrictions applied to art, literature, film, television, as well as dress. Despite these prohibitions, in the 1970s Rangoon's young people smuggled in illegal western fashion magazines, such as Cosmopolitan and Vogue, and commissioned local tailors to make up the clothes they saw there. Bell-bottoms, mini-skirts, western-style suits were worn in “secret” fashion shoots, with the models posing for portraits at Rangoon photographic studios such as the Sino-Burmese owned Har Si Yone in Chinatown. Some of the wealthier fashionistas even came for weekly shoots. Demand was so high, a second branch devoted to these photographic sessions was opened with its own stock of costumes and accessories. Copies of these head to toe fashion portraits, printed on 12 x 4 cm paper, were shared with friends and family; keeping portrait albums was a popular practice in Burma and had been since the 1920s and 30s (Birk, Burmese Photographers 113). The photos that survive this era are collected in Lukas Birk’s Yangon Fashion 1979 – Fashion=Resistance. #100projectors was launched in February 2021 by a group of young visual and video artists with the aim of resisting the coup and demanding the return of democracy. Initially a small group of projectionists or “projector fighters”, as the title suggests they plan to amplify their voices by growing their national and international network to 100. #100projectors is one of many campaigns, movements, and fundraisers devised by artists and creatives to protest the coup and advocate for revolution in Myanmar. Other notable examples, all run by Gen Z activists, include the Easter Egg, Watermelon, Flash, and Marching Shoes strikes. The Marching Shoe Strike, which featured images of flowers in shoes, representing those who had died in protests, achieved a reach of 65.2 million in country with 1.4 million interactions across digital channels (VERO, 64) and all of these campaigns were covered by the international press, including The Guardian, Reuters, The Straits Times, and VOA East Asia Pacific Session, as well as arts magazines around the world (for example Hyperallergic, published in Brooklyn). #100projectors material has been projected in Finland, Scotland, and Australia. The campaign was written about in various art magazines and their Video #7 was screened at the Bangkok Art and Culture Centre in February 2022 as part of Defiant Art: A Year of Resistance to the Myanmar Coup. At first glance, these two examples seem distant in both their aims and achievements. Fashion photos, taken in secret and shared privately, could be more accurately described as a grassroots social practice rather than a political movement. While Birk describes the act of taking these images as “a rebellion” and “an escape” in a political climate when “a pair of flowers and a pair of sunglasses might just start a revolution”, the fashionistas’ photographs seem “ephemeral” at best, or what Mina Roces describes as the subtlest form of resistance or ‘weapons of the weak’ (Scott in Roces 7). By contrast, #100projectors has all the hallmarks of a polished communications campaign. They have a logo and slogans: “We fight for light” and “The revolution must win”. There is a media plan, which includes the use of digital channels, encrypted messaging, live broadcasts, as well as in-situ projections. Finally, there is a carefully “targeted” audience of potential projectionists. It is this process of defining a target audience, based on segmentation, that is particularly astute and sophisticated. Traditionally, segmentation defined audiences based on demographics, geodemographics, and self-identification. However, in the online era segments are more likely to be based on behaviour and activities revealed in search data as well as shares, depending on preferences for privacy and permission. Put another way, as a digital subject, “you are what you choose to share” (WARC 1). The audience for #100projectors includes artists and creative people around the world who choose to share political video art. They are connected through digital platforms including Facebook as well as encrypted messaging. Yet this contemporary description of digital subjectivity, “you are what you choose to share”, also neatly describes the Yangon fashionistas and the ways in which they resist the political status quo. Photographic portraits have always been popular in Burma and so this collection does not look especially radical. Initially, the portraits seem to speak only about status, taste, and modernity. Several subjects within the collection are shown in national or ethnic dress, in keeping with the governments edict that Burma consisted of 135 ethnicities and 8 official races. In addition, there is a portrait of a soldier in full uniform. But the majority of the images are of men and women in “modern” western gear typical of the 1970s. With their wide smiles and careful poses, these men and women look like they’re performing sophisticated worldliness as well as showing off their wealth. They are cosmopolitan adepts taking part in international culture. Status is implicit in the accessories, from sunglasses to jewellery. One portrait is shot at mid-range so that it clearly features a landline phone. In 1970s Burma, this was an object out of reach for most. Landlines were both prohibitively expensive and reserved for the true elites. To make a phone call, most people had to line up at special market stalls. To be photographed with a phone, in western clothes (to be photographed at all), seems more about aspiration than anarchy. In the context of Ne Win’s Burma, however, the portraits clearly capture a form of political agency. Burma had strict edicts for dress and comportment: kissing in public was banned and Burmese citizens were obliged to wear Burmese dress, with western styles considered degenerate. Long hair, despite being what Burmese men traditionally wore prior to colonisation, was also deemed too western and consequently “outlawed” (Edwards 133). Dress was not only proscribed but hierarchised and heavily gendered; only military men had “the right to wear trousers” (Edwards 133). Public disrespect of the all-powerful, paranoid, and vindictive military (known as “sit tat” for military or army versus “Tatmadaw” for the good Myanmar army) was dangerous bordering on the suicidal. Consequently, wearing shoulder-length hair, wide bell bottoms, western-style suits, and “risqué” mini-skirts could all be considered acts of at least daring and definitely defiance. Not only are these photographs a challenge to gender constructions in a country ruled by a hyper-masculine army, but these images also question the nature of what it meant to be Burmese at a time when Burmeseness itself was rigidly codified. Recording such acts on film and then sharing the images entailed further risk. Thus, these models are, as Mina Roces puts it, “express[ing] their agency through sartorial change” (Roces 5). Fig. 2: Image from a secret Rangoon fashion shoot – illicit dress and hair. Photograph: Myanmar Photo Archive / Lukas Birk. Fig. 3: Image from a secret Rangoon fashion shoot. Photograph: Myanmar Photo Archive / Lukas Birk. Roces also notes the “challenge” of making protest visible in spaces “severely limited” under authoritarian regimes (Roces 10). Burma under the Socialist government was a particularly difficult place in which to mount any form of resistance. Consequences included imprisonment or even execution, as in the case of the student leader Tin Maung Oo. Ma Thida, a writer and human rights advocate herself jailed for her work, explains the use of creative tools such as metaphor in a famous story about a crab by the writer and journalist Hanthawaddy U Win Tin: The crab, being hard-shelled, was well protected and could not be harmed. However, the mosquito, despite being a far smaller animal, could bite the eyes of the crab, leading to the crab’s eventual death. ... Readers drew the conclusion that the socialist government of Ne Win was the crab that could be destabilized if a weakness could be found. (Thida 317) If the metaphor of a crab defeated by a mosquito held political meaning, then being photographed in prohibited fashions was a more overt way of making defiance and resistant “visible”. While that visibility seems ephemeral, the fashionistas also found a way not only to be seen by the camera in their rebellious clothing, but also by a “public” or audience of those with whom they shared their images. The act of exchanging portraits, what Birk describes as “old-school Instagram”, anticipates not only the shared selfie, but also the basis of successful contemporary social campaigns, which relied in part on networks sharing posts to amplify their message (Birk, Yangon Fashion 17). What the fashionistas also demonstrate is that an act of rebellion can also be a means of testing the limits of conformity, of the need for beauty, of the human desire to look beautiful. Acts of rebellion are also acts of celebration and so, solidarity. Fig. 4: Image from a secret Rangoon fashion shoot – illicit dress length. Photograph: Myanmar Photo Archive / Lukas Birk. Fig. 5: Image from a secret Rangoon fashion shoot – illicit trousers. Photograph: Myanmar Photo Archive / Lukas Birk. As the art critic and cultural theorist Nikos Papastergiadis writes, “the cosmopolitan imagination in contemporary art could be defined as an aesthetic of openness that engenders a global sense of inter-connectedness” (207). Inter-connectedness and its possibilities and limits shape the aesthetic imaginary of both the secret fashion shoots of 1970s Rangoon and the artists and videographers of 2021. In the videos of the #100projectors project and the fashion portraits of stylish Rangoonites, interconnection comes as a form of aesthetic blending, a conversation that transcends the border. The sitter posing in illicit western clothes in a photo studio in the heart of Rangoon, then Burma’s capital and seat of power, cannot help but point out that borders are permeable, and that national identity is temporally-based, transitory, and full of slippages. In this spot, 40-odd years earlier, Burmese nationalists used dress as a means of publicly supporting the nationalist cause (Edwards, Roces). Like the portraits, the #100projector videos blend global and local perspectives on Myanmar. Combining paintings, drawings, graphics, performance art recordings, as well as photography, the work shares the ‘instagrammable’ quality of the Easter Egg, Watermelon, and Marching Shoes strikes with their bright colours and focus on people—or the conspicuous lack of people and the example of the Silent Strike. Graphics are in Burmese as well as English. Video #6 was linked to International Women’s Day. Other graphics reference American artists such as Shepherd Fairey and his Hope poster, which was adapted to feature Aung San Suu Kyi’s face during then-President Obama’s visit in 2012. The videos also include direct messages related to political entities such as Video #3, which voiced support for the Committee Representing Pyidaungsu Hlutaw (CRPH), a group of 15 elected MPs who represented the ideals of Gen Z youth (Jordt et al., viii). This would not necessarily be understood by an international viewer. Also of note is the prevalence of the colour red, associated with Aung San Suu Kyi’s NLD. Red is one of the three “political” colours formerly banned from paintings under SLORC. The other two were white, associated with the flowers Aung Sang Suu Kyi wore in her hair, and black, symbolic of negative feelings towards the regime (Carlson, 145). The Burmese master Aung Myint chose to paint exclusively in the banned colours as an ongoing act of defiance, and these videos reflect that history. The videos and portraits may propose that culturally, the world is interconnected. But implicit in this position is also the failure of “interconnectedness”. The question that arises with every viewing of a video or Instagram post or Facebook plea or groovy portrait is: what can these protesters, despite the risks they are prepared to take, realistically expect from the rest of the world in terms of help to remove the unwanted military government? Interconnected or not, political misfortune is the most effective form of national border. Perhaps the most powerful imaginative association with both the #100projectors video projections and fashionistas portraits is the promise of transformation, in particular the transformations possible in a city like Rangoon / Yangon. In his discussion of the cosmopolitan space of the city, Christensen notes that although “digital transformations touch vast swathes of political, economic and everyday life”, it is the city that retains supreme significance as a space not easily reducible to an entity beneath the national, regional, or global (556). The city is dynamic, “governed by the structural forces of politics and economy as well as moralities and solidarities of both conservative and liberal sorts”, where “othered voices and imaginaries find presence” in a mix that leads to “contestations” (556). Both the fashionistas and the video artists of the #100projectors use their creative work to contest the ‘national’ space from the interstices of the city. In the studio these transformations of the bodies of Burmese subjects into international “citizens of the world” contest Ne Win’s Burma and reimagine the idea of nation. They take place in the Chinatown, a relic of the old, colonial Rangoon, a plural city and one of the world’s largest migrant ports, where "mobility, foreignness and cross-cultural hybridity" were essential to its make-up (Aung Thin 778). In their instructions on how to project their ideas as a form of public art to gain audience, the #100projectors artists suggest projectors get “full on creative with other ways: projecting on people, outdoor cinema, gallery projection” (#100projectors). It is this idea projection as an overlay, a doubling of the everyday that evokes the possibility of transformation. The #100projector videos screen on Rangoon bridges, reconfiguring the city, albeit temporarily. Meanwhile, Rangoon is doubled onto other cities, towns, villages, communities, projected onto screens but also walls, fences, the sides of buildings in Finland, Scotland, Australia, and elsewhere. Conclusion In this article I have compared the recent #100projectors creative campaign of resistance against the 2021 coup d’état in Myanmar with the “fashionistas” of 1970 and their “secret” photo shoots. While the #100projectors is a contemporary digital campaign, some of the creative tactics employed, such as dissemination and identifying audiences, can be traced back to the practices of Rangoon’s fashionistas of the 1970s. ­­Creative resistance begins with an act of imagination. The creative strategies of resistance examined here share certain imaginative qualities of connection, a privileging of the ‘cosmopolitan’ and ‘interconnectedness’ as well as the transformativity of actual space, with the streets of Rangoon, itself a cosmopolitan city. References @100projectors Instagram account. <https://www.instagram.com/100projectors/>. @Artphy_1 Instagram account. <https://www.instagram.com/artphy_1/>. Aung Thin, Michelle. “Sensations of Rootedness’ in Cosmopolitan Rangoon or How the Politics of Authenticity Shaped Colonial Imaginings of Home.” Journal of Intercultural Studies 41.6 (2020): 778-792. Birk, Lukas. Yangon Fashion 1979 – Fashion=Resistance. France: Fraglich Publishing, 2020. ———. Burmese Photographers. Myanmar: Goethe-Institut Myanmar, 2018. Brooten, Lisa. “Power Grab in a Pandemic: Media, Lawfare and Policy in Myanmar.” Journal of Digital Media & Policy 13.1 (2022): 9-24. ———. “Myanmar’s Civil Disobedience Movement Is Built on Decades of Struggle.” East Asia Forum, 29 Mar. 2021. 29 July 2022 <https://www.eastasiaforum.org/2021/03/29/myanmars-civil-disobedience-movement-is-built-on-decades-of-struggle/>. Carlson, Melissa. “Painting as Cipher: Censorship of the Visual Arts in Post-1988 Myanmar.” Sojourner: Journal of Social Issues in Southeast Asia 31.1 (2016): 116-72. Christensen, Miyase. “Postnormative Cosmopolitanism: Voice, Space and Politics.” The International Communication Gazette 79.6–7 (2017): 555–563. Edwards, Penny. “Dressed in a Little Brief Authority: Clothing the Body Politic in Burma.” In Mina Roces & Louise Edwards (eds), The Politics of Dress in Asia and the Americas. Brighton: Sussex Academic Press, 121–138. France24. “‘Longyi Revolution’: Why Myanmar Protesters Are Using Women’s Clothes as Protection.” 10 Mar. 2021. <https://youtu.be/ebh1A0xOkDw>. Ferguson, Jane. “Who’s Counting? Ethnicity, Belonging, and the National Census in Burma/Myanmar.” Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde 171 (2015): 1–28. Htun Khaing. “Salai Tin Maung Oo, Defiant at the End.” Frontier, 24 July 2017. 1 Aug. 2022 <https://www.frontiermyanmar.net/en/salai-tin-maung-oo-defiant-to-the-end>. Htun, Pwin, and Paula Bock. “Op-Ed: How Women Are Defying Myanmar’s Junta with Sarongs and Cellphones.” Los Angeles Times, 16 Mar. 2021. <https://www.latimes.com/opinion/story/2021-03-16/myanmar-military-women-longyi-protests>. Jordt, Ingrid, Tharaphi Than, and Sue Ye Lin. How Generation Z Galvanized a Revolutionary Movement against Myanmar’s 2021 Military Coup. Singapore: Trends in Southeast Asia ISEAS – Yusof Ishak Institute, 2021. Ma Thida. “A ‘Fierce’ Fear: Literature and Loathing after the Junta.” In Myanmar Media in Transition: Legacies, Challenges and Change. Eds. Lisa Brooten, Jane Madlyn McElhone, and Gayathry Venkiteswaran. Singapore: ISEAS - Yusof Ishak Institute, 2019. 315-323. Myanmar Poster Campaign (@myanmarpostercampaign). “Silent Strike on Feb 1, 2022. We do not forget Feb 1, 2021. We do not forget about the coup. And we do not forgive.” Instagram. <https://www.instagram.com/p/CZJ5gg6vxZw/>. Papastergiadias, Nikos. “Aesthetic Cosmopolitanism.” In Routledge International Handbook of Cosmopolitanism Studies. Ed. Gerard Delanty. London: Routledge, 2018. 198-210. Roces, Mina. “Dress as Symbolic Resistance in Asia.” International Quarterly for Asian Studies 53.1 (2022): 5-14. Smith, Emiline. “In Myanmar, Protests Harness Creativity and Humor.” Hyperallergic, 12 Apr. 2021. 29 July 2022 <https://hyperallergic.com/637088/myanmar-protests-harness-creativity-and-humor/>. Thin Zar (@Thinzar_313). “Easter Egg Strike.” Instagram. <https://www.instagram.com/p/CNPfvtAMSom/>. VERO. “Myanmar Communication Landscape”. 10 Feb. 2021. <https://vero-asean.com/a-briefing-about-the-current-situation-in-myanmar-for-our-clients-partners-and-friends/>. World Advertising Research Centre (WARC). “What We Know about Segmentation.” WARC Best Practice, May 2021. <https://www-warc-com.ezproxy.lib.rmit.edu.au/content/article/bestprac/what-we-know-about-segmentation/110142>.

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I. The early twentieth century may seem, at first glance, a strange place to begin a survey of attitudes towards deafness. At this point, the American Deaf community was just forming, American Sign Language was not yet recognised as a language, and most Americans who did consider deafness thought of it as a disability, an affliction to be pitied. As I will demonstrate, however, modernist writers actually had a great deal of insight into issues central to the experience of many deaf people: physical and visual language. While these writers were not thinking of such language in relation to deafness, their experimentations into the merging of the body and language can offer us fresh perspectives on the potential of manual languages to impact mainstream society today. In the early decades of the twentieth century deafness was becoming visible in new ways, due in large part to the rapid expansion of schools for the deaf. This increased visibility led to increased representation in popular culture. Unfortunately, as Trent Batson and Eugene Bergman point out, these literal portrayals of deafness were predictable and clichéd. According to them, deaf characters in literature functioned almost exclusively “to heighten interest, to represent the plight of the individual in a technocratic society, or simply to express a sense of the absurd” (140). In all of these cases, such characters were presented as pitiable. In the least derogatory accounts, like Isabel Adams’ 1928 Heart of the Woods, characters stoically overcome their “disability,” usually by displaying miraculous proficiency with lip-reading and the ability to assimilate into hearing society. Other texts portray deaf people as grotesques, as in Mary Roberts Rinehart’s 1919 “God’s fool,” or as the butts of jokes, as in Anatole France’s 1926 The Man Who Married a Dumb Wife, a Comedy in Two Acts. Constructed as pathetic and disgusting, deaf characters were used thematically to invoke a sense of revulsion at the unknowable other, at those perceived as languageless and therefore cut off from full access to humanity. Literature was not the only medium in which representations of deaf people were appearing with greater frequency. Early filmmakers also demonstrated a fascination with the idea of deafness. But as John S. Schuchman points out in Hollywood Speaks, as in literature, these portrayals were nearly always one-dimensional. Depicted as mutes, fakers, comically clueless, and deeply unhappy individuals, with few exceptions these characters created a very negative image of deafness. In Siege (1925), for example, a deaf character is driven to suicide by cruel mockery. In The Silent Voice (1915), another deaf character contemplates suicide. In the 1932 version of The Man Who Played God, a deaf character falls into a deep depression, sends away his fiancé, and declares “I am not a man. I am just an empty shell…I am only an animal now” (qtd. in Schuchman 48). Without the solidarity of Deaf culture, community, or pride, these characters become morbidly depressed and alienated; they experience their hearing loss as a subject of shame, and it was this image of deafness that was presented to the public. Despite these unpromising literal references to deafness, however, the early twentieth century does in fact offer intriguing and productive ideas about how we might understand deafness today. In the years separating the beginning of the last century from this one, public perceptions of deafness have undergone a significant shift. Buoyed by developments in American Sign Language research and the political activism of the Deaf President Now movement (1988), Deaf people are increasingly viewed as a linguistic minority with a distinct and valuable cultural identity and history, whose communicative differences have much to teach us about how we all interact with language. Deafness (the capital D signaling the distinction between Deafness as a culture and deafness as an audiological condition) is now understood in many circles as a linguistic difference, rather than as a deficiency. And hearing modernist writers had very interesting things to say about the value of linguistic and communicative difference. Modernists’ interest in communication emerged in large part because the same cultural movement toward linguistic hom*ogenisation that led to the denigration of sign language and the exclusive focus on speech and lip-reading in American deaf education also sought to draw a line around the kinds of language considered acceptable for usage in writing. Many of modernism’s formal innovations developed as responses to the push for conformity that we see evidenced in the thinking behind the Oxford English Dictionary, which was completed between the 1880s and the 1920s—notably the period during which most modernist writers were born and began publishing. The 1858 proposal for the dictionary was, in fact, one of the first instances in which the term “standard language” was used (North 12). A desire to establish “standard language” usage was also the goal of the American Academy of Arts, established in 1916 and dedicated to maintaining the integrity of English. Such projects strove to consolidate American national identity around the standardised use of the English language, thereby eliminating spaces for linguistic and communicative diversity within the national body politic. Within literary circles, many rebelled against both the political and aesthetic underpinnings of this movement by experimenting in increasingly dramatic ways with how written language could represent the fragmentation many associated with modern life. As part of their experimentation, some of these writers attempted to develop the idea of embodied language. While they were ignorant of the actual manual languages used by the deaf, the ways they were thinking outside the box in relation to communication can give us both a new perspective on manual languages and new insights into their relevance to mainstream society today. II. One writer whose poems engaged such themes was the poet Hart Crane. Though he worked during the period we think of as high modernist, publishing major volumes of verse in 1926 and 1930, his work challenges our definitions of modernist poetry. Unlike the sparse language and cynicism of his contemporaries, Crane’s poems were decadent and lush. As Eliza New has noted, “Hart Crane is the American poet of Awe” (184); his work reflected his belief in the power of the written word to change the world. Crane viewed poets as inheritors of an ecstatic tradition of prophesy, to which he hoped his own poems would contribute. It is because of this overflowing of sentiment that Crane frequently found both himself and his work mocked. He was accused of overreaching and falling short of his goals, of being nothing more than what Edward Brunner termed a “splendid failure” in the title of his 1985 book. Critics and ordinary readers alike were frustrated with Crane’s arcane language and convoluted syntax, as well as the fact that each word, each image, in his poems was packed with multiple meanings that made the works impossible to summarise. Far from constituting a failure, however, this tangled web of language was Crane’s way of experimenting with a new form of communication, one that would allow him to access the transformative power of poetry. What makes Crane instructive for our purposes is that he repeatedly linked this new conception of language with embodiment. Driven in part by his sense of feeling, as a gay man, a cultural outsider, he attempted to find at the intersection of words and bodies a new site for both personal and cultural expression, one in which he could play a central role. In “General Aim and Theories,” Crane explains his desire to imagine a new kind of language in response to the conditions of modernity. “It is a terrific problem that faces the poet today—a world that is so in transition from a decayed culture toward a reorganization of human evaluations that there are few common terms, general denominators of speech that are solid enough or that ring with any vibration or spiritual conviction” (218). Later in the same essay, Crane stresses that these new common terms could not be expressed in conventional ways, but would need to constitute “a new word, never before spoken and impossible to actually enunciate” (221). For Crane, such words were “impossible to enunciate” because they were not actually spoken through the mouth, but rather expressed in other ways through the body. In “Voyages,” a six-part poem that appeared in his first book, The White Building, Crane explores the potential of these embodied words. Drawing in the influence of Walt Whitman, the work is an extended meditation on the intersection of languages, bodies, and love. The poem was inspired by his relationship with the merchant seaman Emil Oppfer. In it, embodied language appears as a privileged site of connection between individuals and the world. The first section of “Voyages,” which Crane had originally titled “Poster,” predated the composition of the rest of the poem by several years. It opens with a scene on a beach, “bright striped urchins” (I. 2) playing in the sand with their dog, “flay[ing] each other with sand” (I. 2). The speaker observes them on the border between land and sea. He attempts to communicate to them his sense of the sea’s danger, but is unsuccessful. And in answer to their treble interjectionsThe sun beats lightning on the waves,The waves fold thunder on the sand;And could they hear me I would tell them: O brilliant kids, frisk with your dog,Fondle your shells and sticks, bleachedBy time and the elements; but there is a lineYou must not cross nor ever trust beyond itSpry cordage of your bodies to caressesToo lichen-faithful from too wide a breast.The bottom of the sea is cruel. (I. 6-16) The speaker’s warning is incomprehensible to the children, not because they cannot literally hear him, but because he is unable to present his previous experience with the sea in a way that makes sense to the them. As Evelyn J. Hintz notes, “the child’s mode of communication is alogical and nonsyntactical—‘treble interjections.’ To tell them one would have to speak their language” (323). In the first section of the poem, the speaker is unable to do this, unable to get beyond linear verbal speech or to conceive of alternative modes of conveying his message. This frustrated communication in the first section gives rise to the need for the remaining five, as the poet explores what such alternatives might look like. In sections II through VI, the language becomes more difficult to follow as Crane breaks away from linearity in an attempt to present his newly conceived language on the page. The shift is apparent in the stanza immediately following the first section. –And yet this great wink of eternity,Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings,Samite sheeted and processioned whereHer undinal vast belly moonward bendsLaughing the wrapt inflections of our love; (II. 1-5). It is not only that Crane’s diction has become more difficult and archaic, which it has, but also that he creates words that exist between two known meanings. “Wrapt,” for example, both visually and aurally calls to mind ‘wrapped’ as well as ‘rapt.’ “Leewardings” points both toward ships and something positioned away from the wind. What it means to be unrestrained or “unfettered” in this position, Crane leaves unclear. Throughout the remainder of the poem, he repeatedly employs these counterintuitive word pairings. Words are often connected not through logic, but through a kind of intuitive leap. As Brian Reed describes it, “the verse can…be said to progress ‘madly…logically,’ satisfying a reader’s intuition, perhaps, but rarely satisfying her or his rage for order” (115). The lines move according to what Crane called a “logic of metaphor” (General 63). Like his curving syntax, which draws the reader into the beautiful melody before pulling back, withholding definitive meaning like the sea’s waves lapping and teasing, Crane’s metaphoric associations endlessly defer definitive meaning. In “Voyages,” Crane associates this proliferation of meaning and lack of linear progression with physicality, with a language more corporeal and visceral that transcends the restrictions of everyday speech. In a letter to Waldo Frank describing the romantic relationship that inspired the poem, Crane declared “I have seen the Word made Flesh. I mean nothing less, and I know now that there is such a thing as indestructibility” (O 186). Throughout “Voyages,” Crane highlights such words made flesh. The sea with whom the speaker seeks to communicate is embodied, given “eyes and lips” (III.12), a “vast belly” (II. 4-5), “shoulders” (II. 16), and “veins” (II. 15). What’s more, it is precisely through the body that communication occurs. “Adagios of islands, O my Prodigal, / Complete the dark confessions her veins spell” (II. 14-15, emphasis mine), the poet entreats. He describes the sea’s “Portending eyes and lips” IV. 12), her “dialogue with eyes” (VI. 23), and declares that “In signature of the incarnate word / The harbor shoulders to resign in mingling / Mutual blood, transpiring as foreknown” (IV. 17-19, emphasis mine). It is only through this wordless communication that the kind of sublime meaning Crane seeks can be transmitted. For him, this “imaged Word” (VI.29) permits access to knowledge that conventional language obscures, knowledge that can only be transmitted through manual connection, as the speaker asks the sea to “Permit me voyage, love, into your hands…” (III.19). Crane saw the proliferation of meanings that he believed accompanied such embodied language as a response against the movement toward a standardisation of language that threatened to edit out modes of communication and identities that did not fit within its confines. As Thomas Yingling notes, “meaning, such as it occurs in Crane, is a process of indeterminacy, is constituted precisely in the abrupt disfigurements and dislocations, in the sudden clarities and semantic possibilities” (30). It was in large part these “semantic possibilities,” these indeterminate and multiple meanings that refused to line up, which led critics to characterise Crane’s work as a “poetics of failure” (Riddel). As later research into sign languages has revealed, however, far from representing a failure of poetic vision, Crane was actually incredibly forward thinking in associating embodied languages with a non-linear construction. Conventional spoken and written languages, those Crane was attempting to complicate, are necessarily linear. Letters and sounds must proceed one after another in order for an utterance to make sense. Manual languages, however, are not bound by this linearity. As Margalit Fox explained nearly a century later in Talking Hands, Because the human visual system is better than the auditory system at processing simultaneous information, a language in the visual mode can exploit this potential and encode its signals simultaneously. This is exactly what all signed languages do. Whereas words are linear strings, signs are compact bundles of data, in which multiple unites of code—handshapes, location and movement—are conveyed in virtually the same moment. (101) Such accounts of actual embodied languages help to explain the frustrating density that attends Crane’s words. Morphologically rich physical languages like the kind Crane was trying to imagine possess the ability for an increased layering of meaning. While limited by the page on which he writes, Crane attempted to create this layered affect through convoluted syntax and deliberately difficult vocabulary which led readers away from both a sense of fixed meaning and from normative standards usually applied to written words. Understanding this rebellion against standardisation is key to the turn in “Voyages.” It is when the speaker figures the sea’s language in conventional terms, when he returns to the more straightforward communication that failed in the first section, that the spell is broken. “What words / Can strangle this deaf moonlight?” (V. 8-9), he asks, and is almost instantly answered when the sea’s language switches for the first time into dialogue. Rather than the passionate and revelatory interaction it had been before, the language becomes banal, an imitation of tired words exchanged by lovers throughout history: “‘There’s // Nothing like this in the world,’ you say” (V. 13-14). “ ‘—And never to quite understand!’” (V. 18). There is “Nothing so flagless as this piracy” (V.20), this loss of meaningful communication, and the speaker bemoans the “Slow tyranny of moonlight, moonlight loved / And changed…” (V. 12-13). With the reversion to conventional language comes the loss of any intimate knowledge of both the sea and the lover. The speaker’s projection of verbal speech onto the sea causes it to “Draw in your head… / Your eyes already in the slant of drifting foam; / Your breath sealed by the ghosts I do not know” (V. 22-24). The imposition of normative language marks the end of the speaker’s experiment with new communicative modes. III. As he demonstrates by situating it in opposition to the enforced standardisation of language, for Crane embodied language—with its non-linear syntax and layered meanings—represented the future in terms of linguistic development. He saw such non-normative languages as having the potential to drastically change the ways human relationality was structured, specifically by creating a new level of intimacy through a merging of the semantic and the physical. In this way, he offers us productive new ways to think about the potential of manual languages, or any other non-normative means of human expression, to fundamentally impact society by challenging our assumptions about how we all relate to one another through language. When asked to define deafness, most people’s first response is to think of levels of hearing loss, of deficiency, or disability. By contrast, Crane’s approach presents a more constructive understanding of what communicative difference can mean. His poem provides an intense mediation on the possibilities of communication through the body, one that subsequent research into signed languages allows us to push even further. Crane believed that communicative diversity was necessary to move language into the next century. From this perspective, embodied language becomes not “merely” the concern of a “disabled” minority but, rather, integral to our understanding of language itself. References Batson, Trent, and Eugene Bergman, eds. Angels and Outcasts: An Anthology of Deaf Characters in Literature. 3rd ed. Washington DC: Gallaudet UP, 1985. Brunner, Edward J. Splendid Failure: Hart Crane and the Making of The Bridge. Champaign: U of Illinois P, 1985. Crane, Hart. “Voyages.” The Complete Poems of Hart Crane: The Centennial Edition. New York: Liveright, 2001. ———. “General Aims and Theories.” Hart Crane: Complete Poems and Selected Letters. Ed. Langdon Hammer. New York: The Library of America, 2006. 160-164. ———. O My Land, My Friends: The Selected Letters of Hart Crane. Eds. Langdon Hammer and Brom Weber. New York: Four Walls Eight Windows, 1997. Fox, Margalit. Talking Hands. New York: Simon and Schuster, 2007. Hinz, Evelyn J. “Hart Crane’s ‘Voyages’ Reconsidered.” Contemporary Literature 13.3 (1972): 315-333. New, Elisa. “Hand of Fire: Crane.” The Regenerate Lyric: Theology and Innovation in American Poetry. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1993. 182-263. North, Michael. The Dialect of Modernism: Race, Language, and Twentieth-Century Literature. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1994. Reed, Brian M. Hart Crane: After His Lights. Tuscaloosa, AL: U of Alabama P, 2006. Riddel, Joseph. “Hart Crane’s Poetics of Failure.” ELH 33.4 (1966): 473-496. Schuchman, John S. Hollywood Speaks: Deafness and the Film Entertainment Industry. Urbana: U of Illinois P, 1988. Yingling, Thomas. Hart Crane and the hom*osexual Text: New Thresholds, New Anatomies. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1990.

