Catalonian Journal of Ethnology (REC), 43 by Direcció General de Cultura Popular i Associacionisme Cultural

No. 43

etnologia December 2018 · Second period

Cultura Popular i Tradicional

REVISTA D’ETNOLOGIA DE CATALUNYA

DOSSIER

Fading away. Reflections on death

Traditional production activities The production of juniper oil in Riba-roja d'Ebre Heritage and social participation The Pyrenean falles festivals as intangible cultural heritage

CATALONIAN JOURNAL OF ETHNOLOGY No. 43. December 2018

Publisher Government of Catalonia. Ministry of Culture Directorate-General of Popular Culture and Cultural Associations (DGCPAC) Director-General of Popular Culture and Cultural Associations M. Àngels Blasco i Rovira Director Xavier Roigé Ventura (University of Barcelona) Assistant Director Camila del Mármol Cartañá (University of Barcelona) Dossier Coordinators Jordi Moreras Palenzuela (Rovira i Virgili University) and Ariadna Solé Arraràs (Open University of Catalonia) Editorial Board Xavier Busquets Masuet (DGCPAC), Roger Costa Solé (DGCPAC), Rafel Folch Monclús (DGCPAC), Agnès Villamor Casas (DGCPAC), Joanna Guijarro Gisbert (DGCPAC) Editorial Coordinators Cristina Farran Morenilla (DGCPAC) and Verònica Guarch Llop (DGCPAC) Editorial Committee Jordi Abella Pons (Ecomuseu de les Valls d’Àneu), Oriol Beltran Costa (University of Barcelona), Eliseu Carbonell Camós (University of Girona), Dolors Comas d’Argemir i Cendra (Rovira i Virgili University), Raquel Ferrero Gandia (Valencian Museum of Ethnology), Jaume Guiscafré Danús (University of the Balearic Islands), Saida Palou Rubio (Catalan Institute of Cultural Heritage), Isidre Pinyol Cerro (Centre d’Estudis de les Garrigues), Carles Salazar Carrasco (University of Lleida), Montserrat Solà Rivera (Serra del Montsant Natural Park), Montse Ventura Oller (Autonomous University of Barcelona) Scientific Advisory Committee Sabrina Doyon, Université Laval (Canada); Nina Kammerer, Brandeis University (USA); Gloria Artís, National Museum of World Cultures (Mexico); Ismael Vaccaro, McGill University (Canada); Marc Jacobs, FARO – Vlaams Steunpunt voor Cultureel Erfgoed, Vrije Universiteit Brussels (Belgium); Ahmed Skounti, Institut National des Sciences de l'Archéologie et du Patrimoine (Morocco); Edmon Castell Ginovert, National University of Colombia (Colombia); Iñaki Arrieta Urtizberea, University of the Basque Country; Juan Agudo, University of Sevilla; Juan Agudo, University of Sevilla; Jaume Franquesa, University at Buffalo (USA); Mónica Beatriz Lacarrieu, University of Buenos Aires (Argentina); Eduardo Restrepo, Pontifical Xavierian University (Bogotá, Colombia). Translation and layout Traducciones y Tratamiento de la Documentación, S.L. Publishing Services and Graphic Design Autonomous Entity of the Official Gazette and Publications of the Government of Catalonia Cover Photo Muslim plot at the Magnus Poirier cemetery, Laval (outskirts of Montreal). MARTIN ROBERT, 2017. Contact Directorate-General of Popular Culture and Cultural Associations Plaça de Salvador Seguí, 1-9 08001 Barcelona Telephone +34 933 162 720 rec@gencat.cat http://cultura.gencat.cat/rec Publication Annual

The Catalonian Journal of Ethnology is a periodic, open-access publication that disseminates the initiatives, achievements, theories and experiences of researchers and study groups in the field of ethnology and anthropology. The first issue of the journal appeared in July 1992 and it has been published without interruption ever since. The journal's second period of publication, in which this issue is included, began in June 2010. The journal offers open, free and immediate access to all its articles through RACO (https://www.raco.cat/index.php/RevistaEtnologia). The use of the content is subject to a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives (by-nc-nd) licence. Reproduction, distribution and public communication are allowed as long as they are not intended for profit and the content of the journal remains unmodified. To see a copy of the licence, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/deed.en. The journal uses Open Journal Systems 2.3.7.0, an open source software for managing and publishing journals. Nineteen articles were received for publication in this issue of the journal in the Ethnological Research and Miscellanea sections, seventeen of which were accepted after passing a double-blind review by two expert reviewers, meaning that two articles were discarded during the review process. The views expressed in the papers published herein are those of their authors. They do not necessarily reflect the views of the journal or the Ministry of Culture. Legal deposit: B-46.605-2010 Electronic ISSN: 2014-6310 Printed ISSN: 1132-6581

Maria Àngels Blasco i Rovira

Director-General of Popular Culture and Cultural Associations

ith this new issue, we continue to consoli date the project started last year with the 42nd edition of the Catalonian Journal of Ethnology (REC), which combined scientific content with articles related to the publication and dissemination of ethnology and ethnological heritage. Since July 1992, the date the first issue appeared, to the present day, the REC has been characterised by the great attention it pays to new cultural dynamics, with the aim of adapting to current standards of scientific production. It is in this regard that, under the title Fading away. Reflections on death, we have dedicated the dossier to death, while incorporating sensitive, emotional and even subjective aspects that all approaches to death inevitably entail. Most ethnographic studies regarding death often end up focusingon the ritual aspects of funerary expressions in different societies and do not always take into account the emotional dimensions of pain and affliction that are created by death. Funerary practices, like all cultural manifestations, have always undergone constant change. But in recent years, like so many other things, the changes in funeral rituals in our society have accelerated, from the changes in the celebration of the deceased and cemetery visiting, to the progressive acceptance of cremation and the promotion of new funeral services. However, the two factors that have most influenced the change, and which are presented in the dossier, are the secularisation of funerary practices and the multicultural evolution of Catalan society.

In the Miscellanea section, as the name suggests, we find works on diverse themes: The bear festivals in l'Alt Vallespir, by Claudie Voisenat; The main features of Moroccan gastronomy and its role in society, by Ivone Puig Artigas, and Heritage and participation: a comparative reflection on the recognition of the Pyrenean falles festivals as intangible cultural heritage, by Josep Roca Guerrero. It also includes an article about the Pusol School Museum (Elche), and another on the tradition of hydraulic exploitation in Banyoles. From the Ethnological Research section, we must highlight the following works: El Rec Comtal: infrastructures and imagination in Barcelona water, by Roger Sansi; Identifying features of the Santa Llúcia Christmas market in Barcelona, by Jordi Montlló, and Journey to the Icària neighbourhood. The heritage of a forgotten industrial past, by Gabriela Navas, amongst other high-quality texts. The Chronicles section includes information and reviews, including a paper on the Ogassa Coal Mine Museum or the 4th National Ethnological Heritage Conference on popular memory in Roca del Vallès. In this section we must also underline the bibliographical review Dispersion and rituals. The Muslim festival cycle in Catalonia, published by the Government of Catalonia's Ministry of Culture in the “Themes of Catalonian Ethnology” collection, issue 28. I would like to express my appreciation for the work and the effort of everyone who has made it possible for the 43rd issue of the Catalonian Journal of Ethnology to see the light; it is a publication that consolidates and promotes the growth and dissemination of ethnological research in Catalonia. n

Catalonian Journal of Ethnology

December 2018

Issue 43

Table of contents No. 43 - DECEMBER 2018 38

PRESENTATION 3

Maria Àngels Blasco i Rovira Director-General of Popular Culture and Cultural Associations

DOSSIER 10 Presentation Fading away. Reflections on death JORDI MORERAS Rovira i Virgili University ARIADNA SOLÉ Open University of Catalonia 14

Religion on the ground: staving off social death in grave-visiting rituals ERIC VENBRUX Radboud University (the Netherlands) ANNE KJÆRSGAARD Aarhus University (Denmark) Spontaneous memorials: post-tragedy acts of mourning MARTA ALLUÉ Member of the Medical Anthropology Research Center, URV, Catalan Association of Burn Victims

Deathscapes and diversity in England and Wales: setting an agenda AVRIL MADDRELL University of Reading YASMINAH BEEBEEJAUN University College London KATIE MCCLYMONT University of the West of England, Bristol DANNY MCNALLY University of Reading BRENDA MATHIJSSEN University of Groningen SUFYAN ABID DOGRA University of Sussex. Portraits of mourning. Portraits of child death in Catalonia Similarities and differences VIRGINA DE LA CRUZ LICHET University of Lorraine Funerary cultural heritage: analysis introduction notes SOL TARRÉS University of Huelva (In)visible death: the diseased body MARIA GETINO University of Barcelona “Children aren’t allowed at funeral homes” A study on grief in children and adolescents MIREIA CAMPANERA REIG Rovira i Virgili University REBECA IZQUIERDO GONZÁLEZ University College London MAITE GAMARRA RODRÍGUEZ Complutense University of Madrid

100

“Go die someplace else!” Muslim death in Quebec: an unwanted death LILYANE RACHÉDI University of Quebec MOULOUD IDIR Centre for Justice and Faith JAVORKA SARENAC University of Quebec

110

Bodies without rest An analysis proposal for post-mortem mobility JORDI MORERAS Rovira i Virgili University ARIADNA SOLÉ ARRARÀS Open University of Catalonia.

FOCUS 127

Funerary heritage in Barcelona cemeteries ADRIÀ TEROL Cemeteries of Barcelona Cementiris de Barcelona S.A.