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Image 1: “Oklahoma State Highway Re-imagined.” CC BY-SA 4.0 2015 by author, using Wikimedia image by Ks0stm (CC BY-SA 3 2013). Introduction This article is divided in three major parts. First a scenario, second its context, and third, an analysis. The text draws on ethnographic research on security practices in the United States among police and parts of the intelligence community from 2006 through to the beginning of 2014. Real names are used when the material is drawn from archival sources, while individuals who were interviewed during fieldwork are referred to by their position rank or title. For matters of fact not otherwise referenced, see the sources compiled on “The Complete 911 Timeline” at History Commons. First, a scenario. Oklahoma, 2001 It is 1 April 2001, in far western Oklahoma, warm beneath the late afternoon sun. Highway Patrol Trooper C.L. Parkins is about 80 kilometres from the border of Texas, watching trucks and cars speed along Interstate 40. The speed limit is around 110 kilometres per hour, and just then, his radar clocks a blue Toyota Corolla going 135 kph. The driver is not wearing a seatbelt. Trooper Parkins swung in behind the vehicle, and after a while signalled that the car should pull over. The driver was dark-haired and short; in Parkins’s memory, he spoke English without any problem. He asked the man to come sit in the patrol car while he did a series of routine checks—to see if the vehicle was stolen, if there were warrants out for his arrest, if his license was valid. Parkins said, “I visited with him a little bit but I just barely remember even having him in my car. You stop so many people that if […] you don't arrest them or anything […] you don't remember too much after a couple months” (Clay and Ellis). Nawaf Al Hazmi had a valid California driver’s license, with an address in San Diego, and the car’s registration had been legally transferred to him by his former roommate. Parkins’s inquiries to the National Crime Information Center returned no warnings, nor did anything seem odd in their interaction. So the officer wrote Al Hazmi two tickets totalling $138, one for speeding and one for failure to use a seat belt, and told him to be on his way. Al Hazmi, for his part, was crossing the country to a new apartment in a Virginia suburb of Washington, DC, and upon arrival he mailed the payment for his tickets to the county court clerk in Oklahoma. Over the next five months, he lived several places on the East Coast: going to the gym, making routine purchases, and taking a few trips that included Las Vegas and Florida. He had a couple more encounters with local law enforcement and these too were unremarkable. On 1 May 2001 he was mugged, and promptly notified the police, who documented the incident with his name and local address (Federal Bureau of Investigation, 139). At the end of June, having moved to New Jersey, he was involved in a minor traffic accident on the George Washington Bridge, and officers again recorded his real name and details of the incident. In July, Khalid Al Mihdhar, the previous owner of the car, returned from abroad, and joined Al Hazmi in New Jersey. The two were boyhood friends, and they went together to a library several times to look up travel information, and then, with Al Hazmi’s younger brother Selem, to book their final flight. On 11 September, the three boarded American Airlines flight 77 as part of the Al Qaeda team that flew the mid-sized jet into the west façade of the Pentagon. They died along with the piloting hijacker, all the passengers, and 125 people on the ground. Theirs was one of four airplanes hijacked that day, one of which was crashed by passengers, the others into significant sites of American power, by men who had been living for varying lengths of time all but unnoticed in the United States. No one thought that Trooper Parkins, or the other officers with whom the 9/11 hijackers crossed paths, should have acted differently. The Commissioner of the Oklahoma Department of Public Safety himself commented that the trooper “did the right thing” at that April traffic stop. And yet, interviewed by a local newspaper in January of 2002, Parkins mused to the reporter “it's difficult sometimes to think back and go: 'What if you had known something else?'" (Clay and Ellis). Missed Opportunities Image 2: “Hijackers Timeline (Redacted).” CC BY-SA 4.0 2015 by author, using the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI)’s “Working Draft Chronology of Events for Hijackers and Associates”. In fact, several of the men who would become the 9/11 hijackers were stopped for minor traffic violations. Mohamed Atta, usually pointed to as the ringleader, was given a citation in Florida that spring of 2001 for driving without a license. When he missed his court date, a bench warrant was issued (Wall Street Journal). Perhaps the warrant was not flagged properly, however, since nothing happened when he was pulled over again, for speeding. In the government inquiries that followed attack, and in the press, these brushes with the law were “missed opportunities” to thwart the 9/11 plot (Kean and Hamilton, Report 353). Among a certain set of career law enforcement personnel, particularly those active in management and police associations, these missed opportunities were fraught with a sense of personal failure. Yet, in short order, they were to become a source of professional revelation. The scenarios—Trooper Parkins and Al Hazmi, other encounters in other states, the general fact that there had been chance meetings between police officers and the hijackers—were re-imagined in the aftermath of 9/11. Those moments were returned to and reversed, so that multiple potentialities could be seen, beyond or in addition to what had taken place. The deputy director of an intelligence fusion centre told me in an interview, “it is always a local cop who saw something” and he replayed how the incidents of contact had unfolded with the men. These scenarios offered a way to recapture the past. In the uncertainty of every encounter, whether a traffic stop or questioning someone taking photos of a landmark (and potential terrorist target), was also potential. Through a process of re-imagining, police encounters with the public became part of the government’s “national intelligence” strategy. Previously a division had been marked between foreign and domestic intelligence. While the phrase “national intelligence” had long been used, notably in National Intelligence Estimates, after 9/11 it became more significant. The overall director of the US intelligence community became the Director National Intelligence, for instance, and the cohesive term marked the way that increasingly diverse institutional components, types of data and forms of action were evolving to address the collection of data and intelligence production (McConnell). In a series of working groups mobilised by members of major police professional organisations, and funded by the US Department of Justice, career officers and representatives from federal agencies produced detailed recommendations and plans for involving police in the new Information Sharing Environment. Among the plans drawn up during this period was what would eventually come to be the Nationwide Suspicious Activity Reporting Initiative, built principally around the idea of encounters such as the one between Parkins and Al Hazmi. Map 1: Map of pilot sites in the Nationwide Suspicious Activity Reporting Evaluation Environment in 2010 (courtesy of the author; no longer available online). Map 2: Map of participating sites in the Nationwide Suspicious Activity Reporting Initiative, as of 2014. In an interview, a fusion centre director who participated in this planning as well as its implementation, told me that his thought had been, “if we train state and local cops to understand pre-terrorism indicators, if we train them to be more curious, and to question more what they see,” this could feed into “a system where they could actually get that information to somebody where it matters.” In devising the reporting initiative, the working groups counter-actualised the scenarios of those encounters, and the kinds of larger plots to which they were understood to belong, in order to extract a set of concepts: categories of suspicious “activities” or “patterns of behaviour” corresponding to the phases of a terrorism event in the process of becoming (Deleuze, Negotiations). This conceptualisation of terrorism was standardised, so that it could be taught, and applied, in discerning and documenting the incidents comprising an event’s phases. In police officer training, the various suspicious behaviours were called “terrorism precursor activities” and were divided between criminal and non-criminal. “Functional Standards,” developed by the Los Angeles Police Department and then tested by the Department of Homeland Security (DHS), served to code the observed behaviours for sharing (via compatible communication protocols) up the federal hierarchy and also horizontally between states and regions. In the popular parlance of videos made for the public by local police departments and DHS, which would come to populate the internet within a few years, these categories were “signs of terrorism,” more specifically: surveillance, eliciting information, testing security, and so on. Image 3: “The Seven Signs of Terrorism (sometimes eight).” CC BY-SA 4.0 2015 by author, using materials in the public domain. If the problem of 9/11 had been that the men who would become hijackers had gone unnoticed, the basic idea of the Suspicious Activity Reporting Initiative was to create a mechanism through which the eyes and ears of everyone could contribute to their detection. In this vein, “If You See Something, Say Something™” was a campaign that originated with the New York City Metropolitan Transportation Authority, and was then licensed for use to DHS. The tips and leads such campaigns generated, together with the reports from officers on suspicious incidents that might have to do with terrorism, were coordinated in the Information Sharing Environment. Drawing on reports thus generated, the Federal Government would, in theory, communicate timely information on security threats to law enforcement so that they would be better able to discern the incidents to be reported. The cycle aimed to catch events in emergence, in a distinctively anticipatory strategy of counterterrorism (Stalcup). Re-imagination A curious fact emerges from this history, and it is key to understanding how this initiative developed. That is, there was nothing suspicious in the encounters. The soon-to-be terrorists’ licenses were up-to-date, the cars were legal, they were not nervous. Even Mohamed Atta’s warrant would have resulted in nothing more than a fine. It is not self-evident, given these facts, how a governmental technology came to be designed from these scenarios. How––if nothing seemed of immediate concern, if there had been nothing suspicious to discern––did an intelligence strategy come to be assembled around such encounters? Evidently, strident demands were made after the events of 9/11 to know, “what went wrong?” Policies were crafted and implemented according to the answers given: it was too easy to obtain identification, or to enter and stay in the country, or to buy airplane tickets and fly. But the trooper’s question, the reader will recall, was somewhat different. He had said, “It’s difficult sometimes to think back and go: ‘What if you had known something else?’” To ask “what if you had known something else?” is also to ask what else might have been. Janet Roitman shows that identifying a crisis tends to implicate precisely the question of what went wrong. Crisis, and its critique, take up history as a series of right and wrong turns, bad choices made between existing dichotomies (90): liberty-security, security-privacy, ordinary-suspicious. It is to say, what were the possibilities and how could we have selected the correct one? Such questions seek to retrospectively uncover latencies—systemic or structural, human error or a moral lapse (71)—but they ask of those latencies what false understanding of the enemy, of threat, of priorities, allowed a terrible thing to happen. “What if…?” instead turns to the virtuality hidden in history, through which missed opportunities can be re-imagined. Image 4: “The Cholmondeley Sisters and Their Swaddled Babies.” Anonymous, c. 1600-1610 (British School, 17th century); Deleuze and Parnet (150). CC BY-SA 4.0 2015 by author, using materials in the public domain. Gilles Deleuze, speaking with Claire Parnet, says, “memory is not an actual image which forms after the object has been perceived, but a virtual image coexisting with the actual perception of the object” (150). Re-imagined scenarios take up the potential of memory, so that as the trooper’s traffic stop was revisited, it also became a way of imagining what else might have been. As Immanuel Kant, among others, points out, “the productive power of imagination is […] not exactly creative, for it is not capable of producing a sense representation that was never given to our faculty of sense; one can always furnish evidence of the material of its ideas” (61). The “memory” of these encounters provided the material for re-imagining them, and thereby re-virtualising history. This was different than other governmental responses, such as examining past events in order to assess the probable risk of their repetition, or drawing on past events to imagine future scenarios, for use in exercises that identify vulnerabilities and remedy deficiencies (Anderson). Re-imagining scenarios of police-hijacker encounters through the question of “what if?” evoked what Erin Manning calls “a certain array of recognizable elastic points” (39), through which options for other movements were invented. The Suspicious Activity Reporting Initiative’s architects instrumentalised such moments as they designed new governmental entities and programs to anticipate terrorism. For each element of the encounter, an aspect of the initiative was developed: training, functional standards, a way to (hypothetically) get real-time information about threats. Suspicion was identified as a key affect, one which, if cultivated, could offer a way to effectively deal not with binary right or wrong possibilities, but with the potential which lies nestled in uncertainty. The “signs of terrorism” (that is, categories of “terrorism precursor activities”) served to maximise receptivity to encounters. Indeed, it can apparently create an oversensitivity, manifested, for example, in police surveillance of innocent people exercising their right to assemble (Madigan), or the confiscation of photographers’s equipment (Simon). “What went wrong?” and “what if?” were different interrogations of the same pre-9/11 incidents. The questions are of course intimately related. Moments where something went wrong are when one is likely to ask, what else might have been known? Moreover, what else might have been? The answers to each question informed and shaped the other, as re-imagined scenarios became the means of extracting categories of suspicious activities and patterns of behaviour that comprise the phases of an event in becoming. Conclusion The 9/11 Commission, after two years of investigation into the causes of the disastrous day, reported that “the most important failure was one of imagination” (Kean and Hamilton, Summary). The iconic images of 9/11––such as airplanes being flown into symbols of American power––already existed, in guises ranging from fictive thrillers to the infamous FBI field memo sent to headquarters on Arab men learning to fly, but not land. In 1974 there had already been an actual (failed) attempt to steal a plane and kill the president by crashing it into the White House (Kean and Hamilton, Report Ch11 n21). The threats had been imagined, as Pat O’Malley and Philip Bougen put it, but not how to govern them, and because the ways to address those threats had been not imagined, they were discounted as matters for intervention (29). O’Malley and Bougen argue that one effect of 9/11, and the general rise of incalculable insecurities, was to make it necessary for the “merely imaginable” to become governable. Images of threats from the mundane to the extreme had to be conjured, and then imagination applied again, to devise ways to render them amenable to calculation, minimisation or elimination. In the words of the 9/11 Commission, the Government must bureaucratise imagination. There is a sense in which this led to more of the same. Re-imagining the early encounters reinforced expectations for officers to do what they already do, that is, to be on the lookout for suspicious behaviours. Yet, the images of threat brought forth, in their mixing of memory and an elastic “almost,” generated their own momentum and distinctive demands. Existing capacities, such as suspicion, were re-shaped and elaborated into specific forms of security governance. The question of “what if?” and the scenarios of police-hijacker encounter were particularly potent equipment for this re-imagining of history and its re-virtualisation. References Anderson, Ben. “Preemption, Precaution, Preparedness: Anticipatory Action and Future Geographies.” Progress in Human Geography 34.6 (2010): 777-98. Clay, Nolan, and Randy Ellis. “Terrorist Ticketed Last Year on I-40.” NewsOK, 20 Jan. 2002. 25 Nov. 2014 ‹http://newsok.com/article/2779124›. Deleuze, Gilles. Negotiations. New York: Columbia UP, 1995. Deleuze, Gilles, and Claire Parnet. Dialogues II. New York: Columbia UP 2007 [1977]. Federal Bureau of Investigation. “Hijackers Timeline (Redacted) Part 01 of 02.” Working Draft Chronology of Events for Hijackers and Associates. 2003. 18 Apr. 2014 ‹https://vault.fbi.gov/9-11%20Commission%20Report/9-11-chronology-part-01-of-02›. Kant, Immanuel. Anthropology from a Pragmatic Point of View. Trans. Robert B. Louden. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2006. Kean, Thomas H., and Lee Hamilton. Executive Summary of the 9/11 Commission Report: Final Report of the National Commission on Terrorist Attacks upon the United States. 25 Oct. 2015 ‹http://www.9-11commission.gov/report/911Report_Exec.htm›. Kean, Thomas H., and Lee Hamilton. The 9/11 Commission Report: Final Report of the National Commission on Terrorist Attacks upon the United States. New York: W.W. Norton, 2004. McConnell, Mike. “Overhauling Intelligence.” Foreign Affairs, July/Aug. 2007. Madigan, Nick. “Spying Uncovered.” Baltimore Sun 18 Jul. 2008. 25 Oct. 2015 ‹http://www.baltimoresun.com/news/maryland/bal-te.md.spy18jul18-story.html›. Manning, Erin. Relationscapes: Movement, Art, Philosophy. Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 2009. O’Malley, P., and P. Bougen. “Imaginable Insecurities: Imagination, Routinisation and the Government of Uncertainty post 9/11.” Imaginary Penalities. Ed. Pat Carlen. Cullompton, UK: Willan, 2008.Roitman, Janet. Anti-Crisis. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 2013. Simon, Stephanie. “Suspicious Encounters: Ordinary Preemption and the Securitization of Photography.” Security Dialogue 43.2 (2012): 157-73. Stalcup, Meg. “Policing Uncertainty: On Suspicious Activity Reporting.” Modes of Uncertainty: Anthropological Cases. Eds. Limor Saminian-Darash and Paul Rabinow. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2015. 69-87. Wall Street Journal. “A Careful Sequence of Mundane Dealings Sows a Day of Bloody Terror for Hijackers.” 16 Oct. 2001.

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Abstract:

The concept of “softening the news” or “tabloidization” refers to the adaption of tabloid standards by elite media, as a result of competitive pressures and with the aim of attracting the attention of the mass audience (e.g., Magin, 2019). Reinemann et al. (2012) distinguish three important dimensions: topic dimension: According to this dimension, “soft news” can be distinguished from “hard news” by their political relevance; one can either determine the level of political relevance (Reinemann et al., 2012) or – as most studies do (e.g., Steiner, 2016) – distinguish between topics that can be classified as either hard (e.g., politics) or soft (e.g., crime, sports, lifestyle). focus dimension: Soft news in this respect reports on issues in a rather episodic and less thematic way which means that the news coverage focuses more on the event itself instead of framing the event in a more general context (Iyengar, 1991; see also Entman, 1993). Furthermore, soft news rather focuses on individual rather than societal consequences. style dimension: According to this dimensions, soft news can be distinguished from hard news by the way of presentation. Soft news is presented inter alia in a more emotional, subjective or narrative way. News softening therefore represents a multi-dimensional concept (Esser, 1999; Reinemann et al., 2012) in which the different dimensions and indicators form a continuum. On this basis one can assess the degree of overall news softening. The concept thereby incorporates various other concepts of communication science (e.g., framing, subjective/objective reporting, etc.) that can thus be also attributed to distinct research traditions. Particularly in the style dimension, many different indicators are analysed – although the studies often differ as to which indicators are used. Field of application/theoretical foundation: Since soft news journalism is often seen as a threat to normative standards for quality media, the research on soft news and tabloidization trends is often part of studies on media performance. So far, studies on news softening and tabloidization focus on the comparison of (elite and popular) newspapers (e.g., Lefkowitz, 2018) or (public service and commercial) TV newscasts (e.g., Donsbach & Büttner, 2005). More recent studies also take online media into account (e.g., Karlsson, 2016) or compare social media platforms such as Facebook with offline and/or online media (e.g., Lischka & Werning, 2017; Magin et al., in press). References/combination with other methods of data collection: Content analyses can be combined with survey data from/ interviews with journalists (e.g., Leidenberger, 2015; Lischka & Werning, 2017; Lischka, 2018) or with experiments on the effect of soft news on the audience (e.g., trust in the news, information processing: see Bernhard, 2012 or Grabe et al., 2003 as examples, although these studies do not combine the results on the effects with content analyses). Example studies: Indicator Name of variable(s) Study Topic Dimension: Political relevance Political relevance Reinemann et al., 2012 topic Thema (kategorisiert) [topic (categorized)] Steiner, 2016 Focus Dimension: Episodic framing Episodic – thematic framing Reinemann et al., 2012 Individual framing Individual – societal relevance Reinemann et al., 2012 Style Dimension: 1. Emotional reporting (incl. affective wording, visual presentation of emotions) Emotional – unemotional reporting Reinemann et al., 2012 2. Personal reporting Personal – impersonal reporting Reinemann et al., 2012 3. Colloquial/ loose language Umgangssprache, Lockerheit der Sprache [colloquial, loose language] Steiner, 2016 4. Narrative presentation Nachrichtenpyramide vs. Narration [news pyramid vs. narration] Donsbach & Büttner, 2005 5. Emphasis on conflicts Konflikthaltigkeit [conflicts] Donsbach & Büttner, 2005 Topic Dimension With respect to the topic dimension, soft and hard news can be determined either by the extent to which the political relevance is made clear within the article (e.g., Reinemann et al., 2012) or by the distinction between topics (e.g., Steiner, 2016). Most studies use the latter option with politics (and sometimes economics as well) being considered hard news and topics such as sports and celebrity news being considered soft news. Topic Dimension, Indicator 1: political relevance (Reinemann et al., 2012) Information on Reinemann et al., 2012 Authors: Carsten Reinemann, James Stanyer, Sebastian Scherr, Guido Legnante Research question: This study is a meta-analysis that wants to find out 1) how different studies define news softening and 2) which dimensions and indicators are most often used to measure news softening. As a result, the paper suggests three important dimensions (topic, focus, style) and concrete indicators and operationalizations to measure these dimensions. Object of analysis: 24 studies Info about variable “Four aspects are distinguished that indicate the degree of political relevance of a news item: (1) societal actors, (2) decision-making authorities, (3) policy plan and (4) actors concerned. For each of those aspects the presence (1) or non-presence (0) is coded.” (Reinemann et al. 2012, p. 237) “Two or more societal actors that disagree on a societal issue (e.g., two parties, a party and an NGO, voters and politicians, employers and trade unions). Decision-making authorities (legislative, executive, judiciary) that are or could be involved in the generally binding decision about that societal issue. The substance of a planned or realized decision, measure, programme that relates to the issue. The persons or groups concerned by the planned or realized decisions, measures, programmes.” (Reinemann et al., 2012, p. 237) Variable name: political relevance Level of analysis: article Values: 0) not present; 1) present Level of measurement: nominal Reliability: Variable was not tested within this study. Codebook (in the appendix of the paper, p. 237-238) available under: DOI: 10.1177/1464884911427803 Topic Dimension, Indicator 2: topic (Steiner, 2016) Information on Steiner, 2016 Authors: Miriam Steiner Research question: The study investigates the news softening of German public service and commercial political news on TV and on Facebook. Object of analysis: ARD Tagesschau (TV); ZDF heute (TV); Sat.1 Nachrichten (TV); RTL Aktuell (TV); ARD Tagesschau (Facebook); ZDF heute (Facebook); Sat.1 Nachrichten (Facebook); RTL Aktuell (Facebook) Time frame of analysis: artificial week in 2014 (April, 10 – October, 10) Info about the variable Variable name: Thema (kategorisiert)/ Ressort [Topic (categorized)/ (newspaper) section] Level of analysis: article Values (in German): 101-247) Politik [politics]; 310-399) Wirtschaft [economics] ? defined as “hard news” 900) Unfall/Katastrophe [accident, catastrophe]; 1000-1010) Kriminalität [crime]; 1100) human interest; 1200) Sport [sports] ? defined as “soft news” Level of measurement: nominal Reliability: one coder; intra-coder-reliability: 0.81 (Krippendorff’s Alpha), 83.3% (Holsti) Codebook attached (in German) Focus Dimension According to this dimension, hard and soft news can be distinguished by the framing of the article. Reinemann et al. (2012) hereby differentiate between 1) episodic (soft) vs. thematic (hard) framing and 2) individual (soft) vs. societal (hard) framing. Focus Dimension, Indicator 1: episodic vs. thematic framing (Reinemann et al., 2012: for information about the study, see above) “Here, the focus of a news item as related to the accentuation of episodes or themes is coded. Episodically focused news items present an issue by offering a specific example, case study, or event oriented report, e.g., covering unemployment by presenting a story on the plight of a particular unemployed person […]” (Reinemann et al. 2012, p. 238) Variable name: episodic – thematic framing Level of analysis: article Values: 0) pure or predominant episodic framing; 1) mixed episodic and thematic framing; 2) pure or predominant thematic framing Level of measurement: ordinal Reliability: Variable was not tested within this study. Codebook (in the appendix of the paper, p. 237-238) available under: DOI: 10.1177/1464884911427803 Focus Dimension, Indicator 2: individual vs. societal framing (Reinemann et al., 2012: for information about the study, see above) “Here, the focus of a news item as related to the accentuation of personal or societal relevance is coded. Individually focused news stress [sic!] the personal, private meaning or consequences of the incidents, developments, decisions etc. reported about for members of society. […]” (Reinemann et al. 2012, p. 237) Variable name: individual – societal relevance Level of analysis: article Values: 0) pure or predominant focus on individual relevance/ consequences; 1) mixed attention to individual and societal relevance/ consequences; 2) pure or predominant focus on societal relevance/ consequences Level of measurement: ordinal Reliability: Variable was not tested within this study. Codebook (in the appendix of the paper, p. 237-238) available under: DOI: 10.1177/1464884911427803 Style Dimension This dimension is about how news is presented. Studies thereon analyse different indicators with 1) emotional reporting being most frequently used. Besides, studies refer to 2) personal reporting (i.e., the presence of the journalist’s point of view), colloquial/ loose language, 3) narrative presentation or 4) emphasis on conflicts as indicators of a soft news style. Style Dimension, Indicator 1: emotional reporting Most studies measure emotional reporting with the help of only one variable (usually a multi-level scale) (e.g., Reinemann et al., 2012). Alternatively, one can further distinguish (Magin & Stark, 2015) between verbal style (linguistic features such as strong adjectives and superlatives or emotional metaphors) and visual style (showing emotions in pictures) (e.g., Leidenberger, 2015). Style Dimension, Indicator 1: emotional reporting (Reinemann et al., 2012: for information about the study, see above) “Here, the journalistic style of a news item as related to the emotional presentation of information is coded. […] Emotional news items use verbal, visual or auditive means that potentially arouse or amplify emotions among audience members. This can be done, for example, (a) by dramatizing events, i.e. presenting them as exceptional, exciting, or thrilling; (b) by affective wording and speech, e.g. superlatives, strong adjectives, present tense in the description of past events, pronounced accentuation; (c) by reporting on or visually presenting explicit expressions of emotions (e.g., hurt, anger, fear, distress, joy) […]” (Reinemann et al. 2012, p. 238) Variable name: emotional – unemotional reporting Level of analysis: article Values: 0) purely or predominantly emotional; 1) mix of emotional and unemotional elements; 2) purely or predominantly unemotional Level of measurement: ordinal Reliability: Variable was not tested within this study. Codebook (in the appendix of the paper, p. 237-238) available under: DOI: 10.1177/1464884911427803 Style Dimension, Indicator 2: personal reporting (Reinemann et al., 2012: for information about the study, see above) “Here, the journalistic style of a news item as related to the explicit appearance of journalists’ personal points of view is concerned. It is coded whether a news item includes explicit statements of the reporting [sic!] journalists’ personal impressions, interpretations, points of view or opinions. […]” (Reinemann et al. 2012, p. 238) Variable name: personal – impersonal reporting Level of analysis: article Values: 0) purely or predominantly personal; 1) mix of personal and impersonal elements; 2) purely or predominantly impersonal Level of measurement: ordinal Reliability: Variable was not tested within this study. Codebook (in the appendix of the paper, p. 237-238) available under: DOI: 10.1177/1464884911427803 Style Dimension, Indicator 3: colloquial/ loose language (Steiner, 2016: for information about the study, see above) The variable measures the degree of colloquial language on a 3-point-scale, ranging from 0 (not colloquial at all) to 2 (very colloquial). Variable name: Umgangssprache/ Lockerheit der Sprache [colloquial/ loose language] Level of analysis: article Values: 0) gar nicht umgangssprachlich; 1) wenig umgangssprachlich; 2) stark umgangssprachlich Level of measurement: ordinal Reliability: one coder; intra-coder-reliability: 0.72 (Krippendorff’s Alpha), 88.9% (Holsti, nominal) Codebook attached (in German) Style Dimension, Indicator 4: narrative presentation (Donsbach & Büttner, 2005) Information on Donsbach & Büttner, 2005 Author: Wolfang Donsbach, Katrin Büttner Research question/ Research interest: The study examines the presentation of political news coverage in the most important public service and commercial main German newscasts in 1983, 1990 and 1998 with the aim of revealing changes in the presentation of politics and the extent to which there are convergent trends (? tabloidization). Object of analysis: news on national politics within four German newscasts: 1) Tagesschau (ARD), ZDF heute, Sat.1 Blick/18.30, RTL Aktuell (in 1983: only Tagesschau and ZDF heute) Time frame of analysis: for each year, every second day within the last four weeks before election day was analysed: 1) February 7, 1983 to March 6, 1983 (March 6, 1983 = election day); November 5, 1990 to December 2, 1990 (December 2, 1990 = election day); August 31, 1998 to September 27, 1998 (September 27, 1998 = election day) Info about variable: news pyramid vs. narration This variable is used to measure whether news is presented in terms of the “inverted news pyramid” (that is, answering the important W-questions at the beginning) or whether the journalist tells a story. This variable is measured on a 5-point-scale ranging from -2) (news pyramid) to 2) narration. Variable names: Nachrichtenpyramide vs. Narration [news pyramid vs. narration] Level of analysis: article Values: -2) Nachrichtenpyramide; -1); 0) neither/nor; 1); 2) narration Level of measurement: ordinal Reliability: four coders, reliability: N.A. Codebook (in German) available under: http://donsbach.net/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/Codebuch_TV-Nachrichten.pdf Style Dimension, Indicator 5: emphasis on conflicts (Donsbach & Büttner, 2005: for information about the study, see above) The variable measures whether conflicts are mentioned or not (=9). The variable also distinguishes between implicit (=1; conflict is apparent, but not openly addressed) and explicit (=2; conflict is openly addressed) conflicts. Variable names: Konflikthaltigkeit [conflicts] Level of analysis: article Values: 1) impliziter Konflikt; 2) expliziter Konflikt; 9) kein Konflikt Level of measurement: nominal Reliability: four coders, reliability: N.A. Codebook (in German) available under: http://donsbach.net/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/Codebuch_TV-Nachrichten.pdf References Bernhard, U. (2012). Infotainment in der Zeitung: Der Einfluss unterhaltungsorientierter Gestaltungsmittel auf die Wahrnehmung und Verarbeitung politischer Informationen [Infotainment in the newspaper: The influence of entertainment-oriented style elements on the perception and processing of political information]. Baden-Baden: Nomos. Donsbach, W., & Büttner, K. (2005). Boulevardisierungstrend in deutschen Fernsehnachrichten [Tabloidization trend in German TV news]. Publizistik, 50(1), 21–38. Entman, R. M. (1993). Framing: Toward clarification of a fractured paradigm. Journal of Communication, 43(4), 51–58. Esser, F. (1999). `Tabloidization’ of news: A comparative analysis of Anglo-American and German press journalism. European Journal of Communication, 14(3), 291-324. Grabe, M. E., Lang, A., & Zhao, X. (2003). News content and form: Implications for memory and audience evaluations. Communication Research, 30(4), 387-413. Iyengar, S. (1991). Is anyone responsible? How television frames political issues. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Karlsson, M. B. (2016). Goodbye politics, hello lifestyle. Changing news topics in tabloid, quality and local newspaper websites in the U.K. and Sweden from 2002 to 2012. Observatorio, 10(4), 150-165. Lefkowitz, J. (2018). “Tabloidization” or dual-convergence: Quoted speech in tabloid and “quality” British newspapers 1970–2010. Journalism Studies, 19(3), 353-375. Leidenberger, J. (2015). Boulevardisierung von Fernsehnachrichten: Eine Inhaltsanalyse deutscher und französischer Hauptnachrichtensendungen [Tabloidization of TV news: A content analysis comparing German and French main newscasts]. Wiesbaden: VS. Lischka, J. A. (2018). Logics in social media news making: How social media editors marry the Facebook logic with journalistic standards. Journalism. Advanced online publication. DOI: 10.1177/1464884918788472 Lischka, J. A., & Werning, M. (2017). Wie Facebook den Regionaljournalismus verändert: Publiku*ms- und Algorithmusorientierung bei der Facebook-Themenselektion von Regionalzeitungen [How Facebook alters regional journalism: Audience and algorithm orientation in the Facebook topic selection of regional newspapers]. kommunikation@gesellschaft, 18. Magin, M. (2019). Attention, please! Structural influences on tabloidization of campaign coverage in German and Austrian elite newspapers (1949–2009). Journalism, 20(12), 1704–1724. Magin, M., & Stark, B. (2015). Explaining National Differences of Tabloidisation Between Germany and Austria. Journalism Studies, 16(4), 577–595. Magin, M., Steiner, M., Häuptli, A., Stark, B., & Udris, L. (in press). Is Facebook driving tabloidization? In M. Conboy & S. A. Eldridge II (Eds.), Global Tabloid: Culture and Technology. Routledge. Reinemann, C., Stanyer, J., Scherr, S., & Legnante, G. (2012). Hard and soft news: A review of concepts, operationalizations and key findings. Journalism, 13(2), 221–239. Steiner, M. (2016). Boulevardisierung goes Facebook? Ein inhaltsanalytischer Vergleich politischer Nachrichten von tagesschau, heute, RTL Aktuell und Sat.1 Nachrichten im Fernsehen und auf Facebook [Tabloidization goes Facebook? A Comparative Content Analysis of the News Quality of Tagesschau, heute, RTL Aktuell und Sat.1 on TV and on Facebook]. In L. Leißner, H. Bause & L. Hagemeyer (Eds.), Politische Kommunikation – neue Phänomene, neue Perspektiven, neue Methoden (pp. 27-46). Berlin: Frank & Timme.

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Was it seven or eight summers ago, when the sun first became our enemy and set our skin on fire? We find it now in the normality of strange weather and the telescoping of the seasons; wherein it’s 27 degrees and there are no leaves yet on the trees, a hot August day in April. We watch the media spectacles of monster storms and mud slides that arrive with increasing force and frequency. And we despair over the death of the Polar bears, starving because the Arctic sea-ice upon which they catch seals can no longer bear their weight. Up there, we hear, the permafrost is melting, and the Inuit of Baffin Island are witnessing thunder and lightning for the first time in their lives. Down here, along the southern border of Canada, we are just beginning to feel the fear in our guts. The ambivalence and discomfort which we may feel about these changes – whose effects are as intimate as they are remote – speak to a more subtle perception that everything has now come undone: realigned and re-made by forces beyond our control, and yet, of our own making. That significant futurity which was once the sine qua non of a rational modernity – the self-confident assurance that things can only get better and never worse – has fallen to the wayside of our collective memory, useful now only for the purposes of Hallmark greeting cards. As usual, we suffer from a failure of imagination, wherein the only facts worth knowing become unspeakable, verboten vulgarities never to be uttered out-loud in polite company. What accounts for this silence? While we may increasingly feel that something is amiss in the world, this experience is not authorised or legitimated by the propositions of commercial media or conventional thought. What are the social consequences of this gap between the corporeal experience of global warming and its public representation? Can such affectual experience be mined as a means to advocate social change? In Canadian and American commercial media, discussion of “global warming” is still largely absent (Ungar; Weingart, Engels and Pansegrau). When the hurricanes Katrina and Rita whirled into Level 5 status across the very hot waters of the Gulf of Mexico this Fall, mention of global warming was quickly flicked away as a minor irritant. Such omissions are not surprising, given the political economy of American media. The automobile industry spends US$3 billion out of a total of US$9 billion annual expenditures of all advertising on network television. Not one of these ads is for hybrid cars. It is also our idea of nature that allows us to relegate matters of the environment to the periphery of our concerns. In its more piously Wordsworthian vestiges, nature is deemed as self-evident and unaltered by the ravages of time. It’s this temporal stasis attributed to nature that allows us to absolve ourselves from its fate. Nature, after all, is the non-human. And while the argument that only humans make history – that only humans transform and innovate themselves and their environment and manipulate the dimensions of time – can be recognised as a neat piece of social construction built in the interests of human conquest, we are still reticent to acknowledge nature on its own terms. Val Plumwood has argued that, “if the category of ‘nature’ is seen as phony, if it can only appear when suitably surrounded by scare quotes, [then] we are less likely to be inspired by appeals to nature’s integrity in [it’s defence]” (3). Somehow, believing in nature slides into an unseemly essentialism or a fetishistic form of love. Perhaps it’s not surprising then that so many people do not feel compelled to come to nature’s defense. Survey research from the United States, published in 2000 and 2003, shows that while 90% of Americans have now heard of global warming and believe it’s an important issue, a much smaller percentage are actually concerned about it (Stamm, Clark and Eblacas; Leiserowitz). Other matters such as employment, the economy and the rising costs of housing take priority over environmental issues. Furthermore, the research finds that while espousing environmental values, only a small percentage of respondents would self-identify as “environmentalist”. While being pro-environment is perceived as “having good character”, having too much of this good character is a bad thing. Still, can’t they feel what’s going on? Certainly here on the coast of British Columbia, where rainforests still run along the ocean’s edge, something has changed. Nothing is quite as ‘temperate’ as it once was. The weather shifts unexpectedly and dramatically, and the summers have become too hot and too dry. Global warming has brought a new atmosphere to the forests, as if under all this unfamiliar dryness and dust a latent extinction is beginning to stir. This current prospect – the death of not just a million species of plant and animal life (Kirby), but of countless human lives – may be redirecting our attention now to the interdependent relation, the fluid interchanges, between human and non-human worlds. This deadly probability may engender a new vitality, new ways of feeling life. “Nature”, as Michel Serres puts it, “is reminding us of its existence” (29). The challenge posed by this recognition prohibits the perception of nature in static terms, as a commodity or as handy oubliette for societal debris. In so doing, feeling the life of nature allows consideration of the ways in which nature and human culture have long been wedded to one another, not just in terms of the semiotic operations of a binarism, but as a complex and reciprocal project of interdependent life. Recognition of the interdependence of human and non-human life may also entail a particular affectual sensibility – a means of feeling life as it resonates against our skin and fills our senses. In this moment, “everything that is, resounds”. Here, “the sense and recognisability of things … do not lie in conceptual categories in which we mentally place them, but in their positions and orientations which our postures address” (Lingus 59). It’s not a question then of what nature means to us, but does nature do with us? How does it make us feel? Emotion has remained discursively submerged in discussions of climate change, not only because the stakes are such that only the scientists, with their particular authority and legitimacy, are afforded a voice, but also because it threatens the legitimacy of a formal rationalist representation of nature which excludes the non-human from the purview of ethical consideration. An affectual relationship to the natural world does have its difficulties. “Feeling nature” is based upon some sort of understanding with it, a form of competency, of ‘knowing your way around’. Such knowledges are often bound by class: the privileged remit of the romantic individual in search of an authentic experience, or the uncomfortable locale of hard and often violent labour. Still, it is in feeling the shrinking of life into the shadows of an uncommon heat that we may use this sentience to good effect. In his book The Natural Contract, Michel Serres argues that, “through exclusively social contracts, we have abandoned the bond that connects us to the world. … What language do the things of the world speak that we might come to an understanding of them contractually? … In fact, the Earth speaks to us in terms of forces, bonds and interactions … each of the partners in symbiosis thus owes … life to the other, on pain of death” (39). Long ago, when we were young, many of us made good money working in the coastal forest of British Columbia – either cutting it or milling it or planting it. I was alone there once for 6 weeks and was haunted daily by a raven who would track my movements through the trees, muttering incantations and clicks. By the time I walked out of the woods I was nearly speechless and it took me weeks to recover the easy cultural behaviour that came so naturally before. A friend of mine once had the job of getting rid of the young poplar and alder trees that colonise the logging slash. His task was to “cut and squirt”: to slash the trees with a machete and squirt poison inside the cut. Maybe it was a bad case of anthropomorphism, or maybe it was the drugs, but to this day, he swears he could hear the trees scream. References Kirby, Alex. “Climate Risk to Million Species.” BBC News Online, U.K. Edition, 7 Jan. 2004. Leiserowitz, A. American Opinions on Global Warming: Project Results. Eugene: U of Oregon, 2003. Lingus, Alphonso. The Imperitive. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1998. Plumwood, Val. “Nature as Agency and the Prospects for a Progressive Naturalism.” Capitalism, Nature, Socialism 4 (2001): 3-32. Serres, Michel. The Natural Contract. (Trans. E. MacArthur and W. Paulson), Ann Arbor: Michigan UP, 1995. Stamm, K.R., F. Clark and P.R. Eblacas. “Mass Communication and Public Understanding of Environmental Problems: The Case of Global Warming.” Public Understanding of Science 9 (2000): 219-37. Ungar, S. “Is Strange Weather in the Air?: A Study of U.S. National News Coverage of Extreme Weather Events.” Climatic Change 41 (1999): 133-50. Weingart, P.A., A. Engels and P. Pansegrau. “Risks of Communication: Discourses on Climate Change in Science, Politics and the Mass Media.” Public Understanding of Science 9 (2000): 261-83. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Seaton, Beth. "Feeling the Heat." M/C Journal 8.6 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0512/08-seaton.php>. APA Style Seaton, B. (Dec. 2005) "Feeling the Heat," M/C Journal, 8(6). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0512/08-seaton.php>.

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IntroductionFestivals, according to Chris Gibson and John Connell, are like “glue”, temporarily sticking together various stakeholders, economic transactions, and networks (9). Australia’s First Nations peoples see festivals as an opportunity to display cultural vitality (Henry 586), and to challenge a history which has rendered them absent (587). The 2017 Australia Council for the Arts Showcasing Creativity report indicates that performing arts by First Nations peoples are under-represented in Australia’s mainstream venues and festivals (1). Large Aboriginal cultural festivals have long thrived in Australia’s northern half, but have been under-developed in the south. Each regional happening develops a cultural landscape connected to a long and intimate relationship with the natural environment.The Far South East coast and mountainous hinterland of New South Wales is rich in pristine landscapes that ground the Yuin and Monaro Nations to Country as the Monaroo Bobberrer Gadu (Peoples of the Mountains and the Sea). This article highlights cross-sector interaction between Koori and mainstream organisations in producing the Giiyong (Guy-Yoong/Welcoming) Festival. This, the first large festival to be held within the Yuin Nation, took place on Aboriginal-owned land at Jigamy, via Eden, on 22 September 2018. Emerging regional artists joined national headline acts, most notably No Fixed Address (one of the earliest Aboriginal bands to break into the Australian mainstream music industry), and hip-hop artist Baker Boy (Danzal Baker, Young Australian of the Year 2019). The festival followed five years of sustained community preparation by South East Arts in association with Grow the Music, Twofold Aboriginal Corporation, the Eden Local Aboriginal Land Council, and its Elders. We offer dual understandings of the Giiyong Festival: the viewpoints of a male Yuin Elder wedded to an Australian woman of European descent. We acknowledge, and rely upon, key information, statistics, and photographs provided by the staff of South East Arts including Andrew Gray (General Manager), Jasmin Williams (Aboriginal Creative and Cultural Engagement Officer and Giiyong Festival Project Manager), and Kate Howarth (Screen Industry Development Officer). We are also grateful to Wiradjuri woman Alison Simpson (Program Manager at Twofold Aboriginal Corporation) for valuable feedback. As community leaders from First Nations and non-First Nations backgrounds, Simpson and Williams complement each other’s talents for empowering Indigenous communities. They plan a 2020 follow-up event on the basis of the huge success of the 2018 festival.The case study is informed by our personal involvement with community. Since the general population barely comprehends the number and diversity of Australia’s Indigenous ‘nations’, the burgeoning Indigenous festival movement encourages First Nations and non-First Nations peoples alike to openly and confidently refer to the places they live in according to Indigenous names, practices, histories, and knowledge. Consequently, in the mental image of a map of the island-continent, the straight lines and names of state borders fade as the colours of the Indigenous ‘Countries’ (represented by David Horton’s wall map of 1996) come to the foreground. We reason that, in terms of ‘regionality,’ the festival’s expressions of “the agency of country” (Slater 141) differ vastly from the centre-periphery structure and logic of the Australian colony. There is no fixed centre to the mutual exchange of knowledge, culture, and experience in Aboriginal Australia. The broader implication of this article is that Indigenous cultural festivals allow First Nations peoples cultures—in moments of time—to assume precedence, that is to ‘stitch’ back together the notion of a continent made up of hundreds of countries, as against the exploitative structure of ‘hub and region’ colonial Australia.Festival Concepts and ContextsHoward Becker observed that cultural production results from an interplay between the person of the artist and a multitude of support personnel whose work is not frequently studied: “It is through this network of cooperation that the art work we eventually see or hear comes to be and continues to be” (1). In assisting arts and culture throughout the Bega Valley, Eurobodalla, and Snowy Monaro, South East Arts delivers positive achievements in the Aboriginal arts and cultural sector. Their outcomes are significant in the light of the dispossession, segregation, and discrimination experienced by Aboriginal Australians. Michael Young, assisted by Indigenous authors Ellen Mundy and Debbie Mundy, recorded how Delegate Reserve residents relocating to the coast were faced with having their lives controlled by a Wallaga Lake Reserve manager or with life on the fringes of the towns in shacks (2–3). But as discovered in the records, “their retention of traditional beliefs, values and customs, reveal that the accommodation they were forced to make with the Europeans did not mean they had surrendered. The proof of this is the persistence of their belief in the value of their culture” (3–4). The goal of the Twofold Aboriginal Corporation is to create an inclusive place where Aboriginal people of the Twofold Bay Region can be proud of their heritage, connect with the local economy, and create a real future for their children. When Simpson told Williams of the Twofold Aboriginal Corporation’s and Eden Local Aboriginal Land Council’s dream of housing a large cultural festival at Jigamy, Williams rigorously consulted local Indigenous organisations to build a shared sense of community ownership of the event. She promoted the festival as “a rare opportunity in our region to learn about Aboriginal culture and have access to a huge program of Aboriginal musicians, dancers, visual artists, authors, academics, storytellers, cooks, poets, creative producers, and films” (McKnight).‘Uncle Ossie’ Cruse of Eden envisaged that the welcoming event would enliven the longstanding caring and sharing ethos of the Yuin-Monaro people. Uncle Ossie was instrumental in establishing Jigamy’s majestic Monaroo Bobberrer Gudu Keeping Place with the Eden Local Aboriginal Land Council in 1994. Built brick by brick by Indigenous workers, it is a centre for the teaching and celebration of Aboriginal culture, and for the preservation of artefacts. It represents the local community's determination to find their own solutions for “bridging the gap” by creating education and employment opportunities. The centre is also the gateway to the Bundian Way, the first Aboriginal pathway to be listed on the NSW State Heritage Register. Festival Lead-Up EventsEden’s Indigenous students learn a revived South Coast language at Primary and Secondary School. In 2015, Uncle Ossie vitally informed their input into The Black Ducks, a hip-hop song filmed in Eden by Desert Pea Media. A notable event boosting Koori musical socialisation was a Giiyong Grow the Music spectacle performed at Jigamy on 28 October 2017. Grow the Music—co-founded by Lizzy Rutten and Emily White—specialises in mentoring Indigenous artists in remote areas using digital recording equipment. Eden Marine High School students co-directed the film Scars as part of a programme of events with South East Arts and the Giiyong Festival 2018. The Eden Place Project and Campbell Page also create links between in- and out-of-school activities. Eden’s Indigenous students thus perform confidently at NAIDOC Week celebrations and at various festivals. Preparation and PersonnelAn early decision was made to allow free entry to the Giiyong Festival in order to attract a maximum number of Indigenous families. The prospect necessitated in-kind support from Twofold Aboriginal Corporation staff. They galvanised over 100 volunteers to enhance the unique features of Jigamy, while Uncle Ossie slashed fields of bushes to prepare copious parking space. The festival site was spatially focused around two large stages dedicated to the memory of two strong supporters of cultural creativity: Aunty Doris Kirby, and Aunty Liddy Stewart (Image 1). Image 1: Uncle Ossie Cruse Welcomes Festival-Goers to Country on the Aunty Liddy Stewart Stage. Image Credit: David Rogers for South East Arts, Reproduction Courtesy of South East Arts.Cultural festivals are peaceful weapons in a continuing ontological political contest (Slater 144). In a panel discussion, Uncle Ossie explained and defended the Makarrata: the call for a First Nations Voice to be enshrined in the Constitution.Williams also contracted artists with a view to capturing the past and present achievements of Aboriginal music. Apart from her brilliant centrepiece acts No Fixed Address and Baker Boy, she attracted Pitjantjatjara singer Frank Yamma (Image 2), Yorta Yorta singer/songwriter Benny Walker, the Central Desert Docker River Band, and Jessie Lloyd’s nostalgic Mission Songs Project. These stellar acts were joined by Wallaga Lake performers Robbie Bundle, Warren Foster, and Alison Walker as well as Nathan Lygon (Eden), Chelsy Atkins (Pambula), Gabadoo (Bermagui), and Drifting Doolgahls (Nowra). Stage presentations were technologically transformed by the live broadcast of acts on large screens surrounding the platforms. Image 2: Singer-Songwriter Frank Yamma Performs at Giiyong Festival 2018. Image Credit: David Rogers for South East Arts, Reproduction Courtesy of South East Arts.Giiyong Music and Dance Music and dance form the staple components of Indigenous festivals: a reflection on the cultural strength of ancient ceremony. Hundreds of Yuin-Monaro people once attended great corroborees on Mumbulla Mountain (Horton 1235), and oral history recorded by Janet Mathews evidences ceremonies at Fishy Flats, Eden, in the 1850s. Today’s highly regarded community musicians and dancers perform the social arrangements of direct communication, sometimes including their children on stage as apprentices. But artists are still negotiating the power structures through which they experience belonging and detachment in the representation of their musical identity.Youth gain positive identities from participating alongside national headline acts—a form of learning that propels talented individuals into performing careers. The One Mob Dreaming Choir of Koori students from three local schools were a popular feature (Image 3), as were Eden Marine student soloists Nikai Stewart, and Nikea Brooks. Grow the Music in particular has enabled these youngsters to exhibit the roots of their culture in a deep and touching way that contributes to their life-long learning and development. Image 3: The One Mob Dreaming Choir, Directed by Corinne Gibbons (L) and Chelsy Atkins (R). Image Credit: David Rogers for South East Arts, Reproduction Courtesy of South East Arts. Brydie-Leigh Bartleet describes how discourses of pride emerge when Indigenous Australian youth participate in hip-hop. At the Giiyong Festival the relationship between musical expression, cultural representation, and political positioning shone through the songs of Baker Boy and Gabadoo (Image 4). Channelling emotions into song, they led young audiences to engage with contemporary themes of Indigeneity. The drones launched above the carpark established a numerical figure close on 6,000 attendees, a third of whom were Indigenous. Extra teenagers arrived in time for Baker Boy’s evening performance (Williams), revealing the typical youthful audience composition associated with the hip-hop craze (Image 5).Image 4: Bermagui Resident Gabadoo Performs Hip-Hop at the Giiyong Festival. Image Credit: David Rogers for South East Arts, Reproduced Courtesy South East Arts.Image 5: A Youthful Audience Enjoys Baker Boy’s Giiyong Festival Performance. Image Credit: David Rogers for South East Arts, Reproduced Courtesy South East Arts.Wallaga Lake’s traditional Gulaga Dancers were joined by Bermagui’s Gadhu Dancers, Eden’s Duurunu Miru Dancers, and Narooma’s Djaadjawan Dancers. Sharon Mason founded Djaadjawan Dancers in 2015. Their cultural practice connects to the environment and Mingagia (Mother Earth). At their festival tent, dancers explained how they gather natural resources from Walbanja Country to hand-make traditional dance outfits, accessories, and craft. They collect nuts, seeds, and bark from the bush, body paint from ancient ochre pits, shells from beaches, and bird feathers from fresh roadkill. Duurunu Miru dancer/didjeriduist Nathan Lygon elaborates on the functions of the Far South East Coast dance performance tradition:Dance provides us with a platform, an opportunity to share our stories, our culture, and our way of being. It demonstrates a beautiful positivity—a feeling of connection, celebration, and inclusion. The community needs it. And our young people need a ‘space’ in which they can grow into the knowledge and practices of their culture. The festival also helped the wider community to learn more about these dimensions. (n.p.)While music and dance were at the heart of the festival, other traditional skills were included, for example the exhibitions mounted inside the Keeping Place featured a large number of visual artists. Traditional bush cooking took place near Lake Pambula, and yarn-ups, poetry, and readings were featured throughout the day. Cultural demonstrations in the Bunaan Ring (the Yuin name for a corroboree circle) included ‘Gum Leaf Playing.’ Robin Ryan explained how the Yuin’s use of cultural elements to entertain settlers (Cameron 79) led to the formation of the Wallaga Lake Gum Leaf Band. As the local custodian of this unique musical practice, Uncle Ossie performed items and conducted a workshop for numerous adults and children. Festival Feedback and Future PlanningThe Giiyong Festival gained huge Indigenous cultural capital. Feedback gleaned from artists, sponsors, supporters, volunteers, and audiences reflected on how—from the moment the day began—the spirit of so many performers and consumers gathered in one place took over. The festival’s success depended on its reception, for as Myers suggests: “It is the audience who create the response to performance and if the right chemistry is achieved the performers react and excel in their presentation” (59). The Bega District News, of 24 September 2018, described the “incredibly beautiful event” (n.p.), while Simpson enthused to the authors:I believe that the amount of people who came through the gates to attend the Giiyong Festival was a testament to the wider need and want for Aboriginal culture. Having almost double the population of Eden attend also highlights that this event was long overdue. (n.p.)Williams reported that the whole festival was “a giant exercise in the breaking down of walls. Some signed contracts for the first time, and all met their contracts professionally. National artists Baker Boy and No Fixed Address now keep in touch with us regularly” (Williams). Williams also expressed her delight that local artists are performing further afield this year, and that an awareness, recognition, and economic impact has been created for Jigamy, the Giiyong Festival, and Eden respectively:We believe that not only celebrating, but elevating these artists and Aboriginal culture, is one of the most important things South East Arts can do for the overall arts sector in the region. This work benefits artists, the economy and cultural tourism of the region. Most importantly it feeds our collective spirit, educates us, and creates a much richer place to live. (Giiyong Festival Report 1)Howarth received 150 responses to her post-event survey. All respondents felt welcome, included, and willing to attend another festival. One commented, “not even one piece of rubbish on the ground.” Vanessa Milton, ABC Open Producer for South East NSW, wrote: “Down to the tiniest detail it was so obvious that you understood the community, the audience, the performers and how to bring everyone together. What a coup to pull off this event, and what a gift to our region” (Giiyong Festival Report 4).The total running cost for the event was $257,533, including $209,606 in government grants from local, state, and federal agencies. Major donor Create NSW Regional Partnerships funded over $100,000, and State Aboriginal Affairs gave $6,000. Key corporate sponsors included Bendigo Bank, Snowy Hydro and Waterway Constructions, Local Land Services Bega, and the Eden Fisherman’s Club. Funding covered artists’ fees, staging, the hiring of toilets, and multiple generators, including delivery costs. South East Arts were satisfied with the funding amount: each time a new donation arrived they were able to invite more performers (Giiyong Festival Report 2; Gray; Williams). South East Arts now need to prove they have the leadership capacity, financial self-sufficiency, and material resources to produce another festival. They are planning 2020 will be similar to 2018, provided Twofold Aboriginal Corporation can provide extra support. Since South East Arts exists to service a wider area of NSW, they envisage that by 2024, they would hand over the festival to Twofold Aboriginal Corporation (Gray; Williams). Forthcoming festivals will not rotate around other venues because the Giiyong concept was developed Indigenously at Jigamy, and “Jigamy has the vibe” (Williams). Uncle Ossie insists that the Yuin-Monaro feel comfortable being connected to Country that once had a traditional campsite on the east side. Evaluation and ConclusionAlthough ostensibly intended for entertainment, large Aboriginal festivals significantly benefit the educational, political, and socio-economic landscape of contemporary Indigenous life. The cultural outpourings and dissemination of knowledges at the 2018 Giiyong Festival testified to the resilience of the Yuin-Monaro people. In contributing to the processes of Reconciliation and Recognition, the event privileged the performing arts as a peaceful—yet powerful truth-telling means—for dealing with the state. Performers representing the cultures of far-flung ancestral lands contributed to the reimagining of a First Nations people’s map representing hundreds of 'Countries.’It would be beneficial for the Far South East region to perpetuate the Giiyong Festival. It energised all those involved. But it took years of preparation and a vast network of cooperating people to create the feeling which made the 2018 festival unique. Uncle Ossie now sees aspects of the old sharing culture of his people springing back to life to mould the quality of life for families. Furthermore, the popular arts cultures are enhancing the quality of life for Eden youth. As the cross-sector efforts of stakeholders and volunteers so amply proved, a family-friendly, drug and alcohol-free event of the magnitude of the Giiyong Festival injects new growth into an Aboriginal arts industry designed for the future creative landscape of the whole South East region. AcknowledgementsMany thanks to Andrew Gray and Jasmin Williams for supplying a copy of the 2018 Giiyong Festival Report. We appreciated prompt responses to queries from Jasmin Williams, and from our editor Rachel Franks. We are humbly indebted to our two reviewers for their expert direction.ReferencesAustralian Government. Showcasing Creativity: Programming and Presenting First Nations Performing Arts. Australia Council for the Arts Report, 8 Mar. 2017. 20 May 2019 <https://tnn.org.au/2017/03/showcasing-creativity-programming-and-presenting-first-nations-performing-arts-australia-council/>.Bartleet, Brydie-Leigh. “‘Pride in Self, Pride in Community, Pride in Culture’: The Role of Stylin’ Up in Fostering Indigenous Community and Identity.” The Festivalization of Culture. Eds. Andy Bennett, Jodie Taylor, and Ian Woodward. New York: Routledge, 2014.Becker, Howard S. Art Worlds. 25th anniversary edition. Berkeley: U of California P, 2008.Brown, Bill. “The Monaroo Bubberer [Bobberer] Gudu Keeping Place: A Symbol of Aboriginal Self-determination.” ABC South East NSW, 9 Jul. 2015. 20 May 2019 <http://www.abc.net.au/local/photos/2015/07/09/4270480.htm>.Cameron, Stuart. "An Investigation of the History of the Aborigines of the Far South Coast of NSW in the 19th Century." PhD Thesis. Canberra: Australian National U, 1987. Desert Pea Media. The Black Ducks “People of the Mountains and the Sea.” <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8fbJNHAdbkg>.“Festival Fanfare.” Eden Magnet 28 June 2018. 1 Mar. 2019 <edenmagnet.com.au>.Gibson, Chris, and John Connell. Music Festivals and Regional Development in Australia. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2012.Gray, Andrew. Personal Communication, 28 Mar. 2019.Henry, Rosita. “Festivals.” The Oxford Companion to Aboriginal Art and Culture. Eds. Syvia Kleinert and Margot Neale. South Melbourne: Oxford UP, 586–87.Horton, David R. “Yuin.” Encyclopaedia of Aboriginal Australia. Ed. David R. Horton. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press, 1994.———. Aboriginal Australia Wall Map Compiled by David Horton. Aboriginal Studies Press, 1996.Lygon, Nathan. Personal Communication, 20 May 2019.Mathews, Janet. Albert Thomas Mentions the Leaf Bands That Used to Play in the Old Days. Cassette recorded at Wreck Bay, NSW on 9 July 1964 for the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders (AIATSIS). LAA1013. McKnight, Albert. “Giiyong Festival the First of Its Kind in Yuin Nation.” Bega District News 17 Sep. 2018. 1 Mar. 2019 <https://www.begadistrictnews.com.au/story/5649214/giiyong-festival-the-first-of-its-kind-in-yuin-nation/?cs=7523#slide=2>. ———. “Giiyong Festival Celebrates Diverse, Enduring Cultures.” Bega District News 24 Sep. 2018. 1 Mar. 2019 <https://www.begadistrictnews.com.au/story/5662590/giiyong-festival-celebrates-diverse-enduring-cultures-photos-videos/>.Myers, Doug. “The Fifth Festival of Pacific Arts.” Australian Aboriginal Studies 1 (1989): 59–62.Simpson, Alison. Personal Communication, 9 Apr. 2019.Slater, Lisa. “Sovereign Bodies: Australian Indigenous Cultural Festivals and Flourishing Lifeworlds.” The Festivalization of Culture. Eds. Andy Bennett, Jodie Taylor, and Ian Woodward. London: Ashgate, 2014. 131–46.South East Arts. "Giiyong Festival Report." Bega: South East Arts, 2018.———. Giiyong Grow the Music. Poster for Event Produced on Saturday, 28 Oct. 2017. Bega: South East Arts, 2017.Williams, Jasmin. Personal Communication, 28 Mar. 2019.Young, Michael, with Ellen, and Debbie Mundy. The Aboriginal People of the Monaro: A Documentary History. Sydney: NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service, 2000.