132

When art and death meet: funerary heritage in Catalonia JOSÉ A. ORTIZ Autonomous University of Barcelona

144 “You are dust, and to dust you will return”. Burials at the New Cemetery Park in Igualada DOLORS GARCÍA-TORRA University of Barcelona

MISCELLANEA

RESEARCH

CHRONICLES

154 The Bear Festivals in L’Alt Vallespir CLAUDIE VOISENAT Cross-border Country of Art and History of the Tech and Ter Catalan Valleys

226

The long road to industrial musicology: the Minorcan example AMADEU CORBERA JAUME Upper Music Conservatory of the Balearic Islands EULÀLIA FEBRER COLL Cardiff University

MUSEUMS AND ETHNOLOGICAL HERITAGE 298

The Ogassa Coal Mine Museum: a technical and social museum Friends of Ogassa Museum

The Rec Comtal: infrastructures and imagination in Barcelona water ROGER SANSI University of Barcelona and the Catalan Institute of Anthropology

300

Network of Interest in Ethnological Heritage (XIP Etnològic) Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology – Autonomous University of Barcelona

170

The main features of Moroccan gastronomy and its role in society IVONE PUIG ARTIGAS Autonomous University of Barcelona

186 Heritage and participation: a comparative reflection on the recognition of the Pyrenean falles festivals as intangible cultural heritage JOSEP ROCA GUERRERO University of Barcelona 200

212

The Register of Good Safeguarding Practices for Intangible Cultural Heritage The Pusol School Museum MARÍA ROYUELAMALDONADO University of Barcelona An exceptional ethnological rarity: the tradition of hydraulic exploitation in Banyoles GUERAU PALMADA I AUGUET Banyoles Regional Centre of Studies CARLES QUER FEO Limnos Association JOSEP MARIA REYES I VIDAL Banyoles Centre of Regional Studies

235

247

258

272

282

Identifying features of the Santa Llúcia Christmas market in Barcelona, between aspiration and reality JORDI MONTLLÓ BOLART The Bull and Mule Collective Journey to the Icària neighbourhood The heritage of a forgotten industrial past MARÍA GABRIELA NAVAS PERRONE Exclusion and Research Group on Exclusion and Social Control at the University of Barcelona Juniper oil production, a pioneering trade in Riba-roja d’Ebre MARINA OROBITG ÁBALOS The Riba-roja d’Ebre Friends Association JUDIT VIDAL BONAVILA Rovira i Virgili University The complete social act: a necessary viewpoint when working with intangible heritage. The case of the Sant Roc festival in Paüls MARC BALLESTER TORRENTS Col·lectiu Anant

CONFERENCES AND ASSEMBLIES 303

Popular memory – Chronicle of the 4th National Ethnological Heritage Conference XAVIER BUSQUETS, JOANNA GUIJARRO

306 The 1st Assembly on the Jota in Catalan-speaking regions JOAQUIM MANYÓS BALANZÓ Head of the Traditional Music Library, Directorate-General of Popular Culture and Cultural Associations BIBLIOGRAPHIC REVIEWS 308 Jordi Moreras (coord.) Marta Alonso Cabré, Khalid Ghali, Alberto López Bargados & Ariadna Solé. Dispersion and rituals. The Muslim festival cycle in Catalonia. Barcelona, Government of Catalonia, 2017 LAURA MIJARES Complutense University of Madrid OBITUARY 310

Fragments of an interrupted conversation Eric Porqueres i Gené, 12 September 1962 - 3 November 2018 JOAN BESTARD University of Barcelona

Catalonian Journal of Ethnology

December 2018

Issue 43

Sumari NÚM. 43 - DESEMBRE 2018

PRESENTACIÓ 3

Maria Àngels Blasco i Rovira Directora general de Cultura Popular i Associacionisme Cultural

DOSSIER 10 Presentació. A l’hora foscant. Mirades sobre la mort JORDI MORERAS Universitat Rovira i Virgili ARIADNA SOLÉ Universitat Oberta de Catalunya 14

La religió sobre el terreny: retard de la mort social a través dels rituals de visita a les tombes ERIC VENBRUX Universitat de Radboud (Països Baixos), ANNE KJÆRSGAARD Universitat d’Aarhus (Dinamarca) Memorials espontanis: gestos de dol davant les grans tragèdies MARTA ALLUÉ Membre de Medical Anthropology Research Center, URV, Associació d’afectats per cremades de Catalunya

Paisatges funeraris i diversitat a Anglaterra i a Gal·les: l’establiment d’una agenda AVRIL MADDRELL Universitat de Reading YASMINAH BEEBEEJAUN Escola Universitària de Londres KATIE MCCLYMONT Universitat Oest d’Anglaterra, Bristol DANNY MCNALLY Universitat de Reading BRENDA MATHIJSSEN Universitat de Groninga SUFYAN ABID DOGRA Universitat de Sussex Retrats per al dol. El retrat infantil de difunt a Catalunya. Similituds i divergències. VIRGINIA DE LA CRUZ LICHET Université de Lorraine Patrimoni cultural funerari: apunts per a una introducció a la seva anàlisi SOL TARRÉS Universitat de Huelva La mort (in)visible: el cos malalt MARIA GETINO CANSECO Universitat de Barcelona “Els menors d’edat no poden anar al tanatori” Un estudi sobre el dol infantil i adolescent MIREIA CAMPANERA REIG Universitat Rovira i Virgili REBECA IZQUIERDO GONZÁLEZ Escola Universitària de Londres MAITE GAMARRA RODRÍGUEZ Universitat Complutense de Madrid

100

«Aneu a morir en un altre lloc!» La mort musulmana al Quebec: una mort no desitjada LILYANE RACHÉDI Universitat del Quebec MOULOUD IDIR Centre Justícia i Fe (Montreal) JAVORKA SARENAC Universitat del Quebec

110

Cossos sense repòs Una proposta d’anàlisi de la mobilitat ‘post mortem’ JORDI MORERAS Universitat Rovira i Virgili ARIADNA SOLÉ ARRARÀS Universitat Oberta de Catalunya

FOCUS 127

El patrimoni funerari dels cementiris de Barcelona ADRIÀ TEROL Àrea de Comunicació i Qualitat. Cementiris de Barcelona S.A.

132

Quan la mort i l’art es troben: el patrimoni funerari a Catalunya JOSÉ A. ORTIZ Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona

144 “Ets pols, i a la pols tornaràs” Inhumacions al Nou Cementiri Parc d’Igualada DOLORS GARCÍA-TORRA Universitat de Barcelona

MISCEL·LÀNIA

RECERQUES

CRÒNICA

154 Les festes de l’os a l’Alt Vallespir CLAUDIE VOISENAT País d’Art i d’Història Transfronterer Les Valls Catalanes del Tec i del Ter

226

El llarg camí de la musicologia industrial: l’exemple de Menorca AMADEU CORBERA JAUME. Conservatori Superior de Música de les Illes Balears. EULÀLIA FEBRER COLL Universitat de Cardiff

MUSEUS I PATRIMONI ETNOLÒGIC 298

El Museu de les Mines de Carbó d’Ogassa: museu de la tècnica i la vida social Amics del Museu d’Ogassa

235

El Rec Comtal: infraestructures i imaginari de l’aigua a Barcelona ROGER SANSI Universitat de Barcelona i Institut Català d’Antropologia

300

Xarxa d’Interès en el Patrimoni Etnològic (XIP Etnològic) Departament d’Antropologia Social i Cultural- Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona

247

Trets identitaris de la fira de Santa Llúcia de Barcelona, entre el desig i la realitat JORDI MONTLLÓ BOLART Col·lectiu El Bou i la Mula

170

Principals trets de la gastronomia marroquina i el rol social d’aquesta IVONE PUIG ARTIGAS Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona

186 Patrimonialització i participació: reflexió comparada a partir del reconeixement de les Falles del Pirineu com a Patrimoni Cultural Immaterial de la Humanitat JOSEP ROCA GUERRERO Universitat de Barcelona 200

212

El Registre de Bones Pràctiques de Salvaguarda del Patrimoni Cultural Immaterial El cas del Museu Escolar de Pusol MARÍA ROYUELAMALDONADO Universitat de Barcelona Una excepcional singularitat etnològica: la cultura de l’aprofitament hidràulic a Banyoles GUERAU PALMADA AUGUET Centre d’Estudis Comarcals de Banyoles CARLES QUER FEO Associació Limnos JOSEP MARIA REYES VIDAL Centre d’Estudis Comarcals de Banyoles

258

272

282

Viatge al barri d’Icària El patrimoni viscut d’un passat industrial arxivat MARÍA GABRIELA NAVAS PERRONE Grup de Recerca sobre Exclusió i Control Socials de la Universitat de Barcelona (GRECS-UB) La producció d’oli de ginebre, un ofici capdavanter a Riba-roja d’Ebre MARINA OROBITG ÁVALOS Associació Amics de Riba-roja d’Ebre JUDIT VIDAL BONAVILA Universitat Rovira i Virgili El fet social complet: un mirada necessària per treballar el patrimoni immaterial. El cas de la festa de sant Roc a Paüls MARC BALLESTER TORRENTS Col·lectiu Anant

JORNADES I CONGRESSOS 303

La Memòria Popular Crònica de les 4es Jornades Nacionals de Patrimoni Etnològic JOANNA GUIJARRO I XAVIER BUSQUETS

306 1r Congrés sobre la jota als territoris de parla catalana JOAQUIM MANYÓS BALANZÓ Responsable de la Fonoteca de Música Tradicional - Direcció General de Cultura Popular i Associacionisme Cultural RESSENYES BIBLIOGRÀFIQUES 308 Jordi Moreras (coord.), Marta Alonso Cabré, Khalid Ghali, Alberto López Bargados, Ariadna Solé. Diàspores i rituals. El cicle festiu dels musulmans de Catalunya. Barcelona, Generalitat de Catalunya, 2017 LAURA MIJARES Departament de Lingüística i Estudis Orientals - Universitat Complutense de Madrid OBITUARI 310 Fragments d’una conversa interrompuda Eric Porqueres i Gené, 12 de setembre 1962 - 3 de novembre 2018 JOAN BESTARD Universitat de Barcelona

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Dossier

FADING AWAY. REFLECTIONS ON DEATH 10

JORDI MORERAS ARIADNA SOLÉ

(In)visible death: The diseased body

Presentation

Religion on the ground: staving off social death in grave-visiting rituals ERIC VENBRUX ANNE KJÆRSGAARD

Spontaneous memorials: post-tragedy acts of mourning MARTA ALLUÉ

38 Deathscapes and diversity in England and Wales: setting an agenda AVRIL MADDRELL YASMINAH BEEBEEJAUN KATIE MCCLYMONT DANNY MCNALLY BRENDA MATHIJSSEN SUFYAN ABID DOGRA

54 Portraits of mourning. Portraits of child death in Catalonia VIRGINIA DE LA CRUZ LICHET

66 Funerary cultural heritage: analysis introduction notes SOL TARRÉS

MARIA GETINO CANSECO

92 “Minors mustn’t go to the funeral parlour” MIREIA CAMPANERA REIG REBECA IZQUIERDO GONZÁLEZ MAITE GAMARRA RODRÍGUEZ

100 “Go die someplace else!” LILYANE RACHÉDI MOULOUD IDIR JAVORKA SARENAC

110 Bodies without rest JORDI MORERAS ARIADNA SOLÉ ARRARÀS

Focus

127 Funerary heritage in Barcelona cemeteries ADRIÀ TEROL

132 When art and death meet: funerary heritage in Catalonia JOSÉ A. ORTIZ

144 "You are dust, and to dust you will return" DOLORS GARCÍA-TORRA

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Catalonian Journal of Ethnology

December 2018

No. 43

Presentation

Jordi Moreras ROVIRA I VIRGILI UNIVERSITY

Ariadna Solé OPEN UNIVERSITY OF CATALONIA

FADING AWAY. REFLECTIONS ON DEATH When death appears

What can be said in epistemological terms when the object studied is going to interrupt life itself? Far from any expression of sentimentality, the idea of the death of our most loved ones as a reality (for one of us), or as a possibility (for the other) has marked us over the period of time we have worked on editing this thematic dossier. Without being able to fully grasp just how much this interference has conditioned our way of addressing the study of death, it is evident that feelings of reverence, discomfort and, of course, pain and fear, will always remain present, as we have had to read and write while also suffering and grieving.