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Photo by Sébastien Goldberg on Unsplash ABSTRACT Rohingya women face challenges that ought to be acknowledged and addressed to ensure that when they seek health care, they can act autonomously and decide freely among available options. Self-determination theory offers valuable insight into supporting these women within their unique situations. INTRODUCTION In August of 2017, military and paramilitary forces in Myanmar began purging the Rohingya Muslim population from the country, motivated by anti-Muslim prejudice of the Buddhist political and social majority. Mass murder, property destruction, kidnapping, torture, and sexual violence still affect Rohingya communities. As a result, more than a million individuals have fled Myanmar.[1] As of February 2021, approximately 880,000 Rohingya Muslims have taken refuge in Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh, the site of the largest refugee camps in the world.[2] The public health focus in these camps is on treatment of physical ailments and infectious diseases.[3] While women of reproductive age and adolescent girls experience the highest level of violence among Rohingya communities in both Myanmar and Bangladesh, they have consistently lacked access to sufficient sexual and reproductive care. In 1994, the Women’s Commission for Refugee Women and Children exposed issues surrounding the sexual and reproductive health of displaced populations and propelled the recognition of SRH as a human right.[4] Human rights interventionists and public health officials have made progress in the integration of sexual and reproductive health education, facilities, and resources into refugee camps in Cox’s Bazar. This includes the introduction of menstrual cleanliness facilities and educational conversations. However, Rohingya women and male cultural leaders, or gatekeepers, remain reluctant to accept these resources and education.[5] The prevalence of gender-based violence against women and restrictive policies enforced by the Bangladesh government heighten the barriers to the effective introduction of sexual and reproductive health resources and services.[6] A wealth of literature has pushed for the extension of clinical duties of beneficence and non-maleficence in the diagnosis and treatment of refugee and asylum-seeking communities.[7] Additionally, extensive research on Rohingya refugee communities has searched for ways to work around the complex social history and to accommodate power structures by integrating gatekeepers into SRH discussions.[8] However, as interventions have sought to overcome cultural and religious barriers, they have largely overlooked the protection of autonomy of sexual and reproductive health patients in Cox’s Bazar. This paper argues two points. First, attempts at improving outcomes in Cox’s Bazar ought to lead to Rohingya women’s autonomy and self-determination, both in mitigating control of male leaders over sexual and reproductive decisions and in ensuring the understanding and informed consent between patients and providers. Second, policy decisions ought to ensure post-treatment comprehensive care to shield Rohingya women from retribution by male community members. Self-determination theory offers guidance for state leaders and healthcare providers in pursuing these goals. l. Barriers to Sexual and Reproductive Health Services for Rohingya Women As part of its anti-Muslim narrative, the Buddhist majority has painted Rohingya women as hyper-reproductive. False narratives “of a Rohingya plan to spread Islam by driving demographic shifts” and accusations against Rohingya women for having “unusually large families” have motivated violent behavior and discriminatory regulations against Rohingya communities.[9] In reality, demographic data shows that “the Rohingya population has remained stable at 4% since 1980.”[10] In 2013, the government of Myanmar imposed regulations on Rohingya families in the Rakhine state, the region with the highest population of Rohingya Muslims, enforcing a two-child limit and requiring that Rohingya women obtain government authorization to marry and take a pregnancy test before receiving such permission. The majority has also subjected Rohingya females to acts of sexual violence to ostracize them and “dilute” Rohingya identity.[11] As a result, Rohingya women in Cox’s Bazar experience unique illnesses and vulnerabilities requiring imminent treatment. Due to national policies in Bangladesh, “Rohingya [women] cannot receive HIV/AIDS testing and treatment in camps; birth control implants delivered by midwives; and comprehensive abortion care.”[12] Additionally, in accordance with patriarchal Rohingya community structure, male gatekeepers hold high authority over sexual and reproductive decisions of women, evidenced by the persistence of gender-based violence within refugee camps and traditional practices such as the marriage of minor girls to older Rohingya men.[13] Surveys of community members reveal that cultural and religious stigma against sexual and reproductive health care exists among these male gatekeepers as well as Rohingya women.[14] Due to their cultural and political position, Rohingya women are subject to unique power relations. This paper analyzes the ethical dilemmas that arise from two of those power relations: Rohingya women’s relationships with male gatekeepers and their relationships with interventionist healthcare providers. ll. Ethics of Including Male Community Members in Decisions Affecting Women’s Healthcare Autonomy A November 2019 survey of Rohingya women in Cox’s Bazar that had married or given birth within the past two years found that “around one half of the female Rohingya refugees do not use contraceptives, mainly because of their husbands’ disapproval and their religious beliefs.”[15] There are widespread misconceptions such as the belief that Islam does not permit the use of contraceptives.[16] The existence of such misconceptions and the power husbands and male leaders hold over the delivery of treatment creates dilemmas for healthcare practitioners in conforming to ethical principles of care. lll. Beneficence in Providing Care to Refugees While public health scholars and government officials hold divided opinions on the level of treatment required to fulfill refugees’ right to sexual and reproductive health care, most support enough care to ensure physical and psychological well-being.[17] Beneficence requires that healthcare providers and states “protect the rights of others[,] prevent harm from occurring to others[, and] remove conditions that will cause harm to others.”[18] Under the principle of beneficence, there is a duty to provide sexual and reproductive treatment to Rohingya women in Cox’s Bazar that is comparable to that received by citizens of the host state. In addition, the ethical principle of nonmaleficence may call for the creation of specialized care facilities for refugee communities, because a lack of response to refugees’ vulnerability and psychological trauma has the potential to generate additional harm.[19] In response to gendered power relations among the Rohingya community, husbands and male leaders are included in decisions surrounding maternal health and sexual and reproductive care for women. For example, healthcare professionals “have been found to impose conditions on SRH [sexual reproductive health] care that are not stated in the national… [menstrual regulation] guidelines, such as having a husband’s permission.”[20] The refugee healthcare community could do more to mitigate the potential of retribution taken by male community members against women that accept care by dispelling common misconceptions and precluding male community members from influencing female reproductive choices.[21] However, some current practices allow the infiltration of male community leaders and husbands into the diagnosis, decision-making, and treatment spaces. Deferring decisions to male leaders for the sake of expediency risks conditioning women’s access to care on male buy-in and diminishes Rohingya women’s autonomy over their sexual and reproductive health. lV. Male Influence and Female Autonomy Ensuring patients control their own treatment decisions is an essential component of the ethical obligation of healthcare professionals to respect patients’ autonomy. While patients can exercise their autonomy to accept the direction of the community, their autonomy is undermined when “external sources or internal states… rob [such persons]… of self-directedness.”[22] Sexual and reproductive health research on Rohingya women revealed that the presence of male family members during conversations “made female respondents uncomfortable to speak openly about their SRH [sexual and reproductive health]related experiences.”[23] The same study found that when male family members were absent, Rohingya women were more transparent and willing to discuss such topics.[24] These findings indicate that the mere presence of male family members exerts control over Rohingya women in conversations with practitioners. Male involvement also stalls conversations between providers and Rohingya women which may harm the achievement of understanding and informed consent in diagnosis and treatment spaces.[25] Women do have the option of bringing their male community leaders and family members into sexual health discussions. Yet healthcare providers ought to monitor patients individually and avoid programmatic decision making regarding male involvement in the treatment space. While it is the ethical imperative of health interventionists and the state of Bangladesh to fulfill the duties of care required by the principles of beneficence and non-maleficence, the sole prioritization of expanding sexual and reproductive health care in Cox’s Bazar risks ignoring autonomy. V. Ethics of Paternalism in Provide-Patient Relations Rohingya women’s negative beliefs about contraceptives, such as the belief that they cause irreversible sterilization, are the second largest factor inhibiting their use.[26] To an extent, the Rohingya are justified in their skepticism. Prior to the 1990’s, Bangladesh used nonconsensual sterilization as a mechanism of population control to attain access to international aid. Though the international conversation surrounding reproduction shifted its focus towards reproductive rights following the 1994 UN International Conference on Population and Development, delivery of reproductive care in the global South is frequently characterized by lack of transparency and insufficient patient understanding of the risks and consequences of treatment. Additionally, women’s lack of control impacts follow-up care and long-term contraception. For example, when women seek the removal of implantable contraceptives, healthcare professionals often refuse to perform the requisite operation.[27] Patients must understand the risks of treatment in their own culture and circ*mstances where societal views, misconceptions, or fears may influence healthcare practices. Healthcare providers need to recognize the coercive potential they hold in their relations with patients and guard against breaches of patient autonomy in the delivery of treatment. In accordance with the principle of beneficence, healthcare providers treating refugees or individuals seeking asylum ought to abide by the same fiduciary responsibilities they hold toward citizens of the host state.[28] When patients show hesitancy or refusal toward treatment, healthcare providers ought to avoid achieving treatment by paternalistic practice such as “deception, lying, manipulation of information, nondisclosure of information, or coercion.”[29] Although well-intentioned, this practice undermines the providers’ obligation to respect patients’ autonomy.[30] The hesitancy of Rohingya women to accept some sexual or reproductive health care does not justify intentional lack of transparency, even when that treatment furthers their best health interests. However, paternalistic actions may be permissible and justified during medical emergencies.[31] Vl. Informed Consent Respecting Rohingya women’s autonomy also places affirmative duties on healthcare providers to satisfy understanding and informed consent. However, language barriers and healthcare providers’ misconceptions about Rohingya religion and culture impede the achievement of these core conditions of autonomy for Rohingya women.[32] In an interview, a paramedic in Cox’s Bazar described the types of conversations healthcare providers have with Rohingya women in convincing them to accept menstrual regulation treatment, a method to ensure that someone is not pregnant after a missed period: “We tell them [menstrual regulation] is not a sin… If you have another baby now, you will get bad impact on your health. You cannot give your children enough care. So, take MR [menstrual regulation] and care for your family.”[33] This message, like others conveyed to Rohingya women in counseling settings, carries unvalidated assumptions regarding the beliefs, needs, and desires of clients without making a proper attempt to confirm the truth of those assumptions. Healthcare providers’ lack of cultural competence and limited understanding of Bangladesh’s national reproductive health policy complicates communication with Rohingya women. Additionally, the use of simple language, though recommended by the WHO’s guideline on Bangladesh’s policy, is inadequate to sufficiently convey the risks and benefits of menstrual regulation and other treatments to Rohingya women.[34] For informed consent to be achieved, “the patient must have the capacity to be able to understand and assess the information given, communicate their choices and understand the consequences of their decision.”[35] Healthcare providers must convey sufficient information regarding the risks, benefits, and alternatives of treatment as well as the risks and benefits of forgoing treatment.[36] Sexual and reproductive health policies and practices must aim to simultaneously mitigate paternalism, promote voluntary and informed choice among Rohingya women, and foster cultural and political competency among healthcare providers. Vll. Self-Determination Theory Self-determination theory is a psychological model that focuses on types of natural motivation and argues for the fulfillment of three conditions shown to enhance self-motivation and well-being: autonomy, competence, and relatedness.[37] According to the theory, autonomy is “the perception of being the origin of one’s own behavior and experiencing volition in action;” competence is “the feeling of being effective in producing desired outcomes and exercising one’s capacities;” and, relatedness is “the feeling of being respected, understood, and cared for by others.”[38] Bioethicists have applied self-determination theory to health care to align the promotion of patient autonomy with traditional goals of enhancing patient well-being. Studies on the satisfaction of these conditions in healthcare contexts indicate that their fulfillment promotes better health outcomes in patients.[39] Like principlism, self-determination theory in Cox’s Bazar could allow for increased autonomy while maximizing the well-being of Rohingya women and behaving with beneficence Fostering self-determination requires that healthcare professionals provide patients with the opportunity and means of voicing their goals and concerns, convey all relevant information regarding treatment, and mitigate external sources of control where possible.[40] In Cox’s Bazar, health care organizations in the region and the international community can act to ensure women seeking health care are respected and able to act independently. A patient-centered care model would provide guidelines for the refugee setting.[41] Providers can maximize autonomy by utilizing language services to give SRH patients the opportunity and means to voice their goals and concerns, disclose sufficient information about risks, benefits, and alternatives to each procedure, and give rationales for each potential decision rather than prescribe a decision. They can promote the feeling of competence among patients by expressly notifying them of the level of reversibility of each treatment, introducing measures for health improvement, and outlining patients’ progress in their SRH health. Finally, they can promote relatedness by providing active listening cues and adopting an empathetic, rather than condescending, stance.[42] Healthcare organizations ought to provide training to promote cultural competency and ensure that practitioners are well-versed on national regulations regarding sexual reproductive health care in Bangladesh to avoid the presumption of patients’ desires and the addition of unnecessary barriers to care. Increased treatment options would make autonomy more valuable as women would have more care choices. Given the historical deference to international organizations like the UN and World Bank, multilateral and organizational intervention would likely bolster the expansion of treatment options. International organizations and donors ought to work with the government of Bangladesh to offer post-treatment comprehensive care and protection of women who choose treatment against the wishes of male community members to avoid continued backlash and foster relatedness.[43] CONCLUSION Rohingya women in Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh face unique power relations that ought to be acknowledged and addressed to ensure that when they seek health care, they are able to act autonomously and decide freely among available options. While providers have duties under the principles of beneficence and non-maleficence, patient well-being is hindered when these duties are used to trump the obligation to respect patient autonomy. Current approaches to achieving sexual and reproductive health risk the imposition of provider and communal control. Self-determination theory offers avenues for global organizations, Bangladesh, donors, and healthcare providers to protect Rohingya women’s autonomous choices, while maximizing their well-being and minimizing harm. DISCLAIMER: As a male educated and brought up in a Western setting, I acknowledge my limitations in judgement about Rohingya women’s reproductive care. Their vulnerability and health risks can never be completely understood. To some extent, those limitations informed my theoretical approach and evaluation of Rohingya women's SRH care. Self-determination theory places the patients’ experiences and judgement at the center of decision-making. My most important contributions to the academic conversation surrounding Rohingya women are the identification of dilemmas where autonomy is at risk and advocating for self-determination. - [1] Hossain Mahbub, Abida Sultana, and Arindam Das, “Gender-based violence among Rohingya refugees in Bangladesh: a public health challenge,” Indian Journal of Medical Ethics (June 2018):1-2, https://doi.org/10.20529/IJME.2018.045. [2] “UN teams assisting tens of thousands of refugees, after massive fire rips through camp in Bangladesh,” United Nations, last modified March 23, 2021, https://news.un.org/en/story/2021/03/1088012#:~:text=The%20Kutupalong%20camp%20network%2C%20which,(as%20of%20February%202021). [3] Hossain et al., “Gender-based violence,” 1-2. [4] Benjamin O. Black, Paul A, Bouanchaud, Jenine K. Bignall, Emma Simpson, Manish Gupta, “Reproductive health during conflict,” The Obstetrician and Gynecologist 16, no. 3 (July 2014):153-160, https://doi.org/10.1111/tog.12114. [5] Margaret L. Schmitt, Olivia R. Wood, David Clatworthy, Sabina Faiz Rashid, and Marni Sommer, “Innovative strategies for providing menstruation-supportive water, sanitation and hygiene (WASH) facilities: learning from refugee camps in Cox's bazar, Bangladesh,” Conflict and Health Journal 15, no. 1 (Feb 2021):10, https://doi.org/10.1186/s13031-021-00346-9. [6] S M Hasan ul-Bari, and Tarek Ahmed, “Ensuring sexual and reproductive health and rights of Rohingya women and girls,” The Lancet 392, no. 10163:2439-2440, https://doi.org/10.1016/S0140-6736(18)32764-8. [7] Janet Cleveland, and Monica Ruiz-Casares, “Clinical assessment of asylum seekers: balancing human rights protection, patient well-being, and professional integrity,” American Journal of Bioethics 13, no. 7 (July 2013):13-5, https://doi.org/10.1080/15265161.2013.794885.; Christine Straehle, “Asylum, Refuge, and Justice in Health,” Hastings Center Report 49, no. 3 (May/June 2019):13-17, https://doi.org/10.1002/hast.1002. [8] Hossain et al., “Gender-based violence,” 1-2.; Schmitt et al., “Innovative strategies,” 10. [9] Audrey Schmelzer, Tom Oswald, Mike Vandergriff, and Kate Cheatham, “Violence Against the Rohingya a Gendered Perspective,” Praxis: The Fletcher Journal of Human Security, last modified February 11, 2021, https://sites.tufts.edu/praxis/2021/02/11/violence-against-the-rohingya-a-gendered-perspective/. [10] Schmelzer et al., “Violence Against.” [11] Schmelzer et al., “Violence Against.” [12] Liesl Schnabel, and Cindy Huang, “Removing Barriers and Closing Gaps: Improving Sexual and Reproductive Health and Rights for Rohingya Refugees and Host Communities,” Center for Global Development: CGD Notes (June 2019):6, https://www.cgdev.org/sites/default/files/removing-barriers-and-closing-gaps-improving-sexual-and-reproductive-health-and-rights.pdf. [13] Schnabel and Huang, “Removing Barriers,” 4-9.; Andrea J. Melnikas, Sigma Ainul, Iqbal Ehsan, Eash*ta Haque, and Sajeda Amin, “Child marriage practices among the Rohingya in Bangladesh,” Conflict and Health Journal 14, no. 28 (May 2020), https://doi.org/10.1186/s13031-020-00274-0. [14] Nuruzzaman Khan, Mofizul Islam, Mashiur Rahman, and Mostafizur Rahman, “Access to female contraceptives by Rohingya refugees, Bangladesh,” Bull World Health Organ, 99, no.3 (March 2021):201-208, https://doi.org/10.2471/BLT.20.269779. [15] Khan et al., “Access to,” 201-208. [16] Khan et al., “Access to,” 201-208. [17] Ramin Asgary, and Clyde L. Smith, “Ethical and professional considerations providing medical evaluation and care to refugee asylum seekers,” American Journal of Bioethics 13, no. 7 (July 2013):3-12, https://doi.org/10.1080/15265161.2013.794876.; Cleveland and Ruiz-Casares, “Clinical assessment,” 13-5.; Straehle, “Asylum,” 13-17. [18] Tom L. Beauchamp, and James Childress, Principles of Biomedical Ethics. Eighth Edition, (New York, NY: Oxford University Press, [1979] 2019), 219. [19] Beauchamp and Childress, “Principles,” 155.; Straehle, “Asylum,” 15. [20] Maria Persson, Elin C. Larsson, Noor Pappu Islam, Kristina Gemzell-Danielsson, and Marie Klingberg-Allvin, “A qualitative study on health care providers' experiences of providing comprehensive abortion care in Cox's Bazar, Bangladesh,” Conflict and Health Journal 15, no. 1 (Jan 2021):3, https://doi.org/10.1186/s13031-021-00338-9. [21] Rushdia Ahmed, Bachera Aktar, Nadia Farnaz, Pushpita Ray, Adbul Awal, Raafat Hassan, Sharid Bin Shafique, Md Tanvir Hasan, Zahidul Quayyum, Mohira Babaeva Jafarovna, Loulou Hassan Kobeissi, Khalid El Tahir, Balwinder Singh Chawla, and Sabina Faiz Rashid, “Challenges and strategies in conducting sexual and reproductive health research among Rohingya refugees in Cox's Bazar, Bangladesh,” Conflict and Health Journal 14, no. 1 (Dec 2020):83, https://doi.org/10.1186/s13031-020-00329-2.; Khan et al., “Access to,” 201-208. [22] Beauchamp and Childress, Principles, 102. [23] Ahmed et al., “Challenges and strategies," 6. [24] Ahmed et al., “Challenges and strategies," 7. [25] Beauchamp and Childress, Principles. [26] Khan et al., “Access to,” 201-208. [27] Kalpana Wilson, “Towards a Radical Re-appropriation: Gender, Development and Neoliberal Feminism,” Development and Change 46, no. 4 (July 2015):814–815, https://doi.org/10.1111/dech.12176. [28] Asgary and Smith, “Ethical and professional,” 3-12. [29] Beauchamp and Childress, “Principles,” 231. [30] Beauchamp and Childress, “Principles,” 231. [31] Beauchamp and Childress, “Principles.” [32] Beauchamp and Childress, “Principles.” [33] Persson et al. “A qualitative study,” 8. [34] Persson et al. “A qualitative study.” [35] Christine S. Cocanour, “Informed consent-It's more than a signature on a piece of paper,” American Journal of Surgery 214, no. 6 (Dec 2017):993, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.amjsurg.2017.09.015. [36] Cocanour, “Informed consent,” 993. [37] Richard M. Ryan, and Edward L. Deci, “Self-determination theory and the facilitation of intrinsic motivation, social development, and well-being,” American Psychologist 55, no. 1 (Jan 2000):68-78. [38] Johan Y.Y. Ng, Nikos Ntoumanis, Cecilie Thøgersen-Ntoumani, Edward L. Deci, Richard M. Ryan, Joan L. Duda, Geoffrey C. Williams, “Self-Determination Theory Applied to Health Contexts: A Meta-Analysis,” Perspectives on Psychological Science 7, no. 4 (July 2021):325-340, https://doi.org/10.1177/1745691612447309. [39] Ng et al., “Self-Determination Theory.”; Nikos Ntoumanis, Johan Y.Y. Ng, Andrew Prestwich, Eleanor Quested, Jennie E. Hancox, Cecilie Thøgersen-Ntoumani, Edward L. Deci, Richard M. Ryan, Chris Lonsdale & Geoffrey C. Williams, “A meta-analysis of self-determination theory-informed intervention studies in the health domain: effects on motivation, health behavior, physical, and psychological health,” Health Psychology Review 15, no. 2 (Feb 2020), https://doi.org/10.1080/17437199.2020.1718529. [40] Leslie William Podlog, and William J. Brown, “Self-determination Theory: A Framework for Enhancing Patient-centered Care,” The Journal for Nurse Practitioners 12, no. 8 (Sep 2016):e359-e362, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.nurpra.2016.04.022. [41] Podlog and Brown, “Self-determination Theory.” [42] Podlog and Brown, “Self-determination Theory.” [43] Podlog and Brown, “Self-determination Theory.”

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There is, in our sense of place, little cognisance of what lies underground. Yet our sense of place, instinctive, unconscious, primeval, has its own underground: the secret spaces which mirror our insides; the world beneath the skin. Our roots lie beneath the ground, with the minerals and the dead. (Hughes 83) The-Home-and-Away-Game Imagine the earth-grounded, “diagrammatological” trajectory of a footballer who as one member of a team is psyching himself up before the start of a game. The siren blasts its trumpet call. The footballer bursts out of the pavilion (where this psyching up has taken place) to engage in the opening bounce or kick of the game. And then: running, leaping, limping after injury, marking, sliding, kicking, and possibly even passing out from concussion. Finally, the elation accompanying the final siren, after which hugs, handshakes and raised fists conclude the actual match on the football oval. This exit from the pavilion, the course the player takes during the game itself, and return to the pavilion, forms a combination of stasis and movement, and a return to exhausted stasis again, that every player engages with regardless of the game code. Examined from a “diagrammatological” perspective, a perspective Rowan Wilken (following in the path of Gilles Deleuze and W. J. T. Mitchell) understands as “a generative process: a ‘metaphor’ or way of thinking — diagrammatic, diagrammatological thinking — which in turn, is linked to poetic thinking” (48), this footballer’s scenario arises out of an aerial perspective that depicts the actual spatial trajectory the player takes during the course of a game. It is a diagram that is digitally encoded via a sensor on the footballer’s body, and being an electronically encoded diagram it can also make available multiple sets of data such as speed, heartbeat, blood pressure, maybe even brain-wave patterns. From this limited point of view there is only one footballer’s playing trajectory to consider; various groupings within the team, the whole team itself, and the diagrammatological depiction of its games with various other teams might also be possible. This singular imagining though is itself an actuality: as a diagram it is encoded as a graphic image by a satellite hovering around the earth with a Global Positioning System (GPS) reading the sensor attached to the footballer which then digitally encodes this diagrammatological trajectory for appraisal later by the player, coach, team and management. In one respect, this practice is another example of a willing self-surveillance critical to explaining the reflexive subject and its attribute of continuous self-improvement. According to Docker, Official Magazine of the Fremantle Football Club, this is a technique the club uses as a part of game/play assessment, a system that can provide a “running map” for each player equipped with such a tracking device during a game. As the Fremantle Club’s Strength and Conditioning Coach Ben Tarbox says of this tactic, “We’re getting a physiological profile that has started to build a really good picture of how individual players react during a game” (21). With a little extra effort (and some sizeable computer processing grunt) this two dimensional linear graphic diagram of a footballer working the football ground could also form the raw material for a three-dimensional animation, maybe a virtual reality game, even a hologram. It could also be used to sideline a non-performing player. Now try another related but different imagining: what if this diagrammatological trajectory could be enlarged a little to include the possibility that this same player’s movements could be mapped out by the idea of home-and-away games; say over the course of a season, maybe even a whole career, for instance? No doubt, a wide range of differing diagrammatological perspectives might suggest themselves. My own particular refinement of this movement/stasis on the footballer’s part suggests my own distinctive comings and goings to and from my own specific piece of home country. And in this incessantly domestic/real world reciprocity, in this diurnally repetitive leaving and coming back to home country, might it be plausible to think of “Home as Capital of the Region”? If, as Walter Benjamin suggests in the prelude to his monumental Arcades Project, “Paris — the Capital of the Nineteenth Century,” could it be that both in and through my comings and goings to and from this selfsame home country, my own burgeoning sense of regionality is constituted in every minute-by-minutiae of lived experience? Could it be that this feeling about home is manifested in my every day-to-night manoeuvre of home-and-away-and-away-and-home-making, of every singular instance of exit, play/engage, and the return home? “Home, Capital of the Region” then examines the idea that my home is that part of the country which is the still-point of eternal return, the bedrock to which I retreat after the daily grind, and the point from which I start out and do it all again the next day. It employs, firstly, this ‘diagrammatological’ perspective to illustrate the point that this stasis/movement across country can make an electronic record of my own psychic self-surveillance and actualisation in-situ. And secondly, the architectural plan of the domestic home (examined through the perspective of critical regionalism) is used as a conduit to illustrate how I am physically embedded in country. Lastly, intermingling these digressive threads is chora, Plato’s notion of embodied place and itself an ancient regional rendering of this eternal return to the beginning, the place where the essential diversity of country decisively enters the soul. Chora: Core of Regionality Kevin Lynch writes that, “Our senses are local, while our experience is regional” (10), a combination that suggests this regional emphasis on home-and-away-making might be a useful frame of reference (simultaneously spatiotemporal, both a visceral and encoded communication) for me to include as a crucial vector in my own life-long learning package. Regionality (as, variously, a sub-generic categorisation and an extension/concentration of nationality, as well as a recently re-emerged friend/antagonist to a global understanding) infuses my world of home with a grounded footing in country, one that is a site of an Eternal Return to the Beginning in the micro-world of the everyday. This is a point John Sallis discusses at length in his analysis of Plato’s Timaeus and its founding notion of regionality: chora. More extended absences away from home-base are of course possible but one’s return to home on most days and for most nights is a given of post/modern, maybe even of ancient everyday experience. Even for the continually shifting nomad, nightfall in some part of the country brings the rest and recreation necessary for the next day’s wanderings. This fundamental question of an Eternal Return to the Beginning arises as a crucial element of the method in Plato’s Timaeus, a seemingly “unstructured” mythic/scientific dialogue about the origins and structure of both the psychically and the physically implaced world. In the Timaeus, “incoherence is especially obvious in the way the natural sequence in which a narrative would usually unfold is interrupted by regressions, corrections, repetitions, and abrupt new beginnings” (Gadamer 160). Right in the middle of the Timaeus, in between its sections on the “Work of Reason” and the “Work of Necessity”, sits chora, both an actual spatial and bodily site where my being intersects with my becoming, and where my lived life criss-crosses the various arts necessary to articulating a recorded version of that life. Every home is a grounded chora-logical timespace harness guiding its occupant’s thoughts, feelings and actions. My own regionally implaced chora (an example of which is the diagrammatological trajectory already outlined above as my various everyday comings and goings, of me acting in and projecting myself into context) could in part be understood as a graphical realisation of the extent of my movements and stationary rests in my own particular timespace trajectory. The shorthand for this process is ‘embedded’. Gregory Ulmer writes of chora that, “While chorography as a term is close to choreography, it duplicates a term that already exists in the discipline of geography, thus establishing a valuable resonance for a rhetoric of invention concerned with the history of ‘place’ in relation to memory” (Heuretics 39, original italics). Chorography is the geographic discipline for the systematic study and analysis of regions. Chora, home, country and regionality thus form an important multi-dimensional zone of interplay in memorialising the game of everyday life. In light of these observations I might even go so far as to suggest that this diagrammatological trajectory (being both digital and GPS originated) is part of the increasingly electrate condition that guides the production of knowledge in any global/regional context. This last point is a contextual connection usefully examined in Alan J. Scott’s Regions and the World Economy: The Coming Shape of Global Production, Competition, and Political Order and Michael Storper’s The Regional World: Territorial Development in a Global Economy. Their analyses explicitly suggest that the symbiosis between globalisation and regionalisation has been gathering pace since at least the end of World War Two and the Bretton Woods agreement. Our emerging understanding of electracy also happens to be Gregory Ulmer’s part-remedy for shifting the ground under the intense debates surrounding il/literacy in the current era (see, in particular, Internet Invention). And, for Tony Bennett, Michael Emmison and John Frow’s analysis of “Australian Everyday Cultures” (“Media Culture and the Home” 57–86), it is within the home that our un.conscious understanding of electronic media is at its most intense, a pattern that emerges in the longer term through receiving telegrams, compiling photo albums, listening to the radio, home- and video-movies, watching the evening news on television, and logging onto the computer in the home-office, media-room or home-studio. These various generalisations (along with this diagrammatological view of my comings and goings to and from the built space of home), all point indiscriminately to a productive confusion surrounding the sedentary and nomadic opposition/conjunction. If natural spaces are constituted in nouns like oceans, forests, plains, grasslands, steppes, deserts, rivers, tidal interstices, farmland etc. (and each categorisation here relies on the others for its existence and demarcation) then built space is often seen as constituting its human sedentary equivalent. For Deleuze and Guatteri (in A Thousand Plateaus, “1227: Treatise on Nomadology — The War Machine”) these natural spaces help instigate a nomadic movement across localities and regions. From a nomadology perspective, these smooth spaces unsettle a scientific, numerical calculation, sometimes even aesthetic demarcation and order. If they are marked at all, it is by heterogenous and differential forces, energised through constantly oscillating intensities. A Thousand Plateaus is careful though not to elevate these smooth nomadic spaces over the more sedentary spaces of culture and power (372–373). Nonetheless, as Edward S. Casey warns, “In their insistence on becoming and movement, however, the authors of A Thousand Plateaus overlook the placial potential of settled dwelling — of […] ‘built places’” (309, original italics). Sedentary, settled dwelling centred on home country may have a crust of easy legibility and order about it but it also formats a locally/regionally specific nomadic quality, a point underscored above in the diagrammatological perspective. The sedentary tendency also emerges once again in relation to home in the architectural drafting of the domestic domicile. The Real Estate Revolution When Captain Cook planted the British flag in the sand at Botany Bay in 1770 and declared the country it spiked as Crown Land and henceforth will come under the ownership of an English sovereign, it was also the moment when white Australia’s current fascination with real estate was conceived. In the wake of this spiking came the intense anxiety over Native Title that surfaced in late twentieth century Australia when claims of Indigenous land grabs would repossess suburban homes. While easily dismissed as hyperbole, a rhetorical gesture intended to arouse this very anxiety, its emergence is nonetheless an indication of the potential for political and psychic unsettling at the heart of the ownership and control of built place, or ‘settled dwelling’ in the Australian context. And here it would be wise to include not just the gridded, architectural quality of home-building and home-making, but also the home as the site of the family romance, another source of unsettling as much as a peaceful calming. Spreading out from the boundaries of the home are the built spaces of fences, bridges, roads, railways, airport terminals (along with their interconnecting pathways), which of course brings us back to the communications infrastructure which have so often followed alongside the development of transport infrastructure. These and other elements represent this conglomerate of built space, possibly the most significant transformation of natural space that humanity has brought about. For the purposes of this meditation though it is the more personal aspect of built space — my home and regional embeddedness, along with their connections into the global electrosphere — that constitutes the primary concern here. For a sedentary, striated space to settle into an unchallenged existence though requires a repression of the highest order, primarily because of the home’s proximity to everyday life, of the latter’s now fading ability to sometimes leave its presuppositions well enough alone. In settled, regionally experienced space, repressions are more difficult to abstract away, they are lived with on a daily basis, which also helps to explain the extra intensity brought to their sometimes-unsettling quality. Inversely, and encased in this globalised electro-spherical ambience, home cannot merely be a place where one dwells within avoiding those presuppositions, I take them with me when I travel and they come back with me from afar. This is a point obliquely reflected in Pico Iyer’s comment that “Australians have so flexible a sense of home, perhaps, that they can make themselves at home anywhere” (185). While our sense of home may well be, according to J. Douglas Porteous, “the territorial core” of our being, when other arrangements of space and knowledge shift it must inevitably do so as well. In these shifts of spatial affiliation (aided and abetted by regionalisation, globalisation and electronic knowledge), the built place of home can no longer be considered exclusively under the illusion of an autonomous sanctuary wholly guaranteed by capitalist property relations, one of the key factors in its attraction. These shifts in the cultural, economic and psychic relation of home to country are important to a sense of local and regional implacement. The “feeling” of autonomy and security involved in home occupation and/or ownership designates a component of this implacement, a point leading to Eric Leed’s comment that, “By the sixteenth century, literacy had become one of the definitive signs — along with the possession of property and a permanent residence — of an independent social status” (53). Globalising and regionalising forces make this feeling of autonomy and security dynamic, shifting the ground of home, work-place practices and citizenship allegiances in the process. Gathering these wide-ranging forces impacting on psychic and built space together is the emergence of critical regionalism as a branch of architectonics, considered here as a theory of domestic architecture. Critical Regionality Critical regionalism emerged out of the collective thinking of Liane Lefaivre and Alexander Tzonis (Tropical Architecture; Critical Regionalism), and as these authors themselves acknowledge, was itself deeply influenced by the work of Lewis Mumford during the first part of the twentieth century when he was arguing against the authority of the international style in architecture, a style epitomised by the Bauhaus movement. It is Kenneth Frampton’s essay, “Towards a Critical Regionalism: Six Points for an Architecture of Resistance” that deliberately takes this question of critical regionalism and makes it a part of a domestic architectonic project. In many ways the ideas critical regionalism espouses can themselves be a microcosm of this concomitantly emerging global/regional polis. With public examples of built-form the power of the centre is on display by virtue of a building’s enormous size and frequently high-cultural aesthetic power. This is a fact restated again and again from the ancient world’s agora to Australia’s own political bunker — its Houses of Parliament in Canberra. While Frampton discusses a range of aspects dealing with the universal/implaced axis across his discussion, it is points five and six that deserve attention from a domestically implaced perspective. Under the sub-heading, “Culture Versus Nature: Topography, Context, Climate, Light and Tectonic Form” is where he writes that, Here again, one touches in concrete terms this fundamental opposition between universal civilization and autochthonous culture. The bulldozing of an irregular topography into a flat site is clearly a technocratic gesture which aspires to a condition of absolute placelessness, whereas the terracing of the same site to receive the stepped form of a building is an engagement in the act of “cultivating” the site. (26, original italics) The “totally flat datum” that the universalising tendency sometimes presupposes is, within the critical regionalist perspective, an erroneous assumption. The “cultivation” of a site for the design of a building illustrates the point that built space emerges out of an interaction between parallel phenomena as they contrast and/or converge in a particular set of timespace co-ordinates. These are phenomena that could include (but are not limited to) geomorphic data like soil and rock formations, seismic activity, inclination and declension; climatic considerations in the form of wind patterns, temperature variations, rainfall patterns, available light and dark, humidity and the like; the building context in relation to the cardinal points of north, south, east, and west, along with their intermediary positions. There are also architectural considerations in the form of available building materials and personnel to consider. The social, psychological and cultural requirements of the building’s prospective in-dwellers are intermingled with all these phenomena. This is not so much a question of where to place the air conditioning system but the actuality of the way the building itself is placed on its site, or indeed if that site should be built on at all. A critical regionalist building practice, then, is autochthonous to the degree that a full consideration of this wide range of in-situ interactions is taken into consideration in the development of its design plan. And given this autochthonous quality of the critical regionalist project, it also suggests that the architectural design plan itself (especially when it utilised in conjunction with CAD and virtual reality simulations), might be the better model for designing electrate-centred projects rather than writing or even the script. The proliferation of ‘McMansions’ across many Australian suburbs during the 1990s (generally, oversized domestic buildings designed in the abstract with little or no thought to the above mentioned elements, on bulldozed sites, with powerful air-conditioning systems, and no verandas or roof eves to speak of) demonstrates the continuing influence of a universal, centralising dogma in the realm of built place. As summer temperatures start to climb into the 40°C range all these air-conditioners start to hum in unison, which in turn raises the susceptibility of the supporting infrastructure to collapse under the weight of an overbearing electrical load. The McMansion is a clear example of a built form that is envisioned more so in a drafting room, a space where the architect is remote-sensing the locational specificities. In this envisioning (driven more by a direct line-of-sight idiom dominant in “flat datum” and economic considerations rather than architectural or experiential ones), the tactile is subordinated, which is the subject of Frampton’s sixth point: It is symptomatic of the priority given to sight that we find it necessary to remind ourselves that the tactile is an important dimension in the perception of built form. One has in mind a whole range of complementary sensory perceptions which are registered by the labile body: the intensity of light, darkness, heat and cold; the feeling of humidity; the aroma of material; the almost palpable presence of masonry as the body senses it own confinement; the momentum of an induced gait and the relative inertia of the body as it traverses the floor; the echoing resonance of our own footfall. (28) The point here is clear: in its wider recognition of, and the foregrounding of my body’s full range of sensate capacities in relation to both natural and built space, the critical regionalist approach to built form spreads its meaning-making capacities across a broader range of knowledge modalities. This tactility is further elaborated in more thoroughly personal ways by Margaret Morse in her illuminating essay, “Home: Smell, Taste, Posture, Gleam”. Paradoxically, this synaesthetic, syncretic approach to bodily meaning-making in a built place, regional milieu intensely concentrates the site-centred locus of everyday life, while simultaneously, the electronic knowledge that increasingly underpins it expands both my body’s and its region’s knowledge-making possibilities into a global gestalt, sometimes even a cosmological one. It is a paradoxical transformation that makes us look anew at social, cultural and political givens, even objective and empirical understandings, especially as they are articulated through national frames of reference. Domestic built space then is a kind of micro-version of the multi-function polis where work, pleasure, family, rest, public display and privacy intermingle. So in both this reduction and expansion in the constitution of domestic home life, one that increasingly represents the location of the production of knowledge, built place represents a concentration of energy that forces us to re-imagine border-making, order, and the dynamic interplay of nomadic movement and sedentary return, a point that echoes Nicolas Rothwell’s comment that “every exile has in it a homecoming” (80). Albeit, this is a knowledge-making milieu with an expanded range of modalities incorporated and expressed through a wide range of bodily intensities not simply cognitive ones. Much of the ambiguous discontent manifested in McMansion style domiciles across many Western countries might be traced to the fact that their occupants have had little or no say in the way those domiciles have been designed and/or constructed. In Heidegger’s terms, they have not thought deeply enough about “dwelling” in that building, although with the advent of the media room the question of whether a “building” securely borders both “dwelling” and “thinking” is now open to question. As anxieties over border-making at all scales intensifies, the complexities and un/sureties of natural and built space take ever greater hold of the psyche, sometimes through the advance of a “high level of critical self-consciousness”, a process Frampton describes as a “double mediation” of world culture and local conditions (21). Nearly all commentators warn of a nostalgic, romantic or a sentimental regionalism, the sum total of which is aimed at privileging the local/regional and is sometimes utilised as a means of excluding the global or universal, sometimes even the national (Berry 67). Critical regionalism is itself a mediating factor between these dispositions, working its methods and practices through my own psyche into the local, the regional, the national and the global, rejecting and/or accepting elements of these domains, as my own specific context, in its multiplicity, demands it. If the politico-economic and cultural dimensions of this global/regional world have tended to undermine the process of border-making across a range of scales, we can see in domestic forms of built place the intense residue of both their continuing importance and an increased dependency on this electro-mediated world. This is especially apparent in those domiciles whose media rooms (with their satellite dishes, telephone lines, computers, television sets, games consuls, and music stereos) are connecting them to it in virtuality if not in reality. Indeed, the thought emerges (once again keeping in mind Eric Leed’s remark on the literate-configured sense of autonomy that is further enhanced by a separate physical address and residence) that the intense importance attached to domestically orientated built place by globally/regionally orientated peoples will figure as possibly the most viable means via which this sense of autonomy will transfer to electronic forms of knowledge. If, however, this here domestic habitué turns his gaze away from the screen that transports me into this global/regional milieu and I focus my attention on the physicality of the building in which I dwell, I once again stand in the presence of another beginning. This other beginning is framed diagrammatologically by the building’s architectural plans (usually conceived in either an in-situ, autochthonous, or a universal manner), and is a graphical conception that anchors my body in country long after the architects and builders have packed up their tools and left. This is so regardless of whether a home is built, bought, rented or squatted in. Ihab Hassan writes that, “Home is not where one is pushed into the light, but where one gathers it into oneself to become light” (417), an aphorism that might be rephrased as follows: “Home is not where one is pushed into the country, but where one gathers it into oneself to become country.” For the in-and-out-and-around-and-about domestic dweller of the twenty-first century, then, home is where both regional and global forms of country decisively enter the soul via the conduits of the virtuality of digital flows and the reality of architectural footings. Acknowledgements I’m indebted to both David Fosdick and Phil Roe for alerting me to the importance to the Fremantle Dockers Football Club. The research and an original draft of this essay were carried out under the auspices of a PhD scholarship from Central Queensland University, and from whom I would also like to thank Denis Cryle and Geoff Danaher for their advice. References Benjamin, Walter. “Paris — the Capital of the Nineteenth Century.” Charles Baudelaire: A Lyric Poet in the Era of High Capitalism. Trans. Quintin Hoare. London: New Left Books, 1973. 155–176. Bennett, Tony, Michael Emmison and John Frow. Accounting for Tastes: Australian Everyday Cultures. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1999. Berry, Wendell. “The Regional Motive.” A Continuous Harmony: Essays Cultural and Agricultural. San Diego: Harcourt Brace. 63–70. Casey, Edward S. The Fate of Place: A Philosophical History. Berkeley: U of California P, 1997. Deleuze, Gilles and Félix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: U of Minneapolis P, 1987. Deleuze, Gilles. “The Diagram.” The Deleuze Reader. Ed. Constantin Boundas. Trans. Constantin Boundas and Jacqueline Code. New York: Columbia UP, 1993. 193–200. Frampton, Kenneth. “Towards a Critical Regionalism: Six Points for an Architecture of Resistance.” The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Post-Modern Culture. Ed. Hal Foster. Port Townsend: Bay Press, 1983. 16–30. Gadamer, Hans-Georg. “Idea and Reality in Plato’s Timaeus.” Dialogue and Dialectic: Eight Hermeneutical Studies on Plato. Trans. P. Christopher Smith. New Haven: Yale UP, 1980. 156–193. Hassan, Ihab. “How Australian Is It?” The Best Australian Essays. Ed. Peter Craven. Melbourne: Black Inc., 2000. 405–417. Heidegger, Martin. “Building Dwelling Thinking.” Poetry, Language, Thought. Trans. Albert Hofstadter. New York: Harper and Row, 1971. 145–161. Hughes, John. The Idea of Home: Autobiographical Essays. Sydney: Giramondo, 2004. Iyer, Pico. “Australia 1988: Five Thousand Miles from Anywhere.” Falling Off the Map: Some Lonely Places of the World. London: Jonathon Cape, 1993. 173–190. “Keeping Track.” Docker, Official Magazine of the Fremantle Football Club. Edition 3, September (2005): 21. Leed, Eric. “‘Voice’ and ‘Print’: Master Symbols in the History of Communication.” The Myths of Information: Technology and Postindustrial Culture. Ed. Kathleen Woodward. Madison, Wisconsin: Coda Press, 1980. 41–61. Lefaivre, Liane and Alexander Tzonis. “The Suppression and Rethinking of Regionalism and Tropicalism After 1945.” Tropical Architecture: Critical Regionalism in the Age of Globalization. Eds. Alexander Tzonis, Liane Lefaivre and Bruno Stagno. Chichester, West Sussex: Wiley-Academy, 2001. 14–58. Lefaivre, Liane and Alexander Tzonis. Critical Regionalism: Architecture and Identity in a Globalized World. New York: Prestel, 2003. Lynch, Kevin. Managing the Sense of a Region. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT P, 1976. Mitchell, W. J. T. “Diagrammatology.” Critical Inquiry 7.3 (1981): 622–633. Morse, Margaret. “Home: Smell, Taste, Posture, Gleam.” Home, Exile, Homeland: Film, Media, and the Politics of Place. Ed. Hamid Naficy. New York and London: Routledge, 1999. 63–74. Plato. Timaeus and Critias. Trans. Desmond Lee. Harmondsworth: Penguin Classics, 1973. Porteous, J. Douglas. “Home: The Territorial Core.” Geographical Review LXVI (1976): 383-390. Rothwell, Nicolas. Wings of the Kite-Hawk: A Journey into the Heart of Australia. Sydney: Pidador, 2003. Sallis, John. Chorology: On Beginning in Plato’s Timaeus. Bloomington: Indianapolis UP, 1999. Scott, Allen J. Regions and the World Economy: The Coming Shape of Global Production, Competition, and Political Order. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998. Storper, Michael. The Regional World: Territorial Development in a Global Economy. New York: The Guildford Press, 1997. Ulmer, Gregory L. Heuretics: The Logic of Invention. New York: John Hopkins UP, 1994. Ulmer, Gregory. Internet Invention: Literacy into Electracy. Longman: Boston, 2003. Wilken, Rowan. “Diagrammatology.” Illogic of Sense: The Gregory Ulmer Remix. Eds. Darren Tofts and Lisa Gye. Alt-X Press, 2007. 48–60. Available at http://www.altx.com/ebooks/ulmer.html. (Retrieved 12 June 2007)

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The word “prosthetic” has its origins as a mathematical term. According to scholar Brandon W. Hawk, Plato uses the words prosthesis and prostithenai in Phaedo to mean "addition, add to, to place", and Aristotle uses it in a similar, algebraic sense in the Metaphysics. Later, as the word appears in classical Latin, it is used as a grammatical and rhetorical term, in the sense of a letter or syllable that is added on to a word, usually the addition of a syllable to the beginning of a word, hence pro-thesis (Hawk). This is the sense of the word that was “inherited … by early modern humanists”, says Hawk, but when it appears in Edward Phillips's The New World of English Words: Or, a General Dictionary (1706), we can see how, with advances in technology, it changes from a grammatical/linguistic term into a medical term. What was once word is now made flesh:Prosthesis, a Grammatical Figure, when a Letter or Syllable is added to the beginning of a Word, as Gnatus for natus, tetuli for tuli, &c. In Surgery, Prosthesis is taken for that which fills up what is wanting, as is to beseen in fistulous and hollow Ulcers, filled up with Flesh by that Art: Also themaking of artificial Legs and Arms, when the natural ones are lost.Hawk also points to P. Dionis in Course Chirurg (a 1710 textbook detailing the art of chirurgy, or surgery, as it’s known now), who uses the word to denote one type of surgical operation; that is, prosthesis becomes not a word, but an act that “adds what is deficient”, an act that repairs loss, that “fills up what is wanting”, that fills up what is “hollow”, that “fills up with flesh”. R. Brookes, in his Introduction to Physic and Surgery (1754), is the first to define prosthesis as both an act and also as a separate, material object; it is “an operation by which some instrument is added to supply the Defect of a Part which is wanting, either naturally or accidentally”. It is not until the twentieth century (1900, to be exact), though, that the word begins to refer solely to a device or object that is added on to somehow “supply the defect”, or fill up what which is “wanting”. So etymologically we move from the writer creating a new literary device, to the scientist/doctor acting in order to fix something, then back to the device again, this time as tangible object that fills a gap where there is lack and loss (Hawk).This is how we most often see the word, and so we have the notion of prosthetic used in this medicalised sense, as an "instrument", in relation to people with missing or disfunctional limbs. Having a prosthetic arm or leg in an ableist society instantly marks one as "missing" something, or being "disabled". Wheelchairs and other prosthetic accoutrements also serve as a metonymic shorthand for disability (an example of this might be how, on reserved parking spots in North America, the image on the sign is that of a person in a wheelchair). In the case of deaf people, who are also thought of as "disabled", but whose supposed disability is invisible, hearing aids and cochlear implants (CIs) serve as this kind of visible marker.