Re-reading the classic text by Renato Rosaldo (Grief and a Headhunter's Rage)1 has been a source of inspiration in explaining the emotions and affliction we have experienced throughout this process. As we know, Rosaldo acknowledges that until he had to experience the feelings of rage, anger and helplessness caused by his wife Michelle’s accidental death, he was unable to understand the anger that moved the Ilongot tribe of the Philippines to organise hunts to cut off the heads of their adversaries. The experience he lived through in that context enabled him to interpret the emotions expressed by the Ilongots during these hunts more accurately and allowed him to support his argument regarding the key concept of location (or relocation) of the subject, which belongs to the hermeneutic perspective proposed by authors like Alfred Schutz, explaining that "the ethnographer is relocated at the same time as he understands other cultures" (p. 20).

Rosaldo does not pass up on the opportunity to refer ironically to the new ethnographers, with much more enthusiasm and energy than experience, which makes it difficult for them to relocate to the cultures they study. But this text also includes an interesting, critical look at the relationship between anthropology and death. Rosaldo criticises the fact that the majority of ethnographic studies end up focusing on the rituals involved in different societies' funerary expressions, showing no interest in the emotional aspects of pain and affliction that are produced by death. This aseptic, structural, ordered and routine approach to explaining death eliminates, de facto, the emotional aspect, which can aid ethnographers in“assuming the position of indifferent observers" (p. 26). It is clear that funeral rituals are unable to "contain all the complex processes of affliction" (p. 31); therefore, two questions must be addressed, one of a methodological nature and the other of an axiological one. First, we must gain a broader understanding of the emotional aspects that are activated in relation to the deceased (in which proximity is a contingent dimension, given the proliferation of public mourning). However, we must also bear in mind the way in which our individual experiences shape our relationship with death and keep us from relying on our scientific baggage and epistemological premises (or, as Rosaldo says, to understand it purely as a sum of various complex and varied rituals) to avoid the contagion of subjectivity. Death is one of the quintessential subjects of anthropology, but it has often been analysed alongside cultures' other features, as just another chapter by these comprehensive ethnographers during the initial stages of anthropology as a discipline. The classic anthropological approach to

Presentation

Dossier

death is marked by some protective taboo that seems to prevent those who study it from posing emotional questions. Johannes Fabian (1972) discussed it in similar terms in another classic text, in which he pointed out that for James Frazer "the issue of death" was only used to study the particular customs of savages. In the study of death, the new perspectives on funerary practices, memory of the deceased, treatment of the bodies, as well as the emotions that engulf us when faced with the loss of a loved one deserve to evolve towards a perspective that is more capable of addressing the transformations that take place around such issues. This is why we believe that anthropologists' subjective experiences in relation to death are essential if we are to attempt to counteract the taboo of social avoidance that makes "it easier to forget about death in normal everyday life", as Norbert Elias (1989) said it in hisThe Loneliness of the Dying. Key authors such as Philippe Ariès (1982) and Luis-Vincent Thomas (1991) provide evidence of the de-socialisation, medicalisation, professionalisation and secularisation of death. For many of us, death continues to be a silenced issue; one that we do not expect and hope to keep at bay. It is an uncomfortable topic to talk about, particularly with children and adolescents, as demonstrated in the article by Mireia Campanera Reig, Rebeca Izquierdo González and Maite Gamarra Rodríguez The transformations of social practices surrounding death (from the changes in celebrations of the deceased and cemetery visits, to the progressive acceptance of cremation and the promotion of funerary services that promise the uniqueness of death itself ) have opened up a fertile range of interests that have increased academic production. Funerary practices, like all cultural manifestations, however, have always undergone constant change. Thus, Virgina de la Cruz takes us to the nineteenth century to explain how the invention of photography changed them. Since the end of the 1980s, as Allué points out, some aspects of this denial of death, spoken of by Ariès or Thomas, for instance, have been overcome (Ariès, 1982; Thomas, 1991) with the emergence of the movement in favour of a dignified death, surrounding the deaths caused by AIDS and other illnesses (Fellous, 2001; Walter, 2017). The increase in life expectancy and the process of medicalisation of death have played an important role in

the changes experienced by society regarding the end of life. As Tony Walter points out, death in Western countries occurs at an increasingly advanced age and often after long periods of illness (Walter, 2017: 7-10). The development of palliative care has played a key role in supporting terminally ill people (Allué Martinez, 1992). In her article, based on her research in a palliative care unit, Maria Getino analyses the meanings associated with the body and the experiences involved in the progression of terminal illnesses. Additionally, amongst these changes in practices surrounding death and its meaning, one of the most profound has to do with its secularisation. Undoubtedly, with regard to the process of medicalisation we mentioned before, religious institutions, particularly the Catholic Church in our country, have lost their monopoly over the treatment of dying and the deceased. However, does this imply a greater rationality in the practices and ideas surrounding death? The article by Eric Venbrux and Anne Kjærsgaard illustrates the contradictions surrounding this process of secularisation, by analysing grave-visiting rituals in

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highly secularised countries, such as Denmark or the Netherlands. The authors argue that grave-visiting rituals, which serve to prevent the social death of the deceased and maintain ties with them beyond their physical death, are invariably religious in nature. Dolors Garcia-Torra presents a similar case in our country: the New Cemetery Park in Igualada. Here, the symbolism of a cemetery designed by the renowned architects Enric Miralles and Carme Pinós, with a secular but transcendent vocation, comes into conflict with people’s grave-visiting and -tending rituals.

works undertaken surrounding mourning and shared memories in relation to "mass deaths" (Robben, 2018a), such as the exhumations of the mass graves from the Spanish Civil War, the bombings of 2004 in Madrid, and the more recent attacks in Barcelona and Cambrils in August 2017. In this regard, the article by Marta Allué explores public mourning in the face of traumatic deaths, in the framework of the last three decades' evolving death-related practices. In this type of public mourning, both institutions and the spontaneous actions of anonymous people play a part.

This new architecture is part of the rich funerary heritage of the numerous monumental cemeteries present in Catalonia, which has led to the creation of a number of dossiers by multidisciplinary teams. Thus, the traditions surrounding death compiled by Joan Amades and other Catalan folklorists—for example, the study of funerary iconographies, as well as a reference to the professions linked to death—are compiled in the informative work by Dolors Grau i Ferrando, Cementiris i sepelis (Cemeteries and burials, 2002). This dossier also includes various works on funerary heritage. First, the text by José A. Ortiz reviews the most outstanding examples of artistic heritage related to death found in Catalan territory from an art history perspective. Ortiz also reflects on the diverse heritage activation of these artistic works. Meanwhile, the article by Sol Tarrés takes a broader stance, analysing the content and characteristics of funeral heritage, as well as the role institutions and funeral service companies play in it. There are several stakeholders involved in this heritage activation. As Tarrés points out, to a great extent funeral companies lay down the guidelines regarding funerary cultural heritage for the institutions that have traditionally managed heritage. The dossier gives the example of the municipal company that oversees the cemeteries of Barcelona (Cementiris de Barcelona, S.A.), which plays an active role in the dissemination of this funeral heritage. Marta Aladrén and Adrià Terol give an account of the cultural and educational activities carried out by Cementiris de Barcelona, S.A. to promote the funerary heritage displayed at the city's main historic cemeteries.

Death began to assume relevance as a subject of particular interest in the 1970s. Those works that demonstrated the many facets of death as a social event made it evident that it could not be addressed merely from the point of view of beliefs, symbols and rituals.2 As Antonious Robben points out (Robben, 2018b), the "founding fathers" of the anthropology of death focused their work on non-state societies, meaning that the relationship between states and death was left aside even when anthropologists began to study Western and post-colonial societies. It is, however, essential to take into account the multiple ways in which the state controls the bodies of the deceased and influences their ritual treatment, both public and private, amongst other issues, with regard to funerary heritage and the management of religious diversity surrounding death.

How to treat the deceased publicly, particularly those carrying an important symbolic weight, ties in with another of the topics highlighted amongst the new themes of study in the anthropology of death: the

The multi-cultural evolution of Catalan society has led to the inclusion of new rituals and new ways of understanding death. Since the recognition of religious plurality, the inclusion of some of these specific factors has been taken into consideration by funeral services, and plots have been set aside in public cemeteries where the dead from non-Christian traditions may be buried. In this regard, the management of Muslim burial in Catalonia has been an issue, capturing our interest and leading us to delve into the study of the anthropology of death. Other authors have also produced interesting works on this topic.3 In the dossier, the article by Lilyane Rachédi, Mouloud Idir and Javorka Sarenac allows us to draw a parallel between this situation and the inclusion of Islamic rituals described by the authors in Quebec. The authors suggest that the challenges, obstacles and conflicts that arise around them constitute a form of Islamophobia, both mortem and post-mortem. Meanwhile, Avril

Presentation

Maddrell, Yasminah Beebeejaun, Katie McClymont, Danny McNally, Brenda Mathijssen and Sufyan Abid Dogra focus their work on the UK, taking a broader perspective that includes various religious traditions. From a geographical point of view, they explore the diverse funerary cultural and religious needs in England and Wales, the associated challenges and the ways in which both the communities and the service providers respond. However, this cultural diversity associated with death is not merely a question of managing cemeteries, but also demands consideration of the multiple aspects of post-mortem, as Jordi Moreras and Ariadna Solé provide in their work, where they have put together a systematic compilation of studies on this mobility in the social sciences. Far from being an exception, the desire to recover the deceased who have died "far from home" has, throughout history, activated a whole series of collective actions to return their bodies to places considered most appropriate. The care of the deceased becomes an opportunity to express collective belonging, whilst reclaiming their bodies and the memories of them.

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The various works included in this dossier are intended to serve as an example of some of the new perspectives and themes regarding the study of death that have emerged over the last decade, in our country and elsewhere, and which have renewed interest in a topic that concerns us all. Personally, for the way they have affected and continue to affect our lives, we wish to dedicate this edition to Nieves and Guillem, one life that has ended and another that has just begun. n

(1) Text that was first published in 1984, in the work by Edward M. Bruner,

Text, Play, and Story: The Construction and Reconstruction of Self and Society, Washington, D. C.: American Ethnological Society. We have used the Spanish version, included in Renato Rosaldo. (1991). Cultura y verdad. Nueva propuesta de análisis social (p. 15-31). Mexico: Editorial Grijalbo. The citations from the text are page referenced in relation to this latest edition.

(2) Some of the examples that have become classics in Iberian Pen-

insula ethnology are those by William A. Douglass (Muerte en Murélaga, 1973), Marta Allué (Siempre vivas e inmortales. Rituales e instituciones funerarias en Tarragona, 1980) and Maria Cátedra (La muerte y otros mundos, 1988).

(3) See García Romeral and Martínez-Ariño, 2012; Moreras, 2004; Moreras and Solé Arraràs, 2011, 2014; and Moreras and Tarrés, 2013.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Allué Martínez, Marta. (1992). La antropologia social de la muerte. Quaderns d’Antropologies (special issue, May 1992). Ariès, Philippe. (1982). La Muerte en Occidente. Barcelona: Argos Vergara. Elias, Norbert. (1989). La soledad de los moribundos. Mexico City, Mexico: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Fabian, Johannes. (1972). How others die Reflections on the anthropology of death. Social Research, 39(3), 543-567. Fellous, Michèle. (2001). A la recherche de nouveaux rites. Rites de passage et modernité avancée. Paris: L'Harmattan. García Romeral, Gloria and Martínez-Ariño, Júlia. (2012). L’acomodació de la pràctica fu-

nerària a Barcelona: diferències entre comunitats islàmiques i jueves. Catalan Journal of Sociology, 28, 89-100. Moreras, Jordi. (2004). Morir lejos de casa: la muerte en contexto migratorio. In B. López Garcia and M. Berriane (Eds.), Atlas de la inmigración marroquí en España. Atlas 2004 (p. 427-429). Madrid: Ministry of Labour and Social Affairs. Technical Secretariat-General. Publications Centre. Moreras, Jordi and Solé Arraràs, Ariadna. (2011). La mort genealògica. Ritualitzar la mort en context migratori. Revista d’etnologia de Catalunya, 38. doi http:// issuu.com/catalanarts/docs/ etnologia38# Moreras, Jordi and Solé Arraràs, Ariadna. (2014). Espais de mort i diversitat religiosa. La presència de l’islam als cementiris i tanatoris catalans. Barcelona: Go-

vernment of Catalonia. Ministry of Culture. doi https://cultura.gencat. cat/web/.content/cultura_popular /07_publicacions/estatics_i_ documents/sd_espais_de_mort. pdf Moreras, Jordi and Tarrés, Sol. (2013). Topografía de la otra muerte. Los cementerios musulmanes en España (siglos xx-xxi). In J. J. Caerols (Ed.), Religio in labyrintho. Spanish Society of Religious Sciences. Robben, Antonious C. G. M. (2018a). A Companion to the Anthropology of Death. Hoboken: Wiley-Blackwell. Robben, Antonious C. G. M. (2018b). An Anthropology of Death for the Twenty-First Century. A Companion to the Anthropology of Death. Hoboken: WileyBlackwell.

Thomas, Louis-Vincent. (1991). La muerte. Una lectura cultural. Barcelona: Paidoós. Walter, Tony. (2017). What Death Means Now. Bristol: Policy Press.

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Eric Venbrux

Anne Kjærsgaard

RADBOUD UNIVERSITY (THE NETHERLANDS)

AARHUS UNIVERSITY (DENMARK)

Mr Venbrux is a professor of comparative religion and the director of the Centre for Thanatology at Radboud University, Nijmegen, the Netherlands. He has conducted anthropological fieldwork in Australia, the Netherlands and Switzerland, and is the author of A Death in the Tiwi Islands: Conflict, Ritual and Social Life in an Australian Aboriginal Community (1995). He specialises in death studies and has published extensively on mortuary ritual.

Ms Kjærsgaard is a postdoctoral researcher working on the project "Death, Memory and Religion" at the School of Society and Culture, Aarhus University, Denmark. Her research interests concern lived religion and material culture in relation to mortuary practices. She is the author of Funerary Culture and the Limits of Secularization in Denmark (2017) and several book contributions and journal articles in the field of death studies. She is one of the editors of the Danish journal for churchyard culture, Kirkegårdskultur.

Religion on the ground: staving off social death in grave-visiting rituals "When God is dead, the cult of the dead may become the only authentic religion". Philippe Ariès (1981 [1977]: 543) Introduction1 In a piece in the Danish newspaper Weekend Avisen, Mads Hermansen expressed his discontent with the near monopoly of the national Lutheran Church on the

control of churchyards. In the article, Hermansen makes a plea for taking control over the dead out of the hands of official religion to enable people to engage freely in practices of their choice, whether condoned by the religious authorities or not. Although he is not a member of the church, he values the practice of talking to the dead (Hermansen, 2014). Talking to the dead appears to be widespread, irre-

This is an expanded version of an article that appeared in Jaarboek voor Liturgieonderzoek/Yearbook for Ritual and Liturgical Studies, 32(2016), 9-20.

A drink for the deceased, left on a grave in Nijmegen, the Netherlands. ERIC VENBRUX

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spective of religious affiliation or non-affiliation. Stringer considers it a basic form of religiosity as it entails communication with non-empirical others (Stringer, 2008a,b). It could also be termed a religious practice as it transcends death, crossing the boundary between life and death (Chidester, 2002: 3). Scholars have long regarded the inability to embrace our mortality as a source of religiosity. According to May, “At its root, religion consists of some kind of experience of sacred power”, arguing that even in modernity the sacred power of death has been a main stay (May, 1972: 465). Hermansen’s piece in Weekend Avisen reminds us that, albeit grossly overlooked by students of religion, we may find answers to people’s religiosity in the cemetery. We refer to religion as practised, ‘lived religion’, in which, as McGuire points out, practical coherence and efficacy in dealing with problems of everyday life supersedes logical consistency (McGuire, 2008: 15). The religious practices concerned are not necessarily confined to the bounds of institutional religion. Maintaining

Considerem que la visita a la tomba és un ritual que ens mostra una forma bàsica de religiositat tal com és practicada per les persones en la seva vida quotidiana. Això és particularment cert en països que se suposa que són altament secularitzats i que tenen un període d’usdefruit de les tombes relativament curt. Un aspecte central del nostre argument és que els rituals de visita a la tomba serveixen per evitar la mort social del difunt. En altres paraules, els supervivents no perceben ni experimenten la mort física del mort com a punt final. Ens enfrontem a un procés de “convertir-se en difunt” que s’ha de conceptualitzar com una fase que hi ha entre la mort física i la mort social. Durant aquesta fase, les persones afligides mantenen vincles amb els difunts mitjançant els rituals de visita a la tomba, i aquests vincles que transcendeixen una mort física són invariablement de naturalesa religiosa.

ongoing bonds with the dead, implied by some practices at graves in Denmark, for example, does not sit well with the Lutheran teaching that the living can no longer do anything for the dead (Kjærsgaard, 2015: 22-22). People can talk to the dead anywhere of course, but if they have something truly important to say they tend to do so at the graveside (Stringer, 2008b: 62). Grave visiting also involves other practices of a religious nature and merits our attention.

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Paraules clau: tomba, ritual, vincles de continuïtat, religiositat Palabras clave: tumba, ritual, vínculos de continuidad, religiosidad Keywords: grave, ritual, continuing bonds, religiosity

Ariès (1981: 524) observed how in the nineteenth century the public cemetery became “the focus of all the piety for the dead; I would even call it a religious institution”. Goody and Poppi, who looked at Anglo-American and Italian cemeteries, confirm that grave visiting “continues to be a prominent feature of an otherwise heavily secularised society” (1994: 150). Bailey (2006: 234-238) even deems the churchyard of greater significance for people’s religiosity than the church. He considers grave visiting a ‘ritual’, as well as “a self perpetuating religious practice” (Bailey, 2006: 234; cf. Ariès, 1981: 549).

Consideramos que la visita a la tumba es un ritual que nos muestra una forma básica de religiosidad tal como es practicada por las personas en su vida cotidiana. Esto es particularmente cierto en países que se supone que son altamente secularizados y que tienen un período de usufructo de las tumbas relativamente corto. Un aspecto central de nuestro argumento es que los rituales de visita a la tumba sirven para evitar la muerte social del difunto. En otras palabras, los supervivientes no perciben ni experimentan la muerte física del fallecido como punto final. Nos enfrentamos a un proceso de “convertirse en difunto” que debe conceptualizarse como una fase que existe entre la muerte física y la muerte social. Durante esta fase, los afligidos mantienen vínculos con los difuntos mediante los rituales de visita a la tumba, y estos vínculos que trascienden una muerte física son invariablemente de naturaleza religiosa.

We consider grave-visiting a ritual that provides us with a window on a basic form of religiosity as practiced by people in everyday life. This is particularly true of countries assumed to be highly secularised and which have a relatively short grave tenure period. Central to our argument is that grave-visiting rituals serve to stave off the social death of the deceased. In other words, the survivors do not perceive or experience the physical death of the deceased as an end point. We are dealing with a process of ‘becoming dead’ that has to be conceptualised as a phase existing between physical death and social death. During this phase the bereaved maintain bonds with the deceased by means of the grave-visiting rituals, and these bonds that transcend a physical death are invariably religious in nature.

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Remarkably, however, the research on grave visiting in countries that are often portrayed as highly secularised, such as Denmark and the Netherlands (see, for instance, the claims in Zuckerman, 2008 and Bernts and Berghuis, 2016), is still in its infancy. We suggest that such studies in the Netherlands, Switzerland and Denmark are significant to gain insight into religious practices that continue to exist under the radar and reveal something about the limits of secularisation. This is in view of Norris and Inglehart’s thesis (2004) that religiosity tends to decrease when there is a high level of existential security, as is the case in the three countries mentioned. We propose to study grave visiting as a ritual. Grave-visiting rituals, as we would like to term them, are telling about the relationship between the living and the deceased. It is now commonly accepted that the survivors maintain ‘a continuing bond’ with the deceased. The con-

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cept of continuing bonds replaced the earlier emphasis on breaking ties with the deceased or ‘letting go’ in the psychology of bereavement (Klass, Silverman and Nickman, 1996; Valentine, 2008). We argue that such bonds, transcending physical death, involve religiosity and relate to the process of ‘becoming dead’ during which social death is staved off. Grave-visiting rituals Grave visiting can be understood as a ritual. Turner defines ritual as “a stereotypical sequence of activities involving gestures, words, and objects, performed in a sequestered place, and designed to influence preternatural entities or forces on behalf of the actors’ goals and interests” (1973: 1100). This definition, we contend, applies to grave visiting.

Cemeteries, surrounded by hedges, fences or walls, are places set apart for the dead (Schmied, 2002: 57-58; Rugg, 2000: 261262). The presence of the dead demands appropriate and respectful behaviour of

Churchyard in Jelling, Denmark. ANNE KJÆRSGAARD

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any visitors to these sequestered areas (Wartmann, 1986: 39). The graves are marked and also have boundaries (Schmied, 2002: 113-116). A tendency exists to treat them as private spaces, reminiscent of a home and/or garden (Hallam and Hockey, 2001: 96, 147; Worpole, 2003: 93). They happen to be loci for the exchange between the living and the deceased. Gestures made, words uttered or inscribed and objects given and/or placed, are part and parcel of the ritual of visiting the grave. The deceased receiving the visitors may be considered to be lending an ear and offering companionship, guidance or help. Grave-visiting rituals have a number of common features. The most extensive research to date on grave visiting has been conducted by Francis, Kellehar and Neophytou in London cemeteries. They write: “We learned that men, women, and children of all ages, religions, ethnicities and income levels visit cemeteries, at frequencies ranging from daily to once a year” (Francis, Kellaher and Neophytou, 2005: 20). What is more, “the data suggests a relatively similar range of activities across the different religious and cultural groups at the graveside” (Francis, Kellaher and Neophytou, 2000: 43). These activities also come to the fore in the studies of grave visiting by Schmied (2002) in Germany and by Bachelor (2004) in Australia. Bachelor ranks placing flowers, maintaining the grave and talking to the deceased as the top three activities (2004: 107-115; cf. Schmied, 2002: 153-157, 85-95, 37-44). In a recent survey on grave visiting in the region of Valkenswaard, the Netherlands, 20 out of 41 respondents appeared to be talking to the dead (de Jong, 2015: 33). In Schmied’s research in Germany, 34 out of 43 grave-visitors said that they talked to the dead (Schmied, 2002: 37).