* Like artificial limbs and wheelchairs, these "instruments" (they are actually called “hearing instruments” by audiologists) are sometimes added on to the purportedly “lacking” body. They are objects that “restore function to” the disabled deaf ear. As such, these devices, like wheelchairs and bionic arms, also serve as a shorthand in American culture, especially in film and visual media, where this kind of obvious, material symbolism is very helpful in efficiently driving narrative along. David L. Mitchell and Sharon T. Snyder call this kind of disability shorthand "narrative prosthesis". In their 2001 book of the same name, they demonstrate that disability and the markers of disability, far from being neglected or omitted (as has been claimed by critics like Sarah Ruiz-Grossman), actually appear in literature and film to the point where they are astonishingly pervasive. Unlike other identities who are vastly underrepresented, Mitchell and Snyder note, images of disability are almost constantly circulated in print and visual media (this is clearly demonstrated in older film studies such as John Schuchman's Hollywood Speaks and Martin Norden's Cinema of Isolation, as well). The reason that this happens, Mitchell and Snyder say, is because almost all narrative is structured around the idea of a flaw in the natural order, the resolution of that flaw, and the restoration of order. This flaw, they show, is more often than not represented by a disabled character or symbol. Disability, then, is a "crutch upon which literary narratives lean for their representational power, disruptive potentiality and analytical insight" (49). And, in the end, all narrative is thus dependent upon some type of disability used as a prosthetic, which serves not only to “fill in” lack, but also to restore and reinforce normalcy. They also state that concepts of, and characters with, disability are therefore used in literature and film primarily as “opportunist metaphorical device(s)” (205). Hearing aids and CIs are great examples of "opportunist" devices used on television and in movies, mostly as props or “add-ons” in visual narratives. This "adding on" is done, more often than not, to the detriment of providing a well rounded narrative about the lived experience of deaf people who use such devices on a daily basis. There are countless examples of this in American television shows and films (in an upward trend since 2000), including many police and crime dramas where a cochlear implant device-as-clue stands in for the dead victim’s identity (Kincheloe "Do Androids"). We see it in movies, most notably in 2018’s A Quiet Place, in which a CI is weaponized and used to defeat the alien monster/Other (as opposed to the deaf heroine doing it by herself) (Kincheloe "Tired Tropes"). In 2019's Toy Story 4, there is a non-signing child who we know is deaf because they wear a CI. In the 2019 animated Netflix series, Undone, the main character wears a CI, and it serves as one of several markers (for her and the viewer) of her possible psychological breakdown.It seems fairly obvious that literal prostheses such as hearing aids and CI devices are used as a form of media shorthand to connote hearing ideas of “deafness”. It also might seem obvious that, as props that reinforce mainstream, ableist narratives, they are there to tell us that, in the end, despite the aesthetic nervousness that disability produces, "things will be okay". It's "fixable". These are prosthetics that are easily identified and easily discussed, debated, and questioned.What is perhaps not so obvious, however, is that American Sign Language (ASL), is also used in media as a narrative prosthetic. Lennard Davis' discussion of Erving Goffman’s idea of “stigma” in Enforcing Normalcy supports the notion that sign language, like hearing aids, is a marker. When seen by the hearing, non-signing observer, sign language "stigmatizes" the signing deaf person (48). In this sense, ASL is, like a hearing aid, a tangible "sign" of deaf identity. I would then argue that ASL is, like hearing aids and CIs, used as a "narrative prosthesis" signifying deafness and disability; its insertion allows ableist narratives to be satisfyingly resolved. Even though ASL is not a static physical device, but a living language and an integral part of deaf lived experience, it is casually employed almost everywhere in media today as a cheap prop, and as such, serves narrative purposes that are not in the best interest of realistic deaf representation. Consider this example: On 13 April 2012, Sir Paul McCartney arranged for a special event at his daughter Stella McCartney’s ivy-covered store in West Hollywood. Stars and friends like Jane Fonda, Gwyneth Paltrow, Chris Martin, Quincy Jones, and Reese Witherspoon sipped cucumber margaritas and nibbled on a spread of vegetarian Mexican appetizers. Afterwards, McCartney took them all to a tent set up on the patio out back, where he proudly introduced a new video, directed by himself. This was the world premiere of the video for "My Valentine", a song from his latest (some might say oddly titled) album, Kisses from the Bottom, a song he had originally written for and sung to new wife Nancy Shevell, at their 2011 wedding.The video is very simply shot in black and white, against a plain grey backdrop. As it begins, the camera fades in on actor Natalie Portman, who is seated, wearing a black dress. She stares at the viewer intently, but with no expression. As McCartney’s voiced-over vocal begins, “What if it rained/We didn’t care…”, she suddenly starts to mouth the words, and using sign language. The lens backs up to a medium shot of her, then closes back in on a tight close up of just her hands signing “my valentine” on her chest. There is then a quick cut to actor Johnny Depp, who is sitting in a similar position, in front of a grey backdrop, staring directly at the camera, also with no expression. There is a fade back to Portman’s face, then to her body, a close up of her signing the word “appear”, and then a cut back to Depp. Now he starts signing. Unlike Portman, he does not mouth the words, but stares ahead, with no facial movement. There is then a series of jump cuts, back and forth, between shots of the two actors’ faces, eyes, mouths, hands. For the solo bridge, there is a closeup on Depp’s hands playing guitar – a cut to Portman’s face, looking down – then to her face with eyes closed as she listens. here is some more signing, we see Depp’s impassive face staring at us again, and then, at the end, the video fades out on Portman’s still figure, still gazing at us as well.McCartney told reporters that Stella had been the one to come up with the idea for using sign language in the video. According to the ASL sign language coach on the shoot, Bill Pugin, the choice to include it wasn’t that far-fetched: “Paul always has an interpreter on a riser with a spot for his concerts and Stella loves sign language, apparently” ("The Guy Who Taught Johnny Depp"). Perhaps she made the suggestion because the second stanza contains the words “I tell myself that I was waiting for a sign…” Regardless, McCartney advised her father to “ring Natalie up and just ask her if she will sign to your song”. Later realizing he wanted another person signing in the video, Paul McCartney asked Johnny Depp to join in, which he did. When asked why he chose those two actors, McCartney said, “Well, they’re just nice people, some friends from way back and they were just very kind to do it”. A week later, they all got together with cinematographer Wally Pfister, who filmed Inception and The Dark Knight, behind the camera. According to the official press release about the video, posted on McCartney’s website, the two actors then "translate[d] the lyrics of the song into sign language – each giving distinctly different performances, making ... compelling viewing" ("Paul McCartney Directs His Own"). The response to the video was quite positive; it immediately went viral on YouTube (the original posting of it got over 15 million views). The album made it to number five on the Billboard charts, with the single reaching number twenty. The album won a 2013 Grammy Award for Best Traditional Pop Vocal album, and the video Best Music Film (“Live Kisses”). McCartney chose to sing that particular song from the album on the award show itself, and four years later, he featured both the song and video as part of his 31 city tour, the 2017 One on One concert, in which he made four million dollars a city. All told the video has served McCartney quite well.But…For whom the sign language? And why? The video is not meant for deaf eyes. When viewed through a deaf lens, it is not, by any stretch of the imagination, “compelling”; it isn’t even comprehensible. It is so bad, in fact, that the video, though signed, is also captioned for the deaf and hard of hearing. To the untrained, “hearing” eye, the signing seems to be providing a “deaf translation” of what is being sung. But it is in fact a pantomime. The actors are quite literally “going through the motions”. One egregious example of this is how, at the end of the video, when Depp thinks he’s signing “valentine”. it looks like he's saying “f*ck-heart” (several media sources politely reported that he’d signed “enemy”). Whatever he did, it’s not a sign. In response to criticism of his signing, Depp said nonchalantly, “Apparently, instead of ‘love' I might have said, ‘murder'” ("Johnny Depp Says"). That wasn’t the only point of confusion, though: the way Portman signs “then she appears” was misunderstood by some viewers to be the sign for “tampon”. She actually signed it correctly, but media sources from MTV.com, to the Washington Post, “signsplained” that she had just gotten a bit confused between ASL and BSL signs (even though the BSL for “appears” bears no resemblance to what she did, and the ASL for tampon, while using the same classifier, is also signed quite differently). Part of the problem, according to sign coach Pugin, was that he and Depp “had about fifteen minutes to work on the song. I signed the song for hours sitting on an apple box under the camera for Johnny to be able to peripherally see me for each take. I was his “human cue card”. Johnny’s signing turned out to be more theatrical and ‘abbreviated’ because of the time issue” ("The Guy Who Taught").Portman, perhaps taking more time to rehearse, does a better job, but “theatrical and abbreviated” indeed; the signing was just not good, despite Pugin's coaching. But to hearing eyes, it looks fine; it looks beautiful, it looks poignant and somehow mysterious. It looks the way sign language is “supposed” to look.Remember, the McCartney website claimed that the actors were “translating” the lyrics. Technically speaking, “translation” would mean that the sense of the words to the song were being rendered, fluently, from one language (English) into another (SL), for an audience receptive to the second language. In order to “translate”, the translator needs to be fluent in both of the languages involved. To be clear, what Depp and Portman were doing was not translation. They are hearing people, not fluent in sign language, acting like signers (something that happens with dismaying regularity in the entertainment industry). Depp, to his credit, knew he wasn’t “translating”, in fact, he said "I was only copying what the guy showed me”. “But”, he says, "it was a gas – sign language is apparently very interpretive. It's all kind of different" (italics mine) ("Johnny Depp Passes the Buck"). Other than maybe being an embellishment on that one line, “I tell myself that I was waiting for a sign…”, the sentiments of McCartney’s song have absolutely nothing to do with ASL or deaf people. And he didn’t purposefully place sign language in his video as a way to get his lyrics across to a deaf audience. He’s a musician; it is fairly certain that the thought of appealing to a deaf audience never entered his or his daughter’s mind. It is much more likely that he made the decision to use sign language because of its cool factor; its emo “novelty”. In other words, McCartney used sign language as a prop – as a way to make his song “different”, more “touching”, more emotionally appealing. Sign adds a je ne sais quoi, a little “something”, to the song. The video is a hearing person’s fantasy of what a signing person looks like, what sign language is, and what it does. McCartney used that fantasy, and the sentimentality that it evokes, to sell the song. And it worked. This attitude toward sign language, demonstrated by the careless editing of the video, Depp’s flippant remarks, and the overall attitude that if it’s wrong it’s no big deal, is one that is pervasive throughout the entertainment and advertising industries and indeed throughout American culture in the U.S. That is, there is this notion that sign language is “a gas”. It’s just a “different” thing. Not only is it “different”, but it is also a “thing”, a prop, a little exotic spice you throw into the pot. It is, in other words, a "narrative prosthesis", an "add-on". Once you see this, it becomes glaringly apparent that ASL is not viewed in mainstream American culture as the language of a group of people, but instead is widely used and commodified as a product. The most obvious form of commodification is in the thousands of ASL products, from Precious Moment figurines, to Baby Signing videos, to the ubiquitous “I LOVE YOU” sign seen on everything from coffee mugs to tee shirts, to Nike posters with “Just Do It” in fingerspelling. But the area in which the language is most often commodified (and perhaps most insidiously so) is in the entertainment industry, in visual media, where it is used by writers, directors and actors, not to present an accurate portrait of lived deaf experience and language, but to do what Paul McCartney did, that is, to insert it just to create a “different”, unique, mysterious, exotic, heartwarming spectacle. Far too often, this commodification of the language results in weirdly distorted representations of what deaf people and their language actually are. You can see this everywhere: ASL is a prominent narrative add-on in blockbuster films like the aforementioned A Quiet Place; it is used in the Oscar winning The Shape of Water, and in Wonderstruck, and Baby Driver as well; it is used in the indie horror film Hush; it is used in a lot of films with apes (the Planet of the Apes series and Rampage are two examples); it is displayed on television, mostly in police dramas, in various CSI programs, and in series like The Walking Dead and Castle Rock; it is used in commercials to hawk everything from Pepsi to hotel chains to jewelry to Hormel lunchmeat to fast food (Burger King, Chik Fil A); it is used and commented on in interpreted concerts and music videos and football halftime shows; it is used (often misused) in PSAs for hurricanes and police stops; it is used in social media, from vlogs to cochlear implant activation videos. You can find ASL seemingly everywhere; it is being inserted more and more into the cultural mainstream, but is not appearing as a language. It is used, nine times out of ten, as a decorative ornament, a narrative prop. When Davis discusses the hearing perception of ASL as a marker or visible stigma, he points out that the usual hearing response to observing such stigma is a combination of a Freudian attraction/repulsion (the dominant response being negative). Many times this repulsion results from the appeal to pathos, as in the commercials that show the poor isolated deaf person with the nice hearing person who is signing to them so that they can now be part of the world. The hearing viewer might think to themselves "oh, thank God I'm not deaf!"Davis notes that, in the end, it is not the signer who is the disabled one in this scenario (aside from the fact that many times a signing person is not in fact deaf). The hearing, non signing observer is actually the one “disabled” by their own reaction to the signing “other”. Not only that, but the rhetorical situation itself becomes “disabled”: there is discomfort – wariness of language – laughter – compulsive nervous talking – awkwardness – a desire to get rid of the object. This is a learned response. People habituated, Davis says, do not respond this way (12-13). While people might think that the hearing audience is becoming more and more habituated because ASL is everywhere, the problem is that people are being incorrectly habituated. More often than not, sign language, when enfolded into narratives about hearing people in hearing situations, is put into service as a prop that can mitigate such awkward moments of possible tension and conflict; it is a prosthetic that "fills the gap", allowing an interaction between hearing and deaf people that almost always allows for a positive, "happy" resolution, a return to "normalcy", the very purpose of the "narrative prosthetic" as posited by Mitchell and Snyder. Once we see how ASL is being employed in media mostly as a narrative prosthesis, we can, as Mitchell and Snyder suggest we do (what I hope this essay begins to do), and that is, to begin to “undo the quick repair of disability in mainstream representations and beliefs; to try to make the prosthesis show; to flaunt its imperfect supplementation as an illusion” (8). In other words, if we can scrutinize the shorthand, and dig deeper, seeing the prosthetic for what it is, all of this seemingly exploitative commodification of ASL will be a good thing. Maybe, in “habituating” people correctly, in widening both hearing people’s exposure to ASL and their understanding of its actual role in deaf lived experience, signing will become less of a prosthetic, an object of fetishistic fascination. Maybe hearing people, as they become used to seeing signing people in real signing situations, will be less likely to walk up to deaf people they don’t know and say things like: “Oh, your language is SO beautiful”, or say, “I know sign!” (then fingerspelling the alphabet with agonising slowness and inaccuracy while the deaf person nods politely). However, if the use of ASL as a prosthetic in popular culture and visual media continues to go on unexamined and unquestioned, it will just continue to trivialise a living, breathing language. This trivialisation can in turn continue to reduce the lived experiences of deaf people to a sort of caricature, further reinforcing the negative representations of deaf people in America that are already in place, stereotypes that we have been trying to escape for over 200 years. Note* The word "deaf" is used in this article to denote the entire range of individuals with various hearing losses and language preferences, including Deaf persons and hard of hearing persons, etc. For more on these distinctions please refer to the website entry on this published by the National Association of the Deaf (NAD).ReferencesDavis, Lennard. Enforcing Normalcy. New York: Verso, 1995."The Guy Who Taught Johnny Depp and Natalie Portman Sign Language." Intimate Excellent: The Fountain Theater Blog. 18 Mar. 2012. <https://intimateexcellent.com/2012/04/18/the-guy-who-taught-johnny-depp-and-natalie-portman-sign-language-in-mccartney-video/>.Fitzgerald, Roisin. "Johnny Depp Says Sign Language Mishap Isn't His Fault." HiddenHearing Blog 14 Apr. 2012. <https://hiddenhearingireland.wordpress.com/2012/05/29/johnny-depp-says-sign-language-mishap-isnt-his-fault/>.Hawk, Brandon W. “Prosthesis: From Grammar to Medicine in the Earliest History of the Word.” Disability Studies Quarterly 38.4 (2018).McCartney, Paul. "My Valentine." YouTube 13 Apr. 2012.McGinnis, Sara. "Johnny Depp Passes the Buck on Sign Language Snafu." sheknows.com 10 May 2012. <https://www.sheknows.com/entertainment/articles/959949/johnny-depp-passes-the-buck-on-sign-language-snafu/>.Miller, Julie. "Paul McCartney on Directing Johnny Depp and Natalie Portman." Vanity Fair 14 Apr. 2012. <https://www.vanityfair.com/style/2012/04/paul-mccartney-johnny-depp-natalie-portman-my-valentine-music-video-gwyneth-paltrow>.Mitchell, David T., and Sharon L. Snyder. Narrative Prosthesis: Disabilities and the Dependencies of Discourse. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan P. 2000.Norden, Martin. F. The Cinema of Isolation: A History of Physical Disability in Movies. Rutgers UP: 1994."Paul McCartney Directs His Own My Valentine Video." paulmccartney.com 14 Apr. 2012. <https://www.paulmccartney.com/news-blogs/news/paul-mccartney-directs-his-own-my-valentine-videos-featuring-natalie-portman-and>.Ruiz-Grossman, Sarah. "Disability Representation Is Seriously Lacking in Television and the Movies: Report." Huffington Post 27 Mar. 2019. <https://www.huffpost.com/entry/disability-representation-movies-tv_n_5c9a7b85e4b07c88662cabe7>.Schuchman, J.S. Hollywood Speaks: Deafness and the Film Entertainment Industry. U Illinois P, 1999.

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Indigenous cross-cultural training has been around since the 1980s. It is often seen as a way to increase the skills and competency of staff engaged in providing service to Indigenous clients and customers, teaching Indigenous students within universities and schools, or working with Indigenous communities (Fredericks and Bargallie, “Indigenous”; “Which Way”). In this article we demonstrate how such training often exposes power, whiteness, and concepts of an Indigenous “other”. We highlight how cross-cultural training programs can potentially provide a setting in which non-Indigenous participants can develop a deeper realisation of how their understandings of the “other” are formed and enacted within a “white” social setting. Revealing whiteness as a racial construct enables people to see race, and “know what racism is, what it is not and what it does” (Bargallie, 262). Training participants can use such revelations to develop their racial literacy and anti-racist praxis (Bargallie), which when implemented have the capacity to transform inequitable power differentials in their work with Indigenous peoples and organisations.What Does the Literature Say about Cross-Cultural Training? An array of names are used for Indigenous cross-cultural training, including cultural awareness, cultural competency, cultural responsiveness, cultural safety, cultural sensitivity, cultural humility, and cultural capability. Each model takes on a different approach and goal depending on the discipline or profession to which the training is applied (Hollinsworth). Throughout this article we refer to Indigenous cross-cultural training as “cultural competence” or “cultural awareness” and discuss these in relation to their application within higher education institutions. While literature on health and human services programs in Australia, Canada, New Zealand, and other nation states provide clear definitions of terms such as “cultural safety”, cultural competence or cultural awareness is often lacking a concise and consistent definition.Often delivered as a half day or a one to two-day training course, it is unrealistic to think that Indigenous cultural competence can be achieved through one’s mere attendance and participation. Moreover, when courses centre on “cultural differences” and enable revelations about those differences they are in danger of presenting idealised notions of Indigeneity. Cultural competence becomes a process through which an Indigenous “other” is objectified, while very little is offered by way of translating knowledge and skills into practice when working with Indigenous peoples.What this type of learning has the capacity to do is oversimplify and reinforce racism and racist stereotypes of Indigenous peoples and Indigenous cultures. What is generally believed is that if non-Indigenous peoples know more about Indigenous peoples and cultures, relationships between Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples will somehow improve. The work of Goenpul scholar Aileen Moreton-Robinson is vital to draw on here, when she asks, has the intellectual investment in defining our cultural differences resulted in the valuing of our knowledges? Has the academy become a more enlightened place in which to work, and, more important, in what ways have our communities benefited? (xvii)What is revealed in a range of studies – whether centring on racism and discrimination or the ongoing disparities across health, education, incarceration, employment, and more – is that despite forty plus years of training focused on understanding cultural differences, very little has changed. Indigenous knowledges continue to be devalued and overlooked. Everyday and structural racisms shape everyday experiences for Indigenous employees in Australian workplaces such as the Australian Public Service (Bargallie) and the Australian higher education sector (Fredericks and White).As the literature demonstrates, the racial division of labour in such institutions often leaves Indigenous employees languishing on the lower rungs of the employment ladder (Bargallie). The findings of an Australian university case study, discussed below, highlights how power, whiteness, and concepts of “otherness” are exposed and play out in cultural competency training. Through their exposure, we argue that better understandings about Indigenous Australians, which are not based on culture difference but personal reflexivity, may be gained. Revealing What Was Needed in the Course’s Foundation and ImplementationThis case study is centred within a regional Australian university across numerous campuses. In 2012, the university council approved an Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander strategy, which included a range of initiatives, including the provision of cross-cultural training for staff. In developing the training, a team explored the evidence as it related to university settings (Anning; Asmar; Butler and Young; Fredericks; Fredericks and Thompson; Kinnane, Wilks, Wilson, Hughes and Thomas; McLaughlin and Whatman). This investigation included what had been undertaken in other Australian universities (Anderson; University of Sydney) and drew on the recommendations from earlier research (Behrendt, Larkin, Griew and Kelly; Bradley, Noonan, Nugent and Scales; Universities Australia). Additional consultation took place with a broad range of internal and external stakeholders.While some literature on cross-cultural training centred on the need to understand cultural differences, others exposed the problems of focusing entirely on difference (Brach and Fraser; Campinha-Bacote; Fredericks; Spencer and Archer; Young). The courses that challenged the centrality of cultural difference explained why race needed to be at the core of its training, highlighting its role in enabling discussions of racism, bias, discrimination and how these may be used as means to facilitate potential individual and organisational change. This approach also addressed stereotypes and Eurocentric understandings of what and who is an Indigenous Australian (Carlson; Gorringe, Ross and Forde; Hollinsworth; Moreton-Robinson). It is from this basis that we worked and grew our own training program. Working on this foundational premise, we began to separate content that showcased the fluidity and diversity of Indigenous peoples and refrained from situating us within romantic notions of culture or presenting us as an exotic “other”. In other words, we embraced work that responded to non-Indigenous people’s objectified understandings and expectations of us. For example, the expectation that Indigenous peoples will offer a Welcome to Country, performance, share a story, sing, dance, or disseminate Indigenous knowledges. While we recognise that some of these cultural elements may offer enjoyment and insight to non-Indigenous people, they do not challenge behaviours or the nature of the relationships that non-Indigenous people have with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples (Bargallie; Fredericks; Hollinsworth; Westwood and Westwood; Young).The other content which needed separating were the methods that enabled participants to understand and own their standpoints. This included the use of critical Indigenous studies as a form of analysis (Moreton-Robinson). Critical race theory (Delgado and Stefancic) was also used as a means for participants to interrogate their own cultural positionings and understand the pervasive nature of race and racism in Australian society and institutions (McLaughlin and Whatman). This offered all participants, both non-Indigenous and Indigenous, the opportunity to learn how institutional racism operates, and maintains discrimination, neglect, abuse, denial, and violence, inclusive of the continued subjugation that exists within higher education settings and broader society.We knew that the course needed to be available online as well as face-to-face. This would increase accessibility to staff across the university community. We sought to embed critical thinking as we began to map out the course, including the theory in the sections that covered colonisation and the history of Indigenous dispossession, trauma and pain, along with the ongoing effects of federal and state policies and legislations that locates racism at the core of Australian politics. In addition to documenting the ongoing effects of racism, we sought to ensure that Indigenous resistance, agency, and activism was highlighted, showing how this continues, thus linking the past to the contemporary experiences of Indigenous peoples.Drawing on the work of Bargallie we wanted to demonstrate how Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples experience racism through systems and structures in their everyday work with colleagues in large organisations, such as universities. Participants were asked to self-reflect on how race impacts their day-to-day lives (McIntosh). The final session of the training focused on the university’s commitment to “Closing the Gap” and its Reconciliation Action Plan (RAP). The associated activity involved participants working individually and in small groups to discuss and consider what they could contribute to the RAP activities and enact within their work environments. Throughout the training, participants were asked to reflect on their personal positioning, and in the final session they were asked to draw from these reflections and discuss how they would discuss race, racism and reconciliation activities with the governance of their university (Westwood and Westwood; Young).Revelations in the Facilitators, Observers, and Participants’ Discussions? This section draws on data collected from the first course offered within the university’s pilot program. During the delivery of the in-person training sessions, two observers wrote notes while the facilitators also noted their feelings and thoughts. After the training, the facilitators and observers debriefed and discussed the delivery of the course along with the feedback received during the sessions.What was noticed by the team was the defensive body language of participants and the types of questions they asked. Team members observed how there were clear differences between the interest non-Indigenous participants displayed when talking about Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples and a clear discomfort when they were asked to reflect on their own position in relation to Indigenous people. We noted that during these occasions some participants crossed their arms, two wrote notes to each other across the table, and many participants showed discomfort. When the lead facilitator raised this to participants during the sessions, some expressed their dislike and discomfort at having to talk about themselves. A couple were clearly unhappy and upset. We found this interesting as we were asking participants to reflect and talk about how they interpret and understand themselves in relation to Indigenous people and race, privilege, and power.This supports the work of DiAngelo who explains that facilitators can spend a lot of time trying to manage the behaviour of participants. Similarly, Castagno identifies that sometimes facilitators of training might overly focus on keeping participants happy, and in doing so, derail the hard conversations needed. We did not do either. Instead, we worked to manage the behaviours expressed and draw out what was happening to break the attempts to silence racial discussions. We reiterated and worked hard to reassure participants that we were in a “safe space” and that while such discussions may be difficult, they were worth working through on an individual and collective level.During the workshop, numerous emotions surfaced, people laughed at Indigenous humour and cried at what they witnessed as losses. They also expressed anger, defensiveness, and denial. Some participants revelled in hearing answers to questions that they had long wondered about; some openly discussed how they thought they had discovered a distant Aboriginal relative. Many questions surfaced, such as why hadn’t they ever been told this version of Australian history? Why were we focusing on them and not Aboriginal people? How could they be racist when they had an Aboriginal friend or an Aboriginal relative?Some said they felt “guilty” about what had happened in the past. Others said they were not personally responsible or responsible for the actions of their ancestors, questioning why they needed to go over such history in the first place? Inter-woven within participants’ revelations were issues of racism, power, whiteness, and white privilege. Many participants took a defensive stance to protect their white privilege (DiAngelo). As we worked through these issues, several participants started to see their own positionality and shared this with the group. Clearly, the revelation of whiteness as a racial construct was a turning point for some. The language in the group also changed for some participants as revelations emerged through the interrogation and unpacking of stories of racism. Bargallie’s work exploring racism in the workplace, explains that “racism”, as both a word and theme, is primarily absent in conversations amongst non-Indigenous colleagues. Despite its entrenchment in the dialogue, it is rarely, if ever addressed. In fact, for many non-Indigenous people, the fear of being accused of racism is worse than the act of racism itself (Ahmed; Bargallie). We have seen this play out within the media, sport, news bulletins, and more. Lentin describes the act of denying racism despite its existence in full sight as “not racism”, arguing that its very denial is “a form of racist violence” (406).Through enhancing racial literacy, Bargallie asserts that people gain a better understanding of “what racism is, what racism is not and how race works” (258). Such revelations can work towards dismantling racism in workplaces. Individual and structural racism go hand-in-glove and must be examined and addressed together. This is what we wanted to work towards within the cultural competency course. Through the use of critical Indigenous studies and critical race theory we situated race, and not cultural difference, as central, providing participants with a racial literacy that could be used as a tool to challenge and dismantle racism in the workplace.Revelations in the Participant Evaluations?The evaluations revealed that our intention to disrupt the status quo in cultural competency training was achieved. Some of the discussions were difficult and this was reflected in the feedback. It was valuable to learn that numerous participants wanted to do more through group work, conversations, and problem resolution, along with having extra reading materials. This prompted our decision to include extra links to resource learning materials through the course’s online site. We also opted to provide all participants with a copy of the book Indigenous Australia for Dummies (Behrendt). The cost of the book was built into the course and future participants were thankful for this combination of resources.One unexpected concern raised by participants was that the course should not be “that hard”, and that we should “dumb down” the course. We were astounded considering that many participants were academics and we were confident that facilitators of other mandatory workplace training, for example, staff Equal Employment Opportunity (EEO), Fire Safety, Risk Management, Occupational Health and Safety, Discrimination and more, weren’t asked to “dumb down” their content. We explained to the participants what content we had been asked to deliver and knew their responses demonstrated white fragility. We were not prepared to adjust the course and dumb it down for white understandings and comfortabilities (Leonardo and Porter).Comments that were expected included that the facilitators were “passionate”, “articulate”, demonstrated “knowledge” and effectively “dealt with issues”. A couple of the participants wrote that the facilitators were “aggressive” or “angry”. This however is not new for us, or new to other Aboriginal women. We know Aboriginal women are often seen as “aggressive” and “angry”, when non-Indigenous women might be described as “passionate” or “assertive” for saying exactly the same thing. The work of Aileen Moreton-Robinson in Australia, and the works of numerous other Aboriginal women provide evidence of this form of racism (Fredericks and White; Bargallie; Bond). Internationally, other Indigenous women and women of colour document the same experiences (Lorde). Participants’ assessment of the facilitators is consistent with the racism expressed through racial microaggression outside of the university, and in other organisations. This is despite working in the higher education sector, which is normally perceived as a more knowledgeable and informed environment. Needless to say, we did not take on these comments.The evaluations did offer us the opportunity to adjust the course and make it stronger before it was offered across the university where we received further evaluation of its success. Despite this, the university decided to withdraw and reallocate the money to the development of a diversity training course that would cover all equity groups. This meant that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples would be covered along with sexual diversity, gender, disability, and people from non-English speaking backgrounds. The content focused on Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples was reduced to one hour of the total course. Including Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples in this way is not based on evidence and works to minimise Indigenous Australians and their inherent rights and sovereignty to just another “equity group”. Conclusion We set out to develop and deliver a cross-cultural course that was based on evidence and a foundation of 40 plus years’ experience in delivering such training. In addition, we sought a program that would align with the university’s Reconciliation Action Plan and the directions being undertaken in the sector and by Universities Australia. Through engaging participants in a process of critical thinking centring on race, we developed a training program that successfully fostered self-reflection and brought about revelations of whiteness.Focusing on cultural differences has proven ineffective to the work needed to improve the lives of Indigenous Australian peoples. Recognising this, our discussions with participants directly challenged racist and negative stereotypes, individual and structural racism, prejudices, and white privilege. By centring race over cultural difference in cultural competency training, we worked to foster self-revelation within participants to transform inequitable power differentials in their work with Indigenous peoples and organisations. The institution’s disbandment and defunding of the program however is a telling revelation in and of itself, highlighting the continuing struggle and importance of placing additional pressure on persons, institutions, and organisations to implement meaningful structural change. ReferencesAhmed, Sara. On Being Included: Racism and Diversity in Institutional Life. Duke University Press, 2012.Anderson, Ian. “Advancing Indigenous Health through Medical Education”. Focus on Health Professional Education: A Multi-Disciplinary Journal 13.1 (2011): 1-12.Anning, Beres. “Embedding an Indigenous Graduate Attribute into University of Western Sydney’s Courses”. Australian Journal of Indigenous Education 39 (2010): 40-52.Asmar, Christine. Final Report on the Murrup Barak of Indigenous Curriculum, Teaching and Learning at the University of Melbourne, 2010-2011. Murrup Barak – Melbourne Institute for Indigenous Development, University of Melbourne, 2011.Bargallie, Debbie. Unmasking The Racial Contract: Everyday Racisms and the Impact of Racial Microaggressions on “Indigenous Employees” in the Australian Public Service. Aboriginal Studies Press, 2020. Behrendt, Larissa. Indigenous Australia for Dummies. Wiley Publishing, 2010.Behrendt, Larissa, Steven Larkin, Robert Griew, Robert, and Patricia Kelly. Review of Higher Education Access and Outcomes for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander People: Final Report. 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Journal of Nursing Education 38.5 (1999): 203-207.Carlson, Bronwyn. The Politics of Identity – Who Counts as Aboriginal Today? Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press, 2016.Delgado, Richard, and Jean Stefancic. Critical Race Theory: An Introduction. New York University Press, 2001.DiAngelo, Robin. “Nothing to Add: A Challenge to White Silence in Racial Discussions”. Understanding and Dismantling Privilege 11.1 (2012). <http://www.wpcjournal.com/article/view/10100/Nothing%20to%20add%3A%20A%20Challenge%20to%20White%20Silence%20in%20Racial%20Discussions>.Frankenburg, Ruth. White Women, Race Matters: The Social Construction of Whiteness. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993.Fredericks, Bronwyn. “The Need to Extend beyond the Knowledge Gained in Cross-Cultural Awareness Training”. The Australian Journal of Indigenous Education 37.S (2008): 81-89.Fredericks, Bronwyn, and Debbie Bargallie. “An Indigenous Cultural Competency Course: Talking Culture, Care and Power”. 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Strategies for Breaking the Stereotypes and Changing the Conversation. AIATSIS Research Discussion Paper No. 28. Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies (AIATSIS), 2011.Hollinsworth, David. “Forget Cultural Competence: Ask for an Autobiography”. Social Work Education: The International Journal 32.8 (2013): 1048-1060.hooks, bell. Feminist Theory: From Margin to Centre. London: Pluto Press, 2000.Kinnane, Stephen, Judith Wilks, Katie Wilson, Terri Hughes, and Sue Thomas. Can’t Be What You Can’t See: The Transition of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Students into Higher Education. Final report to the Australian Government Office for Learning and Teaching. Canberra: Office of Learning and Teaching, 2014.Lentin, Alana. “Beyond Denial: ‘Not Racism’ as Racist Violence”. Continuum 32.1 (2018): 1-15.Leonardo, Zeus, and Ronald L. Porter. “Pedagogy of Fear: Toward a Fanonian Theory of ‘Safety’ in Race Dialogue”. Race Ethnicity and Education 13.2 (2010): 139-157.Lorde, Audrey. Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches. Crossing Press, 1984.McIntosh, Peggy. White Privilege and Male Privilege: A Personal Account of Coming to See Correspondences through Work in Women's Studies. Wellesley College, Center for Research on Women, 1988.McLaughlin, Juliana, and Sue Whatman. “The Potential of Critical Race Theory in Decolonizing University Curricula”. Asia Pacific Journal of Education 31.4 (2011): 365-377.Moreton-Robinson, Aileen. The White Possessive: Property, Power, and Indigenous Sovereignty. University of Minnesota Press, 2015.Sargent, Sara E., Carol A. Sedlak, and Donna S. Martsolf. “Cultural Competence among Nursing Students and Faculty”. Nurse Education Today 25.3 (2005): 214-221.Sherwood, Juanita, and Tahnia Edwards. “Decolonisation: A Critical Step for Improving Aboriginal health”. Contemporary Nurse 22.2 (2016): 178-190.Spencer, Caroline, and Frances L. Archer. “Surveys of Cultural Competency in Health Professional Education: A Literature Review”. Journal of Emergency Primary Health Care 6.2 (2008): 17.Universities Australia. National Best Practice Framework for Indigenous Cultural Competency in Australian Universities. Universities Australia, 2011. <http://www.universitiesaustralia.edu.au/lightbox/1312>.University of Sydney. National Centre for Cultural Competence, 2016. <http://sydney.edu.au/nccc/>.Westwood, Barbara, and Geoff Westwood. “Aboriginal Cultural Awareness Training: Policy v. Accountability – Failure in Reality”. Australian Health Review 34 (2010): 423-429.Young, Susan. “Not Because It’s a Bloody Black Issue! Problematics of Cross Cultural Training”. In Unmasking Whiteness: Race Relations and Reconciliation, ed. Belinda McKay, 204-219. Queensland Studies Centre, University of Queensland Press, 1999.