Visits to the grave are bracketed by ritualised greetings and leave-takings. As a Danish widow puts it: “It’s simply a habit, we’ve done it from the first day we visited the grave, the first thing we do is to go and stroke the headstone and say hello, and the last thing we do before we go is to kiss it and touch it again” (interview by Anne Kjærsgaard, 19 January 2015). She describes the average visit to her deceased husband’s grave as follows: –I park the car and then I walk through the gate and walk up to him. When I’m entering I’m already thinking of him. And just when I reach the border of the grave I say: ‘Hi luv’. – AK: Do you say this aloud or to yourself? – No, I say it aloud. I also sit and talk with him out loud. Then I tell him what’s been happening and what his grandson can do these days. Then I tell him off; why is he not here, why has he left me? We have to discuss that occasionally. But otherwise I just sit and tell him that I miss him, how things are going in my life and how sorry I feel for myself that he is not here with all the health problems I suffer from. Yeah, you know, just everyday stuff, and then I tidy up a bit if there is something to do, but generally the churchyard caretaker looks after things. We make sure he looks after things just to be on the safe side so that it is always nice. Then I change the candle and just stand and chat with him for a little while. And then, when it’s time to go, I give the gravestone a few strokes and a kiss and then I look over at him, to where he’s buried and say: ‘Bye luv, take care, until the next time’. Although the widow laments her deceased husband’s absence, she feels and acts out being in touch with him at his graveside. The notion that the deceased is somehow present and registers the utterances and actions of the visitors appears to be quite common. You can almost physically be in

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touch by tending the grave or caressing the stone, as well as communicate with the deceased (Francis, Kellaher and Neophytou, 2000: 43-44; Bailey, 2006: 236). Rugg (2013) rightly notes that far too little attention has been given to people’s agency within the framework of cemetery regulations. Although, at first sight, Danish churchyards may appear to be highly secularised, they do in fact materialise Protestant norms. Cemetery regulations and appeals to aesthetics seek to prevent religious practices that are not in accordance with the ban on the living maintaining relations with the dead (Kjærsgaard, 2014). It has, for instance, been argued that the churchyard ought not to become an amusement park (“a Tivoli”) in the case of a mother wanting to place electric lights at the grave of her daughter during Christmas time, as all she could give her was some light in the dark (Kjærsgaard, 2014: 115-116). Traces of small ritual gestures that keep within the confines of cemetery regulations, however, can be found in almost every churchyard. To give just one example: a thirteen-year old girl in Jutland went on a school trip for several days, but she wanted to stay in touch with her deceased mother. From her allowance she bought a small figure of a Smurf with a laptop and placed it at her mother’s grave (see fig. 3), so that it could write to her mother for her (interview by Anne Kjærsgaard, 15 September 2013). In her documentary Forever, Dutch filmmaker Heddy Honigmann demonstrates how visiting graves at the famous Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris involves a number of practices that suggest a communication with the dead. We see ample graves being watered, women touching, wiping off and washing the stone slabs, and people bringing flowers and small gifts. One woman sits down in a folding chair at a grave and reads from a book. Another tells the deceased what she’s been doing since

her last visit. People stand at graves, deep in contemplation (Honigmann, 2006).

A daughter’s means of communication with her deceased mother. ANNE KJÆRSGAARD

Other gestures are manifold, such as the placement of written messages, (birthday) cards, drawings of children, photographs and small ornaments or statues. Candles are lit, drink is splashed or poured for the deceased, cigarettes or cigars and food are offered and all belong to the rich repertoire of grave-visiting rituals. Across Europe, religious rites, such as prayer, leaving pebbles, burning incense and blessing the grave (i.e. the deceased) with holy water also occur. A bond with the deceased is reinforced by graveside visits on special days, such as birthdays, the day of death, wedding anniversaries, Christmas, Easter and All Souls’ or Memorial Day. Talking to the deceased and the celebration of posthumous birthdays are clear indications of an ongoing bond with the person who has died. The care for the deceased as expressed at the grave is often in death as in life. For example,one of our informants would bring his mother a bunch of fresh flowers everyweek,

In a similar vein, photos were not allowed to be placed on graves in the predominantly Protestant Swiss city of Zurich because the cemetery ought not to become “a photo album” (Hauser, 1994: 283).

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where he also continued his conversations with her (fieldnotes, Eric Venbrux, Lucerne, Switzerland, 28 March 2014). Grave-visiting rituals involve the senses: touch, smell, sight and sometimes taste and hearing. Chimes and little windmills produce sounds, so do birds attracted by water basins on graves. Tending the grave by putting in plants, placing flowers and objects, arranging things and cleaning can be perceived as ‘physical contact by proxy’ (Francis, Kellaher and Neophytou, 2000: 43). Klass speaks of the “need to develop some new concepts to help us understand the attachments in this kind of physical proximity” (2006: 850). We consider them to be of a religious nature (see below). Benches at graves are a tell-tale sign that the deceased merits attention, similar to candles at graves that have been lit and continue to burn after the visitor departs. Gifts for the deceased symbolise a form of attention giving, as well as imply some kind of reciprocity (cf. Mauss, 1970). After tending the grave, a visitor repeatedly used to tell the deceased that “everything is

OK” (fieldnotes, Eric Venbrux, Lucerne, Switzerland, 31 March 2014). The visitor will appease the deceased with his words and, indirectly, himself. The ritual act of maintaining the grave seems to serve as a means of gaining control over a disruptive situation. Another recurrent ritualistic gesture with the same intent is taking photographs of the grave or at the graveside (Kjærsgaard and Venbrux, 2016). Francis et al. (2005: 214) conclude that cemeteries “exist to obscure the terrifying fact of death through ritual practice”. Unlike in the UK, grave rights in the Netherlands are often limited to 10 or 20 years. Yet in this country, slabs of hard stone that could last for centuries are put on graves only to be removed and crushed once the relatively short period is over. This costly, rhetorical gesture raises the question whether the so-called continuing bonds between the living and the dead have an expiry date. In Denmark this seems evident in the ritualised way gravestones removed from the graves are treated. They are covered so that

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Removed and covered gravestone in the old churchyard of Kolding, Denmark ANNE KJÆRSGAARD

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the names of the deceased can no longer be read (see fig. 4). Next, the inscribed names and dates will be removed from the stones. Thereafter, the anonymous stones may be used to strengthen the seashore. It is rather telling that a gravestone with name and dates still on it accidentally ending up in a harbour causes upheaval. The survivors, tracked down by journalists, tend to speak of the stone as if it were the deceased in person (e.g., ‘uncle’) (Kjærsgaard, 2017: 111-112). In other words, as long as the ritual procedure of defacing the gravestone has not been undertaken the person in question appears not to be conceived of as really dead by the bereft relatives. 'Becoming dead’: continuing bonds and religiosity To Hertz we owe the insight that death is a process rather than a specific point in time (Hertz, 1960; Heessels and Venbrux,

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Physical death is thus not perceived or experienced as the end (Ariès, 1981: 604). The current, dominant paradigm when theorising bereavement holds that the bereaved maintain ‘continuing bonds’ with the deceased. Over the last two decades the understanding has gained traction “that the purpose of grief is not to sever bonds with the dead, but to rework the bond in a way that the deceased can remain part of the survivor’s inner and social world” (Goss and Klass, 2005: 9). Grave-visiting rituals are a means for the survivors to maintain a relationship or bonds with the deceased. Following on the physical death of a loved one these ‘continuing bonds’ stave off social death. Only when continuing bonds are no longer continued the deceased may be said to have become dead in the fullest sense. Figure 5 represents this as a graphic: The process of ‘becoming dead’, the space between physical and social death, will last as long as continuing bonds between the living and the deceased are maintained. The continuing bonds entail a communication with the dead, which transcends the boundary between life and death, and, therefore, could be seen as a form of religiosity.

Death

continuing bonds/religiosity (communication with the dead) Physical death

Social death becoming dead

2009: 120-122). The process of ‘becoming dead’ takes time. In the words of Humphreys (1983: 263), “The process of dying, in its widest sense, stretches from the prognosis that a person is ‘terminally ill’ (as opposed to being temporarily unconscious, or seriously ill, but with chances of recovery) to the complete cessation of all social actions directed towards their remains, tomb, monument or other relics representing them”.

When bonds continue to exist between the living and the deceased, the physical death of the latter cannot be understood as the end by the living. Transcending physical death, “the limits placed on human life by the death of the body”, implies some form of religiosity (Chidester, 2002: 3). Interestingly, a religious aspect also comes to the fore in the desire to be buried in a

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communal grave, as is increasingly popular in Switzerland, for the reason that one has company after death (Domenig and Sahebi, 2007: 30). Death appears not to be the end. The same accounts for Swiss alternative funerals, premised on a belief in reincarnation, involving grave gifts, letters to the dead and blessings for the journey (Lüddeckens, 2015: 223-224). Traditional funeral rituals in Switzerland, of course, also suggest that death is not the end (e.g., Venbrux, 1991). Our point is, however, that grave-visiting rituals also offer an excellent opportunity to examine this basic form of religiosity (transcending physical death) that hitherto has remained almost unexplored. A striking comment left on a Danish blog in fact suggests that grave visiting in the lived life of the mourner might play an even more important role in transcending death than funeral rituals. The blog was first created by a man writing about his life with cancer and after his death it was continued by the widow and mother of his two young children. She writes about the grave a few days after the burial of the urn: We have said goodbye to NN a great many times I find – both before he died, when he died, when the lid of the coffin was closed, when he was driven away from hospice, the funeral service and finally at the burial of the urn. (…) But now it was the very final goodbye. (…) Now we can finally go to [a place] and say Hey dad instead of goodbye. He is just as close to us [as before], and it will be good to have a place where we can also tell dad about the first tooth that fell out, about MM [the youngest child] learning new words and whatever else is happening – big and small. Funerals might convey the hope that death is not the final goodbye in terms of abstract symbols and beliefs, but grave visiting opens up possibilities to unfold a continued everyday life together in the here and now where death through actual practices

can be experienced as annihilated. Death is literally un-done. Instead of a distant afterlife in another realm, the transcendence of death is made this-worldly and very concrete. We came across a good example of the use of photographs to transcend the boundary between life and death in the Netherlands. At a grave in the Nijmegen region, an ultrasound image of a future child was placed next to a photo of a pregnant woman’s deceased father. Five months later the ultrasound image was replaced by a photograph of a new born baby accompanied by a message to the dead man that he had now become a grandfather (see Kjærsgaard and Venbrux, 2016: 85-86). In this way two humans who were not alive at the same time were introduced to each other and ‘met’ at the grave. In an example from Denmark technology was also used as a means to bracket death in a very telling and concrete way. Here, a mother went to the grave of her daughter, who had died from cancer when eight years old, daily. Apart from telling her daughter stories from the everyday life of the family, she would also often use her smartphone to play pop tunes they both used to like and to show her daughter animated films with Peppa Pig. With these actions the mother thus regarded her daughter as someone who could still hear and see. In this way, the mother turned the grave into a place where daily exchanges with her daughter occurred and their being together in everyday life continued (see Kjærsgaard, 2018; for another example of the agency of the dead, see Vaczi, 2014). Especially in prosperous and highly secularised countries, such as Denmark, the Netherlands and Switzerland, with limited periods of grave rest, fine-grained ethnographic studies of grave-visiting rituals can shed light on the limits of secularisation (see Kjærsgaard, 2017: 111-147). If our knowledge of death is indeed the source of religion, we might also take a fresh look

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“Et sidste farvel”, https://Handimanblog.in, 25 May 2015

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at the phenomenon. In doing so we need to leave aside narrow definitions of religion and look at the actual practices and understandings of the people concerned. In this we agree with Stringer (2008a: 39, 2008b: 1-35). We do not think, however, that his inversion of elements of a definition of religion based on official religion is productive (see Stringer, 2008b). A closer look at the continuing bonds between the living and the deceased in grave-visiting rituals may be a good starting point. Goss and Klass seem to agree in their book on continuing bonds between the living and the dead. They note, “When we try to understand how bonds continue, and the meaning of the bonds that continue, we are in touch with something fundamental in the way individual humans make sense of their world” (Goss and Klass, 2005: 7). Walter admits that “communications with the dead can be seen as, in the broadest sense, religious experiences” (2009: 219). Grave-visiting rituals provide us with a window on religiosity that otherwise remains undetected. It would also be interesting to see when people stop visiting graves and whether the bonds with the deceased then expire or are extended by other means (cf. Kjærsgaard and Venbrux, 2016; Wojtkowiak and Venbrux, 2010; Maddrell, 2012; Kasket, 2012; Heessels, Poots and Venbrux, 2012; Jakoby and Reiser, 2014; Kjærsgaard, 2017). The process of ‘becoming dead’ may be swift or of a longer duration (more probable, it seems, in the case of an untimely death). Thorough empirical studies of grave-visiting rituals will enable us to assess how this process is intertwined with the survivors’ lived religiosity. We do not claim that the grave-visiting rituals in countries such as the Netherlands, Switzerland and Denmark capture all that there is to study in this respect or that all dead end up in graves, let alone that all graves will be visited, but we do claim that they reveal

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more about a form of religiosity thus far overlooked. Conclusion We have clarified that grave visiting can be understood as a ritual. We have argued that there is good reason to study grave-visiting rituals to obtain a basic view of religiosity as practised by people in everyday life. This is particularly true of countries assumed to be highly secularised and which have a relatively short grave tenure period.

Central to our argument is that grave-visiting rituals serve to stave off the social death of the deceased. In other words, the survivors do not perceive or experience the physical death of the deceased as an end point. We are dealing with a process of ‘becoming dead’ that has to be conceptualised as a phase existing between physical death and social death. During this phase the bereaved maintain bonds with the deceased by means of the grave-visiting rituals, and these bonds that transcend a physical death are invariably religious in nature. n

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

Ariès, P. (1981 [1977]). The hour of our death. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Bachelor, P. (2004). Sorrow and solace: The social world of the cemetery. New York: Baywood. Bailey, E. I. (2006). Implicit religion in contemporary society. Leuven: Peeters Bernts, T. and Berghuijs, J. (2016). God in Nederland 19962015. Utrecht: Ten Have. Chidester, D. (2002). Patterns of transcendence: Religion, death, and dying. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth. De Jong, H. (2015). Mam, ik kom efkes buurten. Een onderzoek onder nabestaanden naar de betekenis van het bezoek aan de herdenkingsplek voor hun overledenen. Thesis for the Master's in Religious Studies at Radboud University in Nijmegen, the Netherlands. Domenig, A. and Sahebi, M. (2007). Wandel der Bestattungskultur in der Stadt Zürich. Zurich: Stadt Zürich. Francis, D., Kellaher, L. and Neophytou, G. (2000). “Sustaining cemeteries: the user perspective”, Mortality, 5: 34-52. Francis, D., Kellaher, L. and Neophytou, G. (2005).The secret cemetery. New York: Berg. Goody, J. and Poppi, C. (1994). “Flowers and bones: Approaches to the dead in Anglo-American and Italian cemeteries”, Comparative Studies in History and Society, 36, 146-175. Goss, R. and Class, D. (2005). Dead but not lost: Grief narratives in religious traditions. Walnut Grove, CA: AltaMira Press. Hallam, E. and Hockey, J. (2001). Death, memory and material culture. Oxford: Berg. Hauser, A. (1994). Von den letzten Dingen. Tod, Begräbnis und Friedhöfe in der Schweiz 1700-1990.

Zurich: Verlag Neue Zürichher Zeitung. Heessels, M., Poots, F. and Venbrux, E. (2012). “In touch with the deceased: Animate objects and human ashes”, Material Religion, 8: 466-489. Heessels, M. and Venbrux, E. (2009). “Secondary burial in the Netherlands: Rights, rites and motivations”, Mortality, 14: 119-132. Hermansen, M. (2014). “Der skal drikkes glædesgravøl”, Weekend Avisen, 16 April 2014. Hertz, R. (1960 [1907]). “A contribution to the study of the collective representation of death”, in Death and the right hand. Glencoe: The Free Press, 25-87. Honigmann, H. (Dir.). (2006). Forever. 95 min.; Cobos Films/NPS, the Netherlands. Humphreys, S. C. (1981). “Death and time”. In S. C. Humphreys and H. King (Eds.): Mortality and immortality: The anthropology and archaeology of death, 261-283. London: Academic Press. Jakoby, N. J. and Reiser, S. (2014). “Grief 2.0: Exploring virtual cemeteries”. In T. Benski and E. Fisher (Eds.), Internet and emotions, 103-120. New York: Routledge Kasket, E. (2012). “Continuing bonds in the age of social networking: Facebook as a modern-day medium”, Bereavement Care, 31: 62-69. Kjærsgaard, A. (2014). “Finding consolation in churchyards in Lutheran Denmark”, Nederlands Theologisch Tijdschrift, 68: 101-119. Kjærsgaard, A. (2015). “Sorg og ritualer på kirkegården”, Kirkegården 35(4): 20-22. Kjærsgaard, A. (2017). Funerary culture and the limits of secularization in contemporary Denmark. Zurich: LIT Verlag. Kjærsgaard, A. and Venbrux, E. (2016). “Still in the picture: Photographs at graves and social time”.

In P. Bjerregaard, A. E. Rasmussen and T. F. Sørensen (Eds.), Materialities of passing: Explorations in transformation, transition and transience, 85-109. London: Routledge Klass, D. (2006). “Continuing conversations on continuing bonds”, Death Studies, 30: 843-858. Klass, D., Silverman, P. R. and Nickman, S. L. (Eds.). (1996). Continuing bonds: New understandings of grief. London: Taylor and Francis. Lüddeckens, D. (2015). “Trauerrituale in der alternativen Trauerund Bestattungskultur”. In T. Klie, M. Kumlehn, R. Kunz and T. Schlag (Eds.), Praktische Theologie der Bestattung, 207. Berlin: De Gruyter. Maddrell, A. (2012). “Online memorials: The virtual as the new vernacular”, Bereavement Care, 31: 46-54. Mauss, M. (1970 [1925]). The Gift. London: Cohen & West. May, W. F. (1972). “The sacral power of death in contemporary experience”, Social Research, 39: 463-488. Mcguire, M. B. (2008). Lived religion: Faith and practice in everyday life. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Norris, P. and Inglehart, R. (2004). Sacred and secular: Religion and politics worldwide. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rugg, J. (2000). “Defining the place of burial: What makes a cemetery a cemetery?”, Mortality, 5: 259-275. Rugg, J. (2013). “Choice and constraint in the burial landscape: re-evaluating twentieth-century commemoration in the English churchyard”, Mortality, 18: 215-234. Schmied, G. (2002). Friedhofsgespräche. Untersuchungen zum „Wohnort der Toten“. Wiesbaden: Springer. Stringer, M. D. (2008a). “Chatting with Gran at her grave: Ethnography and the definition of religion”. In Cruchley-Jones, P. (Ed.): God at

ground level, 23-29. Frankfurt del Main: Peter Lang. Stringer, M. D. (2008b). Contemporary Western ethnography and the definition of religion. London: Continuum. Turner, V. W. (1973). “Symbols in African ritual”, Science, 179: 11001105. Vaczi, M. (2014). “Death in the cathedral: Mortuary practices in sport stadiums”, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 20: 635-652. Valentine, C. (2008). Bereavement narratives: Continuing bonds in the twenty-first century. London: Routledge Venbrux, E. (1991). “A death-marriage in a Swiss mountain village”, Ethnologia Europaea, 21: 193-205. Walter, T. (2009). “Communicating with the dead”. In C. D. Bryant and D. L. Peck (Eds.), Encyclopedia of death and the human experience, vol. 1, 216-219. Los Angeles: Sage Wartmann, M. (1986). “Leben auf Zürcher Friedhöfen. Impressionen, Gespräche, Beobachtungen”, Schweizerisches Archiv für Volkskunde, 82: 30-40. Wojtkowiak, J. and Venbrux, E. (2010). “Private spaces for the dead: Remembrance and continuing relationships at home memorials in the Netherlands”. In A. Maddrell and J. D. Sidaway (Eds.), Deathscapes: Spaces for death, dying, mourning and remembrance, 207-221. Farnham: Ashgate. Worpole, K. (2003). Last landscapes: The architecture of the cemetery in the West. London: Reaktion Books. Zuckerman, P. (2008). Society without God. New York: New York University Press.

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Marta Allué

Paraules clau: rituals, memorial, ofrenes, dol, atemptat

MEMBER OF THE MEDICAL ANTHROPOLOGY RESEARCH CENTER, URV, CATALAN ASSOCIATION OF BURN VICTIMS

Bachelor’s degree in Geography and History from the University of Barcelona, 1979. Master's degree in Anthropology of Medicine and PhD in Social and Cultural Anthropology from Rovira i Virgili University, 1994-1996 and 2001, respectively. Currently retired, she collaborates with several universities and institutions on courses and projects related to functional diversity, the rights of the sick and the act of dying and death. Member of the Right to a Dignified Death Association, DMD-Catalunya.