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Wife (1975) is a novel ostensibly about immigration, but it is also about gender, ethnicity, and power. Bharati Mukherjee's well-known essay, "An Invisible Woman" (1981), describes her experience in Canada as one that created "double vision" because her self-perception was put so utterly at odds with her social standing (39). She experienced intense and horrifying racism in Canada, particularly in Toronto, and claims that the setting of Wife, her third novel, is "in the mind of the heroine...always Toronto" (39). Mukherjee concludes the article by saying that she eventually left Toronto, and Canada, because she was unable to keep her "twin halves" together (40). In thinking about "mixing," Mukherjee’s work provides entry points into "mixed" or interlocking structures of domination; the diasporic female subject in Mukherjee’s Wife struggles to translate this powerful "mix" in her attempt to move across and within national borders, feminisms, and cultural difference. "An Invisible Woman", in many ways, illuminates the issues that are at stake in Mukherjee's Wife. The protagonist Dimple Dagsputa, like Mukherjee, experiences identity crisis through the cultural forces that powerfully shape her self-perception and deny her access to control of her own life. I want to argue that Wife is also about Dimple's ability to grasp at power through the connections that she establishes between her mind and body, despite the social forces that attempt to divide her. Through a discussion of Dimple's negotiations with Western feminisms and the methods by which she attempts to reclaim her commodified body, I will rethink Dimple's violent response as an act of agency and resistance. Diasporic Feminisms: Locating the Subject(s): Mukherjee locates Wife in two very different geographic settings: the dusty suburbs of Calcutta and the metropolis of New York City. Dimple’s experience as a diasporic subject, one who must relocate and find a new social/cultural space, is highly problematic. Mukherjee uses this diasporic position to bring Dimple’s ongoing identity formation into relief. As she crosses into the space of New York City, Dimple must negotiate the web created by gender, class, and race in her Bengali culture with an increasingly multiple grid of inseparable subject positions. Avtar Brah points out that diaspora is useful as a "conceptual grid" where "multiple subject positions are juxtaposed, contested, proclaimed or disavowed" (208). Brah points to experience as the site of subject formation; a discursive space where different subject positions are inscribed, repeated, or contested. For Brah, and for Mukherjee, it is essential to ask what the "fields of signification and representation" are that contribute to the formation of differing subjects (116). Dimple’s commodification and her submission to naming in the Bengali context are challenged when she encounters Western feminisms. Yet Mukherjee suggests that these feminisms do little to "liberate" Dimple, and in fact serve as another aspect of her oppression. Wife is concerned with the processes which lead up to Dimple’s final act of murder; the interlocking subject positions which she negotiates with in an attempt to control her own life. Dimple believes that the freedom offered by immigration will give her a new identity: "She did not want to carry any relics from her old life; given another chance she could be a more exciting person, take evening classes perhaps, become a librarian" (42). She is extremely optimistic about the opportunities of her new life, but Mukherjee does not valourize the New World over the Old. In fact, she continually demonstrates the limited spaces that are offered on both sides of the globe. In New York, Dimple faces the unresolved dilemma between her desire to be a traditional Indian wife and the lure of Western feminism. Her inability to find a liveable place within the crossings of these positions contributes to her ultimate act of violence. At her first party in Manhattan, Dimple encounters the diaspora of Indian and Pakistani immigrants who provide varying examples of the ways in which being "Indian" is in conversation with being "American." She hears about Ina Mullick, the Bengali wife whose careless husband has allowed her to become "more American than the Americans" (68). Dimple quickly learns that Amit is sharply disapproving of women who go to college, wear pants, and smoke cigarettes: "with so many Indians around and a television and a child, a woman shouldn’t have time to get any crazy ideas" (69). The options of education and employment are removed from Dimple’s grasp as soon as she begins to consider them, leaving her wondering what her new role in this place will be. Mukherjee inserts Ina Mullick into Dimple’s life as a challenge to the restrictions of traditional wifehood: "Well Dimple...what do you do all day? You must be bored out of your skull" (76). Ina has adopted what Jyoti calls "women’s lib stuff" and Dimple is warned of her "dangerous" influence (76). Ina engagement with Western feminisms is a form of resistance to the confines of traditional Bengali wifehood. Mukherjee, however, uses Ina’s character to demonstrate the misfit between Western and Third World feminisms. Although the oppressions experienced in both geographies appear to be similar, Mukherjee points out that neither Ina nor Dimple can find expression through a feminism that forces them to abandon their Indianess. Western feminist discourse has been much maligned for its Eurocentric construction of a monolithic Third World subject that ignores cultural complexity. Chandra Talpade Mohanty’s "Under Western Eyes" (1988) is the classic example of the interrogation of this construction. Mohanty argues that "ethnocentric universality" obliterates the differences within the varied category of female (197), and that "Western feminist writings on women in the third world subscribe to a variety of methodologies to demonstrate the universal cross-cultural operation of male dominance and female exploitation" (208-209). Mukherjee addresses these problems through Ina’s struggle; Western feminisms and their apparent "liberation" fail to provide Ina with a satisfying sense of self. Ina remains oppressed because these forms of feminism cannot adequately deal with the web of cultural and social crossings that constitute her position as simultaneously "Indian" and "American." The patriarchy that Ina and Dimple experience is not simply that of the industrialized first world; they must also grapple with the ways in which they have been named by their own specific cultural context. Mohanty argues that there is no hom*ogenous group called "women," and Mukherjee seems to agree by demonstrating that women's subject positions are varied and multi-layered. Ina’s apparently comfortable assimilation is soon upset by desperate confessions of her unease and depression. She contrasts her "before" and "after" self in caricatures of a woman in a sari and a woman in a bikini. These drawings represent, "the great moral and physical change, and all that" (95). Mukherjee suggests, however, that the change has been less than satisfactory for Ina, "‘I think it is better to stay a Before, if you can’...’Our trouble here is that we imitate badly, and we preserve things even worse’" (95). Ina’s confession alludes to her belief that she is copying, rather than actually living, a life which might be empowering. She has been forced to give up the "before" because it clashes with the ideal that she has constructed of the liberated Western woman. In accepting the oppositions between East and West, Ina pre-empts the possibility of being both. Though Dimple is fascinated by the options that Ina represents, and begins to question her own happiness, she becomes increasingly uncomfortable with the absolutes that Ina insists upon. Ina’s feminist friends frighten Dimple because of their inability to understand her; they come to represent a part of the American landscape that Dimple has come to fear through her mediated experience of American culture through the television and lifestyle magazines. Leni Anspach’s naked gums, "horribly pink and shiny, like secret lips, only more lecherous and lethal, set themselves up as enemies of decent, parsimonious living" (152). Leni’s discourse threatens to obliterate any knowledge that Dimple has of herself and her only resistance to this is an ironic reversal of her subservient role: "After Leni removed her cup Dimple kept on pouring, over the rim of Leni’s cup, over the tray and the floating dentures till the pregnant-bellied tea pot was emptied" (152). Dimple’s response to the lack of accommodation that Western feminism presents is tied to her feeling that Ina and Leni live with unforgiving extremes: "that was the trouble with people like Leni and Ina who believed in frankness, happiness and freedom; they lacked tolerance, and they abhorred discussions about the weather" (161). Like Amit, Ina offers a space through her example where Dimple cannot easily learn to negotiate her options. The dynamic between these women is ultimately explosive. Ina cannot accept Dimple’s choices and Dimple is forced to simplify herself in a defence that protects her from predatory Western feminisms: I can’t keep up with you people. I haven’t read the same kinds of books or anything. You know what I mean Ina, don’t you? I just like to cook and watch TV and embroider’...’Bravo!’ cried Ina Mullick from the sofa where she was sitting cross legged. ‘And what else does our little housewife do? ‘You’re making fun of me,’ Dimple screamed. ‘Who do you think you are?’ (169-170. Dimple lacks the ability to articulate her oppression; Ina Mullick can articulate it but cannot move outside of it. Both women feel anger, depression, and helplessness, but they fail to connect and help one another. Mukherjee demonstrates that women from the Third World, specifically those who come into contact with the diaspora, are not hom*ogenous subjects; her various representations of negotiation with processes of identity constitution show how different knowledges of self are internalized and acted out. Irene Gedalof’s recent work on bringing Indian and Western feminisms into conversation proceeds from the Foucauldian notion that these multiple discursive systems must prevail over the study of woman or women within a single (and limiting) symbolic order (26). The postcolonial condition of diaspora, Gedalof and other critics have pointed out, is an interesting position from which to begin talking about these complex processes of identity making since it breaks down the oppositions of South and North, East and West. In crossing the South/North and East/West divide, Dimple does not abandon her Indian subject position, but rather attempts to keep it intact as other social forces are presented. The opposition between Ina and Dimple, however, is dissolved by the flux that the symbol "woman" experiences. This process emphasizes differences within and between their experiences in a non-hierarchical way. Rethinking the Mind/Body Dichotomy: Dimple’s Response This section will attempt to show how Dimple’s response to her options is far more complex than the mind/body dichotomy that it appears to be upon superficial examination. Dimple’s body does not murder in an act of senseless violence that is divorced from her mental perception of the world. I want to rethink interpretations like the one offered by Emmanuel S. Nelson: "Wife describes a weak-minded Bengali woman [whose]...sensibilities become so confounded by her changing cultural roles, the insidious television factitiousness, and the tensions of feminism that, ironically, she goes mad and kill her husband" (54-55). Although her sense of reality and fantasy become blurred, Dimple acts in accordance with the few choices that remain open to her. In slowly guiding us toward Dimple’s horrifying act of violence, Mukherjee attempts to examine the social and cultural networks which condition her response. The absolutes of Western feminisms offer little space for resistance. Dimple, however, is not a victim of her circ*mstances. She reclaims her body as a site of inscription and commodification through methods of resistance which are inaccessible to Amit or her larger social contexts: abortion, vomiting, fantasies of mutilating her physical self, and, ultimately, through using her body as a tool, rather than an object, of violence. These actions are responses to her own lack of power over self representation; Dimple creates a private world in which she can resist the ways her body has been encoded and the ways in which she has been constructed as a divided object. In her work on the body in feminist discourse, Elizabeth Grosz argues that postructuralist feminists such as Luce Irigaray, Helene Cixous, and Judith Butler conceptualize female bodies as: "crucial to understanding women’s psychical and social existence, but the body is no longer understood as an ahistorical, biologically given, acultural object. They are concerned with the lived body, the body insofar as it is represented and used in specific ways in particular cultures" (Grosz 18). In emphasizing difference within the sexes, these postructuralist thinkers reject the Cartesian dualism of mind and body and do much for Chandra Talpade Mohanty’s project of considering the ways in which "woman" is a heterogenously constructed and shifting category. Mukherjee presents Dimple’s body as a "social body": a "social and discursive object, a body bound up in the order of desire, signification and power" (Grosz 18-19). Dimple cannot control, for example, Amit’s desire to impregnate her, to impose a schema of patriarchal reproduction on her body. Yet, as I will demonstrate, Dimple resists in ways that she cannot articulate but she is strongly aware that controlling the mappings of her body gives her some kind of power. This novel demonstrates how the dualisms of patriarchal discourse operate, but I want to read Dimple’s response as a reclaiming of the uncontrollable body; her power is exercised through what Deleuze and Guattari would call the "rhizomatic" connections between her body and mind. Their book, A Thousand Plateaus (1980), provides a miscellany of theory which, "flattens out the relations between the social and the psychical," and privileges neither (Grosz 180). Deleuze and Guattari favour maps and rhizomes as conceptual models, so that all things are open, connectable, and subject to constant modification (12). I want to think of Dimple as an assemblage, a rhizomatic structure that increases in the dimensions of a multiplicity that changes as it expands its connections (8). She is able to resist precisely because her body and mind are inseparable and fluid entities. Her violence toward Amit is a bodily act but it cannot be read in isolation; Mukherjee insists that we also understand the mental processes that preface this act. Dimple’s vomit is one of the most powerful tropes in the novel. It is a rejection and a resistance; it is a means of control while paradoxically suggesting a lack of control. Julia Kristeva is concerned with bodily fluids (blood, vomit, saliva, tears, seminal fluid) as "abjections" which necessarily, "partake of both polarized terms [subject/object, inside/outside] but cannot be clearly identified with either" (Grosz 192). Vomiting, then, is the first act that Dimple uses as a means of connecting the mind and body that she has been taught to know only separately. Vomiting is an abjection that signifies Dimple's rhizomatic fluidity; it is the open and changeable path that denies the split between her mind and her body that her social experiences attempt to enforce. Mukherjee devotes large sections of the narrative to this act, bringing the reader into a private space where one is forced to see, smell, and taste Dimple’s defiance. She initially discovers her ability to control her vomit when she is pregnant. At first it is an involuntary act, but she soon takes charge of her body’s rejections: The vomit fascinated her. It was hers; she was locked in the bathroom expelling brownish liquid from her body...In her arrogance, she thrust her fingers deep inside her mouth, once jabbing a squishy organ she supposed was her tonsil, and drew her finger in and out in smooth hard strokes until she collapsed with vomiting (31) Dimple’s vomiting does contain an element of pathos which is somewhat problematic; one might read her only as a victim because her pathetic grasp at power is reduced to the pride she feels in her bodily expulsions. Mukherjee’s text, however, begs the reader to read Dimple carefully. Dimple acts through her body, often with horrible consequences, but she is resisting in the only way that she is able. In New York, as Dimple encounters an increasingly complicated sociocultural matrix, she fights to find a space between her role as a loyal Indian wife and the apparent temptations of the United States. Ina Mullick’s Western feminism asks her to abandon her Bengali self, and Amit asks her to retain it. In the face of these absolutes, Dimple continues to attempt her resistance through her body, but it is often weak and ineffectual: "But instead of the great gush Dimple had hoped for, only a thin trickle was expelled. It gravitated toward the drain, a small slimy pool full of bubbles. She was ashamed of it; it seemed more impersonal than a cooking stain" (150). Mukherjee asks us to read Dimple through her abjections--through both mind and body (not entirely distinct entities for Mukherjee)--in order to understand the murder. We must gauge Dimple's actions through the open and connectable relationships of body and mind. Her inability to vomit "pleasurably" signifies a growing inability to locate a space that is tolerable. Vomiting becomes a way for Dimple to tie her multiple subject positions together: "Vomiting could be pleasurable; thinking of all the bathrooms she had vomited in she felt nostalgic, almost middle-aged" (149). This moment at the kitchen sink occurs when Leni and Ina have fractured her sense of a stable Indian identity. In an interview, Mukherjee admits that Dimple’s movement to the United States means that she begins to ask questions about her oppression; she begins to ask herself questions about her own happiness (Hanco*ck 44). These questions, coupled with Leni and Ina’s challenging presence, leads to Dimple to desire a reconnection and a sense of control. Undoubtedly, Dimple’s act of murder is misguided, but Mukherjee sensitively demonstrates that Dimple has very little choice left. Dimple does not simply break down into a body and mind that are unaware of their connections, rather she begins to operate on several levels of consciousness. Shen Mei Ma interprets Dimple’s condition as schizophrenic, and explores this as a prominent trope in Asian diaspora literatures. She uses R.D. Laing’s classic explanation of schizophrenia as a working definition: The term schizoid refers to an individual the totality of whose experience is split in two main ways: in the first place, there is a rent in his relation with his world, and, in the second, there is a disruption of his relation with himself...Moreover, he does not experience himself as a complete person but rather as ‘split’ in various ways, perhaps a mind more or less tenuously linked to a body, as two or more selves, and so on (Ma 43) Ma analyses this condition (which can be seen, like gender and race, as a socially constructed state of being), as a "defense mechanism" against an unbearable world; the separation in space and memory that the diasporic subject experiences results in a schizophrenic, or divisive, tendency. I agree with Ma's use of Laing's definition of schizophrenia in the sense that this understanding is certainly more useful than Emmanuel Nelson's insistence on Dimple's "madness." Reading Dimple's response with an interest in Deleuze and Guattari's conceptual rhizomes, however, leads me to resist using a definition that is linked to mental illness. This may be a prominent trope in Asian diaspora literature, but it is also necessary, and perhaps more useful, to recognize that Dimple's act of violence and her debatable "madness" are ultimately less important than reading her negotiation as a means of survival and her response as an act of resistance. Many critics interpret the final act of murder as "an ironic twist of Sati, the traditional self-immolation of an Indian wife on the funeral pyre of her husband" (Ma 58). This suggestion draws up Dimple’s teenage desire to be like Sita, "the ideal wife of Hindu legends" who walks through fire for her husband (6). The violence perpetrated against women who naturalize Sita’s tradition is wrenched into an act in which Dimple is able to exercise some control over her fate. The act of murder is woven with the alternate text of industrial/commercial culture in a way that demonstrates Dimple’s desperate negotiation with the options available to her: The knife stabbed the magical circle once, twice, seven times, each time a little harder, until the milk in the bowl of cereal was a pretty pink and the flakes were mushy and would have embarrassed any advertiser, and then she saw the head fall off - but of course it was her imagination because she was not sure anymore what she had seen on TV and what she had seen in the private screen of three A.M. (212-213) The tragedy of this conclusion surely lies in the events that are left unsaid: what is Dimple’s fate and how will society deal with her violent choice? Ma’s article on schizophrenia points to the most likely outcome--Dimple will be declared insane and "treated" for her illness. Yet my reading of this act has attempted to access a careful understanding of how Dimple is constructed and how this can contribute to rethinking her violent response. Dimple's mind is not an insane one; her body is not an uncontrollable, hysterical one. Murder is a choice for Dimple--albeit a choice that is exercised in a limited and oppressive space. "Mixing" is an urgent topic; as globalization and capitalist hom*ogenization make the theorization of diaspora increasingly necessary, it is essential to consider how gendered and raced subject positions are constituted and how they are reproduced within and across geographies. This novel is important because it forces the reader to ask the difficult questions about "mixing" that precede Dimple’s act of spousal violence. I have attempted to address these questions in my discussion of Dimple’s negotiations and her resistance. Much has been written about this novel in terms of Dimple’s "split," but very few critics have tried to examine Dimple’s character in ways that penetrate our limited third person access to her. Mukherjee’s own writing in "An Invisible Woman" suggests the urgency of rethinking characters like Dimple and the particular complexities of immigration for non-English speaking housewives. Mukherjee’s relative position of privilege has given her access to far more choices than Dimple has, but notably, she avoids turning Dimple’s often suicidal violence inward. Instead, Mukherjee shows how the inward is inescapable from the outward: in murdering Amit, the violence Dimple perpetrates is, after all, a rearticulation of the violence from which her limited subject position cannot completely escape. Footnote: In thinking about Dimple's response, it is important to note that, of course, her actions and her words are always conditioned by the position that she has naturalized. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak's "Can the Subaltern Speak?"(1988) argues that the subaltern subject cannot "speak" because no act of resistance occurs that can be separated from the dominant discourse that provides the language and the conceptual categories with which the subaltern voice speaks (Ashcroft et al 1998 217-218).The violence of Dimple's response must be seen as an ironic subversion of a television world that enforces patriarchal norms. References Ashcroft, Bill, Gareth Griffiths and Helen Tiffin. Key Concepts in Postcolonial Studies. London: Routledge, 1998. Brah, Avtar.Cartographies of Diaspora - Contesting Identities. London: Routledge, 1996. Deleuze, Gilles and Felix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus - Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1980. Gedalof, Irene. Against Purity - Rethinking Idenity With Indian and Western Feminisms. London: Routledge, 1999. Grosz, Elizabeth. Volatile Bodies - Toward a Corporeal Feminism. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1994. Ma, Sheng-mei. Immigrant Subjectivities in Asian American and Asian Diaspora Literatures. Albany: State U of NY P, 1998. Mohanty, Chandra Talpade. "Under Western Eyes: Feminist Scholarship and Colonial Discourses." Colonial Discourse and Postcolonial Theory: A Reader. Laura Chrisman and Patrick Williams, eds. NY: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1993: 196-220. Mukherjee, Bharati. Wife. Toronto: Penguin, 1975. -- "An Invisible Woman." Saturday Night 1981, 96: 36-40. Nelson, Emmanual S. Writers of the Indian Diaspora - A Bio-Bibliographical Critical Sourcebook.Westport, Conn.: Greenwood, 1993. Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. "Can the Subaltern Speak?" Colonial Discourse and Postcolonial Theory: A Reader. Laura Chrisman and Patrick Williams, eds. NY: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1993: 196-220.