Palabras clave: rituales, memorial, ofrendas, duelo, atentado Keywords: rituals, memorial, worship, mourning, attack

Spontaneous memorials: post-tragedy acts of mourning From past to present

bserving and describing the act of dying, death and the cult of memory has occupied much of my time, albeit sporadically and randomly. Equally, I have never ceased to collect bibliographic and field material since the 1970s,1 something which has allowed me to observe the variations from a distance. From the mid-1950s, there were hardly any changes regarding this issue during a period presided over by the denial of death, the so-called taboo of death, and the concealment of the natural process of loss. This continuing attitude and this very concealment are also reflected in the limited interest on the part of the social disciplines with regard to the subject.2 Death, however, is always present and, since the late 1980s, innovations in various fields related to the end of life may observed with a new common feature: the globalisation of ways and means. And not merely in what we talk about, but in many other related aspects, such as the campaign for a dignified death, the development of palliative treatments, and changes in ways of dealing with corpses. For example, the resurgence of cremation, an innovation whose consequences include the relocation of the cult of memory.3 These changes herald an era

in which the new symbols and ways of saying farewell are much more personalised and participatory, favouring the treatment of the world of death from a perspective that neither denies nor hides the pain, but supports it. As Michèle Fellous tells us (2001: 104), AIDS, as a paradigmatic example, gave a visibility to death which at other times would have been impossible; hence the exaltation of the imagination, even more so within a young, active group, with intellectual and artistic ties. The same applies to other culturally unified groups, such as gypsies, or groups of political or ideological affiliation, as if meeting death head-on raised the individualist barriers and created a the need for a vital link emerge for everyone. In an article about death in this never-ending world of changes, I will discuss just one aspect and I will do so by means of a couple of examples related to the cult of memory. I will look at the ways and means that now help to externalise pain, sharing it, giving it back to a diverse but closer and more open community, particularly in the case of sudden illness, unforeseen death or loss usurped for others. That much repeated phrase, often trivialised, during farewell ceremonies, "We are all... so and so", synthesises this idea. To say farewell and to remember By cult we mean the set of practices associated with bidding farewell, paying homage and maintaining the memory of the deceased,

See the author's website at www. martallue.com.

The sociologist G. Gorer, the French historians Philippe Ariès and Michel Vovelle, and the ethnologist L. V. Thomas are essential authors in bibliographies on the subject from before the 1970s.

In 1984, the Right to a Dignified Death Association (DMD) was founded in Catalonia. The official website can be visited at http:// www.eutanasia.cat/index.php/ca/. In the same year, the oncology team at the Hospital de la Santa Cruz de Vic initiated a pilot palliative care scheme that was the seed of the discipline in the country (see Qualy Observatory, 2009). Retrieved from: http://ico.gencat.cat/web/. content/minisite/ico/ professionals / documents / qualy / arxius / doc_ model_atencio_pal_catalunya_ vf.pdf . The first crematorium in Catalonia came into operation in the grounds of the Collserola cemetery in 1983. See the official Mémora website. Barcelona funerary services: https://www. sfbsa.es/ca/sobre-sfb/historia. (Consulted on 2 September 2018).

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activities which are all designed to favour the emotional assimilation of the loss. Saying farewell and remembering those who have died are, then, cult acts. With the presence of the body, the cult includes ceremonies, acts or gestures of farewell. Everything that is regulated within this phase constitute the rites, for example the formal rite celebrated by our society in a church or the chapel of a funeral parlour. However, when the body has already been buried or incinerated, cults are memory based and take the form of acts of post-mortem tribute and offerings at the grave or the place where the person lost their life, the purpose of which is to keep their memory alive. But, since when and why are there new activities and anonymous participation in sudden, tragic deaths? These are the issues that we will discuss below. On a global level, specific, non-random changes have been observed since the end of the 1990s. Experts speak of a turning point, the initial trigger, the so-called Lady Di phenomenon (Kear, A., and Steinberg, D. L. [Eds.], 1999; Santino, 2003). The death of Princess Diana of Wales triggered a series of collective supportive actions (spontaneous laying of offerings) and a new mise en scène: the celebration of her life at the funeral with the participation of her relatives (Boggan, 1997) and the musician Elton John (Silverman, 1997) and the grave in the family garden,4 which opened up previously unprecedented perspectives

La deslocalització del culte a la memòria dels traspassats inaugura una nova època presidida pel tractament de l’univers de la mort des d’una perspectiva més propera que, en lloc de negar-la, la transforma. La cultura material, visiblement pública, relativa a la mort i al dol reclama recuperar-la des de la nostra disciplina en el cas de les morts traumàtiques per la seva imprevisibilitat. Les conseqüències dels accidents, catàstrofes i atemptats difoses pels mitjans i la xarxa mostren el dolor per les pèrdues a tothom, però ara, a més, ens faciliten i promouen donar resposta de condol i solidaritat. Aquesta interacció, abans impossible, farà que els gestos de dol s’universalitzin.

These collective responses, both in cases of sudden death of public figures, as well as other anonymous victims, broadcast in the media and social media,5 represent an aconfessional reply to a previous vision that was used as a strategy to confront the denial of death in speech and the exclusion of the death from space. These are innovative means that go against the previous, "traditional", model of non-shared mourning; the rejection of public expression of affliction and emotions, a world in which serenity was the socially expected attitude; a society that was ashamed of sadness, which had to be experienced in private, with a desire to cover up the natural period of the feeling of loss.

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Retrieved from https://www. findagrave.com/memorial/1888/ diana-spencer. Find a Grave is a repository that contains the images of thousands of graves.

We must distinguish between social media andsocial network. Social media are virtual communication tools, including Facebook, Instagram and WhatsApp. A social network is rather a social science concept that identifies physical relationships, face to face.

These changes are representative of a society subject to a profound process of secularisation that sees and experiences how "traditional" religious funerals have lost meaning and purpose, because they are less participatory, removing those close to the deceased further away still. Faced with this immobility and, according to Ferran Saez Mateu (2015), "the process of secularisation may have as a consequence the unprecedented revival of pre-modern forms of religiosity". Because what we are seeing is a return to the mystical nature of the cult, a return to its origins, because the cult of the deceased existed before the emergence of the great religions. Archaeological and ethnographic records contain very extensive documentation surrounding the world of funerary practices which support this idea.

La deslocalización del culto a la memoria de los difuntos inaugura una nueva época presidida por el tratamiento del universo de la muerte desde una perspectiva más cercana que, en vez de negarla, la transforma. La cultura material, visiblemente pública, relativa a la muerte y al duelo reclama ser recuperada desde nuestra disciplina en el caso de las muertes traumáticas por su imprevisibilidad. Las consecuencias de accidentes, catástrofes o atentados difundidas por los medios e internet muestran el dolor por las pérdidas a todos, pero ahora, además, se facilitan y se promueven las expresiones de condolencia y solidaridad. Esta interacción, antes imposible, hace que estos gestos de duelo se universalicen.

The relocation of the cult to the memory of those who are transferred introduces a new era presided over by the treatment of the universe of death from a closer perspective that, instead of denying it, transforms it. The publicly visible material culture related to death and pain claims to recover it from our discipline in the case of traumatic deaths due to their unpredictability. The consequences of accidents, catastrophes and attacks disseminated across the media and internet show pain of loss in everyone, but now they also facilitate and promote the response of condolence and solidarity. This previously impossible interaction will unify gestures.

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The culture of the new millennium is more individualistic and we say farewell to the dead with tributes on social media. The deceased and those grieving for them receive support. New practices, full of multifaceted symbolic gestures, are more imaginative, more expressive and open in terms of emotions, and are less restrictive and repressive. We are also facing a more global society, which imitates, sees and experiences everything “live” as it is happening. A society with a desire to accept and assimilate both bidding farewell to the deceased and maintaining their memory alive. Accepting these premises, we try to conceive of, imagine, reinvent or reuse rituals, ceremonies, actions or gestures that help us to face traumas, with a new, updated, metaphoric and symbolic language. That is why we find spontaneous, individual or group, non-institutional creations that represent a situation of cultural change with regard to new ways of dealing with losses. The proliferation and diffusion of these acts has been favoured by new technologies; their symbolic efficiency explains this growth. Chiara Garattini, quoted by Fellous (2001: 102), said that creativity and death have coexisted since the dawn of time and that social sciences tend to explain imaginative creations regarding death as tools to resolve the "crisis of death” in a personal and social scope, which is more problematic when there is a crisis of the imagination. Maybe, then, we are on the road to overcoming this. In this article we will focus exclusively, within this wider framework of means of farewell and remembrance, on the spontaneous ones, those that follow the impulse of people and groups in the face of a tragic, unexpected death. What do we mean by a spontaneous memorial? During a conversation with an Argentine anthropologist in Sweden, the origins of the changes in cult and the globalisation of means of saying farewell and paying tribute came up. I told him that I had to go back

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to the early 1980s to see signs of group participation in a spontaneous tribute in the face of the sudden death of a public figure, for example a celebrity, a politician or a singer, when he said to me: - Listen: when Olof Palme was killed, do you remember? It was we Argentinians who started it off!6 And he sent me this piece by Jorge Eduardo Rulli (2013: 30): We took some flowers; I don’t remember where we’d bought or got them from... (...) When we arrived at Sveavagen we found a very small, almost routine police presence, the blood stain and about thirty or forty immigrants of different origins, many of them Latin Americans. That's where we began to get organised, to buy materials and to put up posters in the surrounding area expressing our pain; with the flowers we made a small mound on the blood stain. Our intention wasn’t to blot out the evidence of the crime. (...) There was a need to do something based on our raw physical emotions and popular religiosity that, without a doubt, is our own, and you could even say the exclusive heritage of our countries... Those who passed by the place as the morning went on looked at us with curiosity... Some hours later there were several hundred of us, and the proportion of Swedes was minimal. (...) At noon, the mound of flowers was already a couple of metres high and it continued to grow (...) A week after that first day, the situation had changed dramatically: There were thousands of Swedes in the place and the immigrants were a tiny minority, the mountain of flowers had reached four meters in height and was removed regularly by Council vehicles. Two weeks after the crime (...) there were not enough vehicles to remove them, the burning candles were countless, the posters with words of pain and farewell, and the objects left by the people were a never-ending gallery and the tens of thousands of people coming and going night and day amongst tears and heart-wrenching scenes, which was absolutely unheard of in a Scandinavian

Olof Palme was assassinated in 1986, whilst still serving as Prime Minister, on Sveavagen Street in Stockholm city centre, as he was leaving the cinema with his wife.