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2021 is the fiftieth anniversary year for Japanese live-action superhero franchise Kamen Rider. For half a century, heroes bearing the name Kamen Rider have battled rubber suited monsters and defended the smiles of children. Unlike many superheroes, however, the Kamen Riders are grotesque heroes, usually drawing their powers from the same source as the villains they battle. Grotesque human-machine-animal hybrids, they differ from their opponents only in the kindness of their hearts and the strength of their spirits. Although the Kamen Rider franchise includes a variety of texts including manga, novels, movies, and stage musicals, the central text is the Sunday morning children’s television program. This article focusses exclusively on the television series. Each season of the television program is comprised of around fifty twenty-five-minute episodes, and each season features an entirely new cast, title, and premise. Kamen Rider was originally created at a time of economic downturn and social unrest, and the unease of the zeitgeist is reflected in the figure of the no longer human hero. A little over thirty years later Japan was again facing a variety of crises and intense debate over what, if any, role it should play in the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. The 2002 television season, Kamen Rider Ryūki, tackles difficult questions about what justice, heroism, and monstrosity mean, through the medium of a children’s martial arts and live action special effects hero television program. This article explores the blurred boundaries between monster and hero in Kamen Rider, in the context of social attitudes toward children. The First Kamen Rider The inaugural Kamen Rider (protagonist of the 1971 television season), Hongo Takeshi, is a university student who gains superpowers after being abducted and experimented on by Shocker, a terrorist organisation founded by Nazis. Their medical experiments are part of a plan to produce an army capable of world domination. Takeshi’s body was modified with grasshopper DNA and cybernetic enhancements, but he was able to escape before the mind control portion of the operation. Although he appears human, Takeshi transforms via a special belt into Kamen (masked) Rider in order to fight. His face is obscured by an insectoid helmet with red compound eyes and antennae. The transformation scene is a highlight of every episode, and the transformation belt is the most important of the (many) tie-in toys. The primary audience of Kamen Rider is children between two and seven, and as a media-mix (Steinberg) franchise the sale of toys and branded products to the primary audience is vital. Anne Allison (105) identifies the transformation and blending or crossing of bodily borders it entails as the “money shot” children anticipate and enjoy. There is also a substantial tertiary audience, however, which includes older children and adults. During the early 1970s, when the first few seasons of Kamen Rider were broadcast, ‘employment trains’ were transporting Japanese teenagers (immediately following their graduation from middle school) from rural areas to the large cities, where they worked in factories and construction far from their families (Alt 54). Kamen Rider’s creator, Ishinomori Shōtarō, had debuted as a manga artist while still in school himself, and his works were particularly popular among this disenfranchised demographic. The figure of a young man taken and changed against his will and left to forge his own path in the aftermath may have been particularly resonant with these teenagers. Kamen Rider’s creator, Ishinomori Shōtarō, was a member of the yakeato (burnt ruins) generation, who were children during the Second World War and experienced the fire- and nuclear bombings of Japan and grew up amidst the burned-out ruins. Roman Rosenbaum (Redacting 97-98) argues that this generation (or perhaps more accurately, micro-generation), “later subconsciously released the bent-up trauma of their early childhood experiences throughout their adult lives in their body of work”. Ishinomori was not alone in this experience, of course; other members of the early Kamen Rider creative team were also motivated by childhood trauma. Hirayama Tōru, who helped Ishinomori bring the Rider concept to television as a producer, was sixteen when his hometown of Nagoya was firebombed. He and other schoolboys were dispatched to dispose of the bodies of civilians who had died while trying to escape the flames only to die in the river (Oda and Muraeda 41-2). Members of the yakeato generation were prominent in anti-war activism during the 1970s, opposing Japan’s entanglement in the Vietnam War (Rosenbaum Generation 284). Violence and the meaning of justice were urgent issues for this generation. This first season of Kamen Rider, along with many of the subsequent seasons, is classifiable as a horror text, with numerous Gothic elements (Staite). Many of the monsters Takeshi battles are “designed to elicit a specific reaction: that of abject horror” (Kim 28). While some of the prosthetic suits are quite silly-looking by contemporary standards, many remain compellingly disturbing in their fusion of animal-human-machine. Although he proceeds up the chain of command to eventually battle the leaders of Shocker, Takeshi is always aware when battling other victims of Shocker experimentation that the only difference between himself and them is that he was able to escape before losing his will. He, like them, is no longer entirely human, and has become as grotesque as the unfortunate monsters he must defeat. As Miura Shion (180) puts it (translation mine), “Kamen Rider was originally an entity created by evil. The reality is that the enemy in front of you and you are actually the same. The fate of Kamen Rider is to fight while struggling with this”. Noting that Kamen Rider was created during a time of social, economic, and political upheaval in Japan, Hirofumi Katsuno (37-38) links the rise of the ambiguous hero to the decline of the ‘grand narrative’ of modernity and the belief in the kind of absolute justice represented by more traditional superheroes. Kamen Rider instead inhabits “an ambiguous space between human and nonhuman, good and evil” (Katsuno 44). In the early years of the franchise the ambiguity remained largely centred on the figure of the hero. Members of the opposing Shocker organisation – who were responsible for the rise of the first two Kamen Riders – are unambiguously evil and unsympathetic. For ordinary people who have been subjected to mind control and experimentation there is compassion, but in terms of the central conflict there is no question that destroying Shocker is correct and moral. The villains battled by Kamen Riders remained predominantly fascists and cultists bent on world domination until the late 1980s, with the primary antagonist of 1987 season Kamen Rider Black the protagonist’s beloved brother. The following season, Kamen Rider Black RX, had environmental themes. The villains trying to take over the world in this season are doing so because their own planet has become too polluted to sustain life. They argue, somewhat persuasively, that since humans are on the path to global environmental destruction they are justified in taking over the planet before it is ruined. This gradual shift toward more sympathetic monsters became explicit in 2002 with Kamen Rider Ryūki’s ambivalent response to the Bush administration’s so-called War on Terror. Justice Is a Thing with Teeth and Claws Kamen Rider Ryūki (hereafter Ryūki) was in the planning stages when the 9/11 terrorist attacks occurred, destroying the twin towers. TV Asahi, the station that airs Kamen Rider, immediately sent a directive to producer Shirakura Shinichiro stating that “now more than ever we must teach children about justice” (Salas). Seemingly uncomfortable with the implications of this idea of “justice” in light of the Bush administration's subsequent actions, Shirakura says: in that mood I wondered if I could repeat the sort of hero story we had made so far, where the ‘good person’ beats the ‘bad person’ that appears one after another and finally hits the headquarters of evil. It is very dangerous to plant the mentality of the Cold War era in children at this time. ‘Ryuuki’ was created in the hope that children will have an eye for what justice means. (Cited in Uno 261-2, translation mine) Since its creation in the 1970s, Kamen Rider had been forging a new path for Japanese heroes in opposition to what Jonathan Abel identifies as an external attitude to justice in the hero programs of the 1950s and 1960s. In these programs, he argues, justice was represented as something imposed into Japan from outside (by alien superheroes, for example, or the Allied Occupation forces). American superheroes and their various approaches to questions of justice and vigilantism were also well known in Japan, as Timothy Peters has highlighted. In its depiction of a hero so closely resembling the monsters he battles, Kamen Rider rejected notions of an absolute distinction between the categories of hero and monster. As Katsuno (46) argues, “in this postmodern, liquid society, superheroes lack a unified, self-evident justice, but must navigate multiple conceptions of justice … . As embodiments of relativized justice, these grotesque heroes were the seeds for what have become enduring trends in Japanese popular culture”. 2002 season Ryūki takes the idea of relativised justice to its extreme, questioning the very existence of a ‘justice’ that exists independently from the people it impacts. It is impossible to summarise the plot of Ryūki both briefly and accurately; this attempt prioritises the former over the latter. Ryūki features thirteen Kamen Riders in a battle royale, competing for the granting of a single wish. The Riders gain their powers through forming a contract with a mirror monster, who they must feed by defeating other Riders or less powerful mirror monsters (who are themselves feeding on helpless humans). If a Rider is defeated and can no longer feed his contract monster, the creature will consume them. Mirror monsters are so called because they come from mirror world, a parallel dimension connected to ours by reflective surfaces including mirrors and, significantly, gleaming skyscrapers. The battle is controlled by antagonist Kanzaki Shiro, who is trying to save the life of his younger sister Yui. Protagonist Kido Shinji tries to stop the Riders from fighting one another, which delays Shiro’s plans and leads to Yui’s death. Shiro repeatedly loops time to restart the battle and save Yui, but Shinji disrupts each new timeline. There are multiple alternate endings to the story, including both televisual and print versions. Because the endings each involve uncovering the reason Shiro has created the battle as part of their resolution of the story, there are also multiple explanations for why and how the battle began. In some versions the origin of the mirror monsters lies in Shiro and Yui’s childhood experience of abuse at the hands of their parents, while in another Shinji inadvertently sets events in motion after breaking a childhood promise to Yui. Which origin, ending, or time-loop is ‘true’ is never resolved. Viewers were invited to vote on the ending of the television special by telephone; alternate endings had been prepared with the winning option inserted at the end of the broadcast (Uno 271). This moral ambiguity and confusion over what is ‘true’ is an intentional critique of simplistic ideas about justice. In Ryūki each of the Riders participates in the battle because they believe that their wish is important enough to justify the means employed to obtain it. The program problematises the idea that there is an objective division between good and evil by focusing on the subjective righteousness of the individual characters’ motivations, including the irony of Shinji’s battles for the sake of stopping the war. Although these feel like quite adult themes, Shirakura couches them firmly within his interpretation of teaching children about justice, explaining that children sometimes envision themselves as the heroes and think they might also be justice. There is also the idea that people often don’t accept themselves as being wrong, because in one’s mind ‘I am myself, so I’m not wrong’ is the prevailing thought process. These thoughts lead to selfish patterns because kids might not see themselves as themselves but as the heroes. (Salas) Uno Tsunehiro (263-4) argues that there is in fact no villain and no justice in Ryūki, simply competing desires. Ryūki does not make judgements about which desires are more or less worthy, he writes, but displays all of the Riders’ motivations equally, just like Google search results of products displayed on Amazon. Just like Capitalism, Uno (263-4) suggests, Ryūki treats every story (justice / evil) equally as a desire (as a product). The mirror monsters are quite frightening; using a combination of Godzilla-style rubber suits and CGI they are all based on animals including spiders, crabs, and cobras, combined with cyborg elements such as guns embedded in various body parts. However, their behaviour is straightforwardly animalistic. They are hungry; they kill to feed. The truly monstrous characters in Ryūki are clearly the Kamen Riders themselves, who use the mirror monsters to lend power to human motivations that are far more complex and twisted. Although many of the Riders have sympathetic motivations such as saving the life of a loved one, Kamen Rider Ōja simply enjoys violence. Uno points out that this character is essentially the same as The Joker in 2008’s The Dark Knight; like The Joker, Ōja tells a variety of stories explaining the origins of his psychopathy in past traumas only to mock the credulity of those so eager to believe these explanations (Uno 274). Crucially, Ōja is still a Kamen Rider, and appears alongside more sympathetic Kamen Riders in ensemble-cast films and games. The line between hero and monster has become blurred beyond comprehension. Monsters for Children, Children as Monsters Shirakura’s comment about the danger of children uncritically viewing their own actions as being just draws attention to an important shift taking place at the turn of the millennium. Monsters were no longer something to protect children from, but increasingly children themselves were becoming viewed as potentially monstrous. Five years before Ryūki’s release Japan had been rocked by the discovery that the murderer of two elementary school children was a fourteen-year-old child dubbed ‘Youth A’, who had described his behaviour as a game, taunting the police and media before his capture (Arai 370-1). Although violent crimes perpetrated by children are always shocking, what stands out from this particular incident is the response from other school children. Youth A had sent a manifesto to a local newspaper lambasting the education system that had created him. In a survey conducted by the Ministry of Education more than fifty percent of the students surveyed sympathised and identified with at Youth A (cited in Arai 371). Lindsay Nelson (4) notes the prevalence of child-monsters in Japanese horror films in the late 1990s and early 2000s, writing that “the many monstrous children of contemporary Japanese cinema stand at a crossroads of Japan’s past, present, and future, crying out for compassion even as they drag those around them into death” (Nelson 13). There is of course a world of difference between depictions of monstrous children in adult media, and depictions of monsters in children’s media. I do not mean to conflate or confuse the two. Both kinds of monsters are, however, influenced and in turn influence wider social discourses and anxieties. Kamen Rider is also a text characterised by dual address, a narrative mode which addresses both adults and children simultaneously (in contradistinction to double address, in which the adults talk over the heads of children in an exclusionary way (Wall). Although Kamen Rider Ryūki featured adult actors (teenagers began to appear in leading roles with increasing frequency from the mid-2000s), it foreshadows the shifting of social attitudes toward children through intertextual references to the film Battle Royale (2000), also distributed by Kamen Rider’s producer Toei. Battle Royale centres on a school class who have (without their prior knowledge) been selected by lottery to participate in a ‘survival game’ on an isolated island. They must kill one another until only one survives; they have all been fitted with explosive collars, and any child refusing to participate will have their collar remotely detonated, killing them. Director f*ckasaku Kinji comments that he felt a connection to the thematic linking of violence and children in Battle Royale because of his own experiences as a member of the yakeato generation. He had worked in a munitions factory during the war that was frequently targeted by bombs, and he describes hiding under and later having to dispose of the bodies of his friends (Rose). The story is a biting commentary of the relationship between economic collapse, school-based violence, and failures of governance. In Andrea Arai’s (368) analysis, “the tropes of battle, survival, and the figure of the schoolchild, reflect and refract social anxieties about the Japanese future in an era of globalisation and neoliberal reform, and the enduring historical conundrums of Japan’s twentieth-century past”. The battle between Kamen Riders in Ryūki is also a battle royale; although the core audience of very young children would probably not have made the intertextual link to the film (or the 1999 novel the film was based on), the association would have been strengthened for older viewers by the use of "those who don't fight won't survive!" as a catchphrase for Kamen Rider Ryūki. Conclusion In the early 1970s, Kamen Rider stood out as a text rejecting externally imposed, objective ideas of justice enforced by unassailable virtue, in favour of a grotesque hero struggling to find a path to justice through a metaphorical forest of misadventure and victimisation. The first Kamen Rider was a grotesque, damaged hero who fought monsters to whom he was more alike than different. In the early 2000s this blurring of the heroic and monstrous was taken even further, questioning the very concepts of justice and monstrosity. Much as the original season of Kamen Rider responded to economic and social upheavals with its reassessment of the role and figure of the hero, Kamen Rider Ryūki draws attention to fears of and for its child audience in response to both domestic economic disaster and global events. In Kamen Rider Ryūki the trope of an unwitting victim being turned into a Kamen Rider through biomechanical enhancements is discarded entirely; anyone can become a Kamen Rider simply by entering into a contract with a mirror monster. No longer grotesque because of powers beyond their control, the new generation of Kamen Riders choose grotesquery and risk their lives to obtain their desire. Anyone can become a hero, Ryūki tells its viewers, and anyone can become a monster. And, perhaps, anyone can be both at the same time. References Abel, Jonathan E. "Masked Justice: Allegories of the Superhero in Cold War Japan." Japan Forum 26.2 (2014): 187–208. Allison, Anne. Millennial Monsters: Japanese Toys and the Global Imagination. Berkeley: U of California P, 2006. Alt, Matthew. Pure Invention: How Japan Conquered the World in Eight Fantasies. Brown Book Group, 2020. Arai, Andrea. "Killing Kids: Recession and Survival in Twenty-First-Century Japan." Postcolonial Studies 6.3 (2003): 367–79. Battle Royale. Dir. Kinji f*ckasaku. Toei, 2000. Katsuno, Hirofumi. "The Grotesque Hero: Depictions of Justice in Tokusatsu Superhero Television Programs." Introducing Japanese Popular Culture. Eds. Alisa Freedman and Toby Slade. Routledge, 2018. 37–47. Kim, Se Young. "Kamen Rider vs. Spider-Man and Batman." Giant Creatures in Our World: Essays on Kaiju and American Popular Culture. Eds. Camille Mustachio and Jason Barr. McFarland, 2017. Nelson, Lindsay. "Ghosts of the Past, Ghosts of the Future: Monsters, Children, and Contemporary Japanese Horror Cinema." Cinemascope 13 (2009). Oda, Katsumi, and Kenichi Muraeda. The Men Who Made Kamen Rider: 1971-2011. Kodansha, 2011. Peters, Timothy. "'Holy Trans-Jurisdictional Representations of Justice, Batman!' Globalisation, Persona and Mask in Kuwata's Batmanga and Morrison's Batman, Incorporated." Law and Justice in Japanese Popular Culture: From Crime Fighting Robots to Duelling Pocket Monsters. Eds. Ashley Pearson, Thomas Giddens, and Kieran Tranter. Taylor & Francis, 2018. Kamen Rider. Toei, 1971. Kamen Rider Black RX. Toei, 1988. Kamen Rider Ryūki. Toei, 2002. Rose, Steve. “The Kid Killers.” The Guardian 2001. Rosenbaum, Roman. “The ‘Generation of the Burnt-out Ruins’.” Japanese Studies 27.3 (2007): 281–293. ———. “Redacting Japanese History: Ishinomori Shōtarō’s Graphic Narratives.” Rewriting History in Manga: Stories for the Nation. Eds. Nissim Otmazgin and Rebecca Suter. Palgrave Macmillan US, 2016. Salas, Jorge. "Kamen Rider’s Reaction to 9/11." Tokusatsu Network 2018. 1 Oct. 2021 <https://tokusatsunetwork.com/2018/08/kamen-riders-reaction-to-9-11/>. Shion, Miura. Momoiro Towairaito. Paperback Bunko: Shinchosha, 2010. Staite, Sophia. "Playing the Bloody Rose: Deconstructing Childhood with Kamen Rider Kiva." Aeternum: The Journal of Contemporary Gothic Studies 6.1 (2019): 34–48 Steinberg, Marc. Anime's Media Mix: Franchising Toys and Characters in Japan. U of Minnesota P, 2012. The Dark Knight. Dir. Christopher Nolan. Warner Bros, 2008. Uno, Tsunehiro. The Era of Little People. Gentosha, 2015. Wall, Barbara. The Narrator's Voice: The Dilemma of Children's Fiction. Macmillan, 1991.

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Abstract:

To Remember‘The central problem of today’s global interactions is the tension between cultural hom*ogenisation and cultural heterogenisation.’ (Appadurai 49)While this statement has been made more than twenty years, it remains more relevant than ever. The current age is one of widespread global migrations and dis-placement. The phenomenon of globalisation is the first and major factor for this newly created shift of ground, of transmigration as defined by its etymological meaning. However, a growing number of migrations also result from social or political oppression and war as we witness the current flow of refugees from Africa or Syria to Europe and with growing momentum, from climate change, the people of Tokelau or Nauru migrating as a result of the rise of sea levels in their South Pacific homeland. Such global migrations lead to an intense co-habitation of various cultures, ethnicities and religions in host societies. In late twentieth century Giddens explains this complexity and discusses how globalisation requires a re-organisation of time and space in social and cultural life of both the host and the migrant (Giddens 14). In the host country, Appadurai terms the physical consequences of this phenomenon as the new ‘ethnoscape’ (Appadurai 51). This fact is particularly relevant to New Zealand, a country that is currently seeing an unprecedented level of immigration from various and numerous ethnic groups which is evidently influencing the makeup of its entire population.For the migrant, according to Xavier & Rosaldo, social life following migration re-establishes itself on two fronts: the first is the pre-modern manner of being present through participation in localised activities at specific locales; the second is about fostering relationships with absent others through media and across the world. These “settings for distanced relations – for relations at a distance, [are] stretched out across time and space” (Xavier & Rosaldo 8). Throughout the world, people in dis-placement reorganise their societies in both of these fronts.Dis-placement is ‘a potentially traumatic event that is collectively experienced" (Norris 128). Disaster and trauma related dis-placement as stressors happen to entire communities, not just individuals, families and neighbourhoods. Members are exposed together and it has been argued, must, therefore, recover together, (Norris 145). On one hand, in the situation of collective trauma some attachment to a new space ‘increases the likelihood that a community as a whole has the will to rebuild’ (Norris 145). On the other, it is suggested that for the individual, place attachment makes the necessary relocation much harder. It is in re-location however that the will to recreate or reproduce will emerge. Indeed part of the recovery in the case of relocation can be the reconstruction of place. The places of past experiences and rituals for meaning are commonly recreated or reproduced as new places of attachment abroad. The will and ability to reimagine and re-materialise (Gupta & Ferguson 70) the lost heritage is motivational and defines resilience.This is something a great deal of communities such as the displaced Coptic community in New Zealand look to achieve, re-constructing a familiar space, where rituals and meaning can reaffirm their ideal existence, the only form of existence they have ever known before relocation. In this instance it is the reconstruction and reinterpretation of a traditional Coptic Orthodox church. Resilience can be examined as a ‘sense of community’, a concept that binds people with shared values. Concern for community and respect for others can transcend the physical and can bind disparate individuals in ways that otherwise might require more formal organisations. It has been noted that trauma due to displacement and relocation can enhance a sense of closeness and stronger belonging (Norris 139). Indeed citizen participation is fundamental to community resilience (Norris 139) and it entails the engagement of community members in formal organisations, including religious congregations (Perkins et al. 2002; Norris 139) and collective gatherings around cultural rituals. However, the displacement also strengthens the emotional ties at the individual level to the homeland, to kinfolk and to the more abstract cultural mores and ideas.Commitment and AttachmentRecalling places of collective events and rituals such as assembly halls and spaces of worship is crucially important for dis-placed communities. The attachment to place exposes the challenges and opportunities for recollecting the spirit of space in the situation of a people abroad. This in turn, raises the question of memory and its representation in re-creating the architectural qualities of the cultural space from its original context. This article offers the employ of visual representation (drawings) as a strategy of recall. To explore these ideas further, the situation of the Egyptian community of Coptic Orthodox faith, relocated, displaced and living ‘abroad’ in New Zealand is being considered. This small community that emigrated to New Zealand firstly in the 1950s then in the 1970s represents in many ways the various ethnicities and religious beliefs found in New Zealand.Rituals and congregations are held in collective spaces and while the attachment to the collective is essential, the question to be addressed here relates to the role of the physical community space in forming or maintaining the attachment to community (Pretty, Chipuer, and Bramston 78). Groups or societies use systems of shared meanings to interpret and make sense of the world. However, shared meanings have traditionally been tied to the idea of a fixed territory (Manzo & Devine-Wright 335, Xavier & Rosaldo 10). Manzo and Perkins further suggest that place attachments provide stability and are integral to self-definitions (335-350). Image by Vioula Said.Stability and self-definition and ultimately identity are in turn, placed in jeopardy with the process of displacement and de-territorilisation. Shared meanings are shifted and potentially lost when the resultant instability occurs. Norris finds that in the strongest cases, individuals, neighbourhoods and communities lose their sense of identity and self-definition when displaced due to the destruction of natural and built environments (Norris 139). This comment is particularly relevant to people who are emigrating to New Zealand as refugees from climate change such as Pasifika or from wars and oppression such as the Coptic community. This loss strengthens the requirement for something greater than just a common space of congregation, something that transcends the physical. The sense of belonging and identity in the complexity of potential cultural heterogenisation is at issue. The role of architecture in dis-placement is thereby brought into question seeking answers to how it should facilitate a space of attachment for resilience, for identity and for belonging.A unity of place and people has long been assumed in the anthropological concept of culture (Gupta & Ferguson: 75). According to Xavier & Rosaldo the historical tendency has been to connect the realm of constructing meaning to the particularities of place (Xavier & Rosaldo 10). Thereby, cultural meanings are intrinsically linked to place. Therefore, place attachment to the reproduced or re-interpreted place is crucially important for dis-placed societies in re-establishing social and cultural content. Architectural spaces are the obvious holders of cultural, social and spiritual content for such enterprises. Hillier suggests that all "architecture is, in essence, the application of speculative and abstract thought to the non-discursive aspects of building, and because it is so, it is also its application to the social and cultural contents of buildings” (Hillier 3).To Re-ImagineAn attempt to reflect the history, stories and the cultural mores of the Coptic community in exile by privileging material and design authenticity, merits attention. An important aspect of the Coptic faith lies within its adherence to symbolism and rituals and strict adherence to the traditional forms and configurations of space may reflect some authenticity of the customary qualities of the space (Said 109). However, the original space is itself in flux, changing with time and environmental conditions; as are the memories of those travelling abroad as they come from different moments in time. Experience has shown that a communities’ will to re-establish social and cultural content through their traditional architecture on new sites has not always resurrected their history and reignited their original spirit. The impact of the new context’s reality on the reproduction or re interpretation of place may not fully enable its entire community’s attachment to it. There are significant implications from the displacement of site that lead to a disassociation from the former architectural language. Consequently there is a cultural imperative for an approach that entails the engagement of community in the re-making of a cultural space before responding to the demands of site. Cultures come into conflict when the new ways of knowing and acting are at odds with the old. Recreating a place without acknowledging these tensions may lead to non-attachment. Facing cultural paradox and searching for authenticity explains in part, the value of intangible heritage and the need to privilege it over its tangible counterpart.Intangible HeritageThe intangible qualities of place and the memory of them are anchors for a dis-placed community to reimagine and re-materialise its lost heritage and to recreate a new place for attachment. This brings about the notion of the authenticity of cultural heritage, it exposes the uncertain value of reconstruction and it exhibits the struggles associated with de-territorilisation in such a process.In dealing with cultural heritage and contemporary conservation practice with today’s wider understanding of the interdisciplinary field of heritage studies, several authors discuss the relevance and applicability of the 1964 Venice Charter on architectural heritage. Glendinning argues that today’s heritage practices exploit the physical remains of the past for useful modern and aesthetic purposes as they are less concerned with the history they once served (Glendinning 3). For example, the act of modernising and restoring a historic museum is counterbalanced by its ancient exhibits thereby highlighting modern progress. Others support this position by arguing that relationships, associations and meanings that contribute to the value of a site should not be dismissed in favour of physical remains (Hill 21). Smith notes that the less tangible approaches struggle to gain leverage within conventional practice, and therefore lack authenticity. This can be evidenced in so many of our reconstructed heritage sites. This leads to the importance of the intangible when dealing with architectural heritage. Image by Vioula Said.In practice, a number of different methods and approaches are employed to safeguard intangible cultural heritage. In order to provide a common platform for considering intangible heritage, UNESCO developed the 2003 ‘Convention for the Safeguarding of Intangible Cultural Heritage’. Rather than simply addressing physical heritage, this convention helped to define the intangible and served to promote its recognition. Intangible cultural heritage is defined as expressions, representations, practices, skills and knowledge that an individual a community or group recognise as their cultural heritage.Safeguarding intangible heritage requires a form of translation, for example, from the oral form into a material form, e.g. archives, inventories, museums and audio or film records. This ‘freezing’ of intangible heritage requires thoughtfulness and care in the choosing of the appropriate methods and materials. At the same time, the ephemeral aspects of intangible heritage make it vulnerable to being absorbed by the typecast cultural models predominant at any particular time. This less tangible characteristic of history and the pivotal role it plays in conveying a dialogue between the past and the present demands alternative methods. At a time when the identity of dis-placed people is in danger of being diminished by dominant host societies, the safeguarding of intangible cultural heritage is critically important in re-establishing social and cultural content.Recent news has shown the destruction of many Coptic churches in Egypt, through fire at increasing rates since 2011 or by bombings such as the ones witnessed in April 2017. For this particular problem of the Coptic Community, the authors propose that visual representation of spiritual spaces may aid in recollecting and re-establishing such heritage. The illustrations in this article present the personal journey of an artist of Egyptian Copt descent drawing from her memories of a place and time within the sphere of religious rituals. As Treib suggests, “Our recollections are situational and spatialised memories; they are memories attached to places and events” (Treib 22). The intertwining of real and imagined memory navigates to define the spirit of place of a lost time and community.The act of remembering is a societal ritual and in and of itself is part of the globalised world we live in today. The memories lodged in physical places range from incidents of personal biography to the highly refined and extensively interpreted segments of cultural lore (Treib 63). The act of remembering allows for our sense of identity and reflective cultural distinctiveness as well as shaping our present lives from that of our past. To remember is to celebrate or to commemorate the past (Treib 25).Memory has the aptitude to generate resilient links between self and environment, self and culture, as well as self and collective. “Our access to the past is no longer mediated by the account of a witness or a narrator, or by the eye of a photographer. We will not respond to a re-presentation of the historical event, but to a presentation or performance of it” (van Alphen 11). This statement aligns with Smith’s critical analysis of heritage and identity, not as a set of guidelines but as a performance experienced through the imagination, “experienced within a layering of performative qualities that embody remembrance and commemoration and aim to construct a sense of place and understanding within the present”(van Alphen 11). Heritage is hereby investigated as a re-constructed experience; attempting to identify a palette of memory-informed qualities that can be applied to the re-establishing of the heritage lost. Here memory will be defined as Aristotle’s Anamnesis, to identify the capacity to stimulate a range of physical and sensory experiences in the retrieval of heritage that may otherwise be forgotten (Cubitt 75; Huyssen 80). In architectural terms, Anamnesis, refers to the process of retrieval associated with intangible heritage, as a performance aimed at the recovery of memory, experienced through the imagination (Said 143). Unfortunately, when constructing an experience aimed at the recovery of memory, the conditions of a particular moment do not, once passed, move into a state of retirement from which they can be retrieved at a later date. Likewise, the conditions and occurrences of one moment can never be precisely recaptured, Treib describes memory as an interventionist:it magnifies, diminishes, adjusts, darkens, or illuminates places that are no longer extant, transforming the past anew every time it is called to mind, shorn or undesirable reminiscence embellished by wishful thinking, coloured by present concerns. (Treib 188)To remember them, Cubitt argues, we must reconstruct them; “not in the sense of reassembling something that has been taken to pieces and carefully stored, but in the sense of imaginatively configuring something that can no longer have the character of actuality” (Cubitt 77). Image by Vioula Said.Traditionally, history and past events have been put in writing to preserve their memory within the present. However, as argued by Treib, this mode of representation is inherently linear and static; contributing to a flattening of history. Similarly, Nelson states; “I consider how a visual mode of representation – as opposed to textual or oral – helps to shape memory” (Nelson 37). The unflattening of past events can occur by actively engaging with culture and tradition through the mechanism of reconstruction and representation of the intangible heritage (Said 145). As memory becomes crucial in affirming collective identity, place also becomes crucial in anchoring such experience. Interactive exhibition facilitates this act using imagery, interpretation and physical engagement while architectural place gives distinctiveness to cultural products and practices. Architectural space is always intrinsically bound with cultural practice. Appadurai says that where a groups’ past increasingly becomes part of museums, exhibits and collection, its culture becomes less a realm of reproducible practices and more an arena of choices and cultural reproduction (59). When place is shifted (de-territorilisation in migration) the loss of territorial roots brings “an erosion of the cultural distinctiveness of places, a de-territorilisation of identity” (Gupta & Ferguson 68). According to Gupta & Ferguson, “remembered places have …. often served as symbolic anchors of community for dispersed people” (Gupta & Ferguson 69).To Re-MakeIn the context of de-territorialisation the intangible qualities of the original space offer an avenue for the creation and experience of a new space in the spirit of its source. Simply reproducing a traditional building layout in the new territory or recollecting artefacts does not suffice in recalling the essence of place, nor does descriptive writing no matter how compelling. Issues of authenticity and identity underpin both of these strategies. Accepting the historical tendency to reconnect the realm of constructing meaning to the particularities of place requires an investigation on those ‘particularities of place’. Intangible heritage can bridge the problems of being out of one’s country, overseas, or ‘abroad’. While architecture can be as Hillier suggests, “in essence, the application of speculative and abstract thought to the non-discursive aspects of building” (Hillier 3). Architecture should not be reproduced but rather re-constructed as a holder or facilitator of recollection and collective performance. It is within the performance of intangible heritage in the ‘new’ architecture that a sense of belonging, identity and reconnection with home can be experienced abroad. Its visual representation takes centre stage in the process. The situation of the Egyptian community of Coptic faith in New Zealand is here looked at as an illustration. The intangibility of architectural heritage is created through one of the author’s graphic work here presented. Image by Vioula Said.The concept of drawing as an anchor for memory and drawing as a method to inhabit space is exposed and this presents a situation where drawing has an experiential nature in itself.It has been argued that a drawing is simply an image that compresses an entire experience of temporality. Pallasmaa suggests that “every drawing is an excavation into the past and memory of its creator” (Pallasmaa 91). The drawing is considered as a process of both observation and expression, of receiving and giving. The imagined or the remembered space turns real and becomes part of the experiential reality of the viewer and of the image maker. The drawing as a visual representation of the remembered experience within the embrace of an interior space is drawn from the image maker’s personal experience. It is the expression of their own recollection and not necessarily the precise realityor qualities perceived or remembered by others. This does not suggest that such drawing has a limited value. This article promotes the idea that such visual representation has potentially a shared transformative role. The development of drawings in this realm of intangible heritage exposes the fact that the act of drawing memory may provide an intimate relationship between architecture, past events within the space, the beholder of the memory and eventually the viewer of the drawing. The drawings can be considered a reminder of moments past, and an alternative method to the physical reproduction or preservation of the built form. It is a way to recollect, express and give new value to the understanding of intangible heritage, and constructs meaning.From the development of a personal spatial and intuitive recall to produce visual expressions of a remembered space and time, the image author optimistically seeks others to deeply engage with these images of layered memories. They invite the viewer to re-create their own memory by engaging with the author’s own perception. Simply put, drawings of a personal memory are offered as a convincing representation of intangible heritage and as an authentic expression of the character or essence of place to its audience. This is offered as a method of reconstructing what is re-membered, as a manifestation of symbolic anchor and as a first step towards attachment to place. The relevance of which may be pertinent for people in exile in a foreign land.ReferencesAppadurai, A. “Sovereignty without Territoriality: Notes for a Postnational Geography.” The Geography of Identity. Ed. Patricia Yaeger. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan Press, 1997. 40–58. Brown, R.H., and B. Brown. “The Making of Memory: The Politics of Archives, Libraries and Museum in the Construction of National Consciousness.” History of Human Sciences 11.4 (1993): 17–32.Clifford, James. Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century. 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