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country (28 February 1986). The author describes exactly what is happening now, as soon as people learn of a tragic, inexplicable death. To precisely detect the origins of some of these mass gestures of condolence is not my aim here, but I think it is worth highlighting some examples occurring before the consolidation of this type of response by way of illustration. Santino (2003: 54) admits – as I do myself – that when John Lennon was killed in December 1980 at the gates of his home in the Dakota Building in New York, some small offerings of flowers, candles and written messages were left there. Some time later, at a crossroads in Central Park, located just in front of the building where he lost his life, a commemorative mosaic was installed on the ground. It says: Imagine The footer in La Vanguardia7 highlights that some people put flowers in front of the Hipercor supermarket on Avinguda Meridiana in Barcelona, where the deadliest attack in Catalonia took place in 1987. Many years later, in 2003, a monument in memory of the victims of terrorism was unveiled near the site of the attack, at the junction between Avenida Meridiana and Passeig Fabra i Puig in Barcelona. What came later and globalised farewell gesture behaviour was, as I have already said, the event of the accidental death of Lady Diana Spencer, Princess of Wales, the so-called "flowers revolution" (Santino, 2003: 54). In 1997, flowers, candles, written messages and teddy bears filled the pavements and railings of Kensington Palace, where the Princess had lived, as well as the area surrounding the Alma Bridge in Paris (EFE, 2017), where the accident that caused her death took place. The same behaviour was repeated years later, on 11 September 2001 in New York and on 11 March 2004 at Atocha station in Madrid (Romero, 2004). The first gestures following the death consisted of temporary offerings in situ, the spontaneous expression of people's pri-

mary emotions as a way to compensate for the shock caused by the loss. I would like to establish, however, two different types regarding the importance of the deceased. In the first group, we would include the type of cult aimed at a public figure, killed suddenly, like the spontaneous memorials in the event of major catastrophes, terrorist attacks or accidents. The second group represents the spontaneous, private and individualised memorial erected by relatives, or a social network, in memory of someone who dies suddenly, traffic accidents being the most characteristic example. Both types of cult are of particular interest to me because they are set in a time and public space that become sacred due to the their appropriation. However, here we will only exemplify the first type, because it generates social interaction and cultural uniformity between people unknown to the deceased, and because the subsequent institutional management of the offerings demands conservation and expropriation with a museum end. In the case of anonymous deaths, families mark the place where the loved one lost their life in a traffic accident with a landmark (a cross and flowers),8 because a cemetery or an urn would link the tragedy to an expected death, which is not the case. Researchers call them by different names – sanctuaries, chapels, resting places (Fletcher, 1999) –, because they are erected in the place where the funeral procession pauses on the way from the church to the cemetery. In addition, this carries responsibilities, and marking the spot and appropriating the site in the long term also implies that neglect would be evident and instils a desire for proper maintenance. But, in the event of terrorist attacks it is the institutions that ultimately appropriate the site, the flowers and the messages; by doing this, they remove them and deprive them of their significance for the relatives. In the end, the gesture of condolence is made by others. And the public authorities tend to instrumentalise the event with definitive monuments and commemorative acts. This is where there is controversy.

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(21 June 1987). Barcelona wants no more suffering and promises not to forget. La Vanguardia, (p. 24). Retrieved from:http:// hemeroteca.lavanguardia. com/preview/1987/06/21/ pagina-24/32995524/pdf.html

In New Mexico they are also called roadside memorials; in French, “bornes de mémoire” (memorial landmarks) (Nicolas, 2007).

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Why "memorial" and why the spontaneity? Erica Doss (2010) says that if in the nineteenth century there was an obsession with erecting statues of famous figures, or to commemorate wars, the last thirty years have been characterised by the obsession with memorialisation: to commemorate and establish the memorial in a non-sacred space, if possible where the person lost their life. The word memorial in this context is unique to the English language. In Catalan we would say monument, but that would exaggerate what it is describing and, in any case, it would be a term to be used later on: when the tribute monument is made official and is built. For this reason, and because the act of remembering cannot be "monumentalised", I will retain the term used by the Anglo-Saxons.

and concern. However, many people may feel that they know someone because they have seen them on television more often than they see their neighbours or relatives. Haney, Laimer and Lowery (1997) believe that spontaneous memorialisation is not restrictive because there are no rules regarding inclusion and exclusion. Anyone, including someone who has not met the deceased, can participate, but no one expects anyone else to do so. The time for rendering the personal tribute is flexible. In general, one can join the commemorative process at any time of day whilst the memorial is in going on.

According to Pamela Roberts9 (2004), spontaneous memorialisation is a rapid public response to unexpected, violent deaths, which implies the accumulating of individual mementos to create a "sanctuary" at the place of the death. The word sanctuary, and others related to religious symbolism to describe places where offerings are laid down, have been retrieved by some journalists and audiovisual media, which has helped to globalise them.10 The reason for this use is their analogy with the respect that is imposed in other places of worship (Clavandier, 2004: 38, 41). Memorialising, therefore, has a topographic aspect which legitimises mourning in the public sphere, because it is erected where a person, or many, lost their lives, which is why geographers are also interested in this way of appropriating public spaces.11

At Atocha station, the offerings remained in the vestibule of the building for many weeks, eventually becoming a hazard for pedestrians and RENFE cleaning staff. These offerings did not follow any preconceived ritual. Visitors came, wept, prayed, knelt down, embraced. However, images broadcast in the press and audiovisual media and on social media promote repetition and globalisation. In this context, Haney continues, we can tolerate emotional expressions that would be a taboo in more traditional memorials, particularly manifestations of anger or guilt.

The memorial is spontaneous because, as we have seen in the example of the murder of Olof Palme, it is based on individual motivation or an un-premeditated, automatic and unofficial group. According to Margaret Gibson (2007), these significant deaths have the power to create "mourning communities". In highly urbanised societies, most of the dead are random people who are unknown at a level of personal acquaintance

Finally, the memoriale vokes the memory of the deceased. Memorialising is to keep the memory of the deceased alive and anchor it to an object or a place (the topography of death).

According to Erica Doss (2010: 75), the visit to public memorials of a spontaneous nature follows a kinetic ceremony consisting of wandering, stopping at certain objects, reading what is written on the postcards or inscriptions in paperbacks, or replacing things that have fallen, amongst other acts. She considers it to be a type of cult. She adds that the visitors to official monuments in memory of the victims of the wars pass their hands literally over the inscribed names and consider it an obligation to take photographs because, while in the nineteenth century these were commonly of the dead, now they are of relatives and friends in front of the monument. To be there and touch allows one to perceive the suffering of the other.

See Roberts, P. [sd]. Memorialisation, Spontaneous. Encyclopedia of Death and Dying. Retrieved from: http://www.deathreference.com/ Me-Nu/Memorialization-Spontaneous.html (Consulted on 30 September 2018). Also Roberts (2004).

In their reports journalists also use terms like pilgrimage site, shrine, innocence, hope and struggle. See 11-M Massacre in Madrid. The biggest attack in Spanish history (11 March 2004). El Mundo.

See Hartig, Kate V. and Dunn, Kevin M. (1998); Henzel, (1991); Klaassens, Groote and Huigen (2009), amongst others.

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The fascination for memorials to traumatic and inexplicable deaths of innocent victims is accompanied by gratitude as well as feelings of guilt. On the one hand, saddened by not having prevented the tragedy and, on the other hand, appreciative of not having been a victim. What is more, these events are seen as public deaths that also affect all citizens. The offerings Why "offerings"? According to the Dictionary of the Institute of Catalan Studies (DIEC2), an offering is a gift that is offered to a divine being or, in Catholicism, to a saint. But so are the bread and other items brought to church on certain solemn occasions or, better still, what is offered to someone. The objects laid at the memorials are diverse in nature. In addition to the traditional ones associated with death – flowers, candles and lanterns –, other objects of religious iconography, or that are part of everyday life, are added, amongst them being photographs, various toys, teddy bears, paperbacks with inscriptions or letters of a formal or informal nature that, in these circumstances, are given in a solemn way. They are offered symbolically, so they are not exactly gifts, but a donation that is not expected to be reciprocated. On the other hand, what is given implies a dialogue. It is also not a gift because it would not be given

in life, nor could it in certain cases, because of the social distance between us and the person who has died. However, death brings us mystically close and makes even someone we do not know accessible: the victim of an attack or a celebrity. To leave objects at the memorial can also be understood as offering a tribute as a sign of veneration to those who lost their lives, or of thanks or admiration, of paying homage.

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Very complete information, with extensive bibliographic references may be found in the article "Attemptats de Noruega 2011”, available at https://ca.wikipedia. org/wiki/Atemptats_de_Noruega_ de_2011.

Finally, Haney adds, while those who knew the deceased lament the loss of the individual, others lament the social pathologies that may have contributed to the death. These include the cases of indiscriminate slaughter of youths at the Columbine High School in 1999 in the United States, or in Utoya (Norway)12 in the summer of 2011, when Anders Behring Breivik killed seventy-seven young people gathered on the island for a camp organised by the Norwegian Labour Party. After the first days, the offerings may disappear or become monuments of a permanent nature in the place of the disaster. With this gesture, the site where they are left becomes sacred; it becomes a landmark, implying the conversion of the memorial into a place of pilgrimage and veneration. The duration of these ephemeral monuments depends, as Spontaneous memorial at Myre City Council, Norway (July 2011), where there were two victims. M. ALLUÉ. PERSONAL ARCHIVE

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we will see later, on the actions of the public authorities. Two examples could serve as a paradigm for the process that these initial places of cult pass through until they become monuments in the memory of the victims. I am referring to the attacks on 11 September in New York and on 11 March 2004 in Madrid, both of them devastating in nature. In the latter case, more than two thousand people died and the twin towers of the World Trade Center disappeared, leaving a gap in the topography of Manhattan, as well as in theskyline.13 The indiscriminate nature of the bombs on 4 March 2004 in Madrid at different points on the Madrid railway and its stations, meant that the place of homage was focused on the main vestibule at Atocha station. There are, however, certain divergences in both cases, due to the type of place devastated and inaccessibility. In the case of 11 September, the vast void meant people’s offerings were displaced to the railings of the old cemetery of the neighbouring Saint Paul's Chapel.14 This made it possible not only to lay them down, but to hang them there, string them up and attach all sorts of mementos, candles, flags and t-shirts with messages, posters or firemen’s helmets that remained at the site for many months. When the attacks of 2004 occurred in Madrid, however, the station's lobby was filled with permanently burning red candles and Virgin Mary prayer cards protected in the underground and accompanied by fresh flowers and banners with black crepe. All this was described by journalists as a shrine,15 because people crossed themselves when they lit the candles. The messages opened the way for now much more globalised phrases in which survivors expressed solidarity with the dead, symbolically participating in their sacrifice: You are not alone, I was on that train or We were all on that train. A month later, the Spanish Minister of Public Works, Magdalena Álvarez, announced the construction of a monument, stating that “it is necessary to redirect the spontaneous outpourings of the first days in an organised manner and provide a dignified place so that

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those who come to remember their loved ones do not have to leave flowers on the ground.”16 The controversy began. Three months after the attacks Miguel Angel Barroso (2004) wrote: "the RENFE workers and the rest of the employees at Atocha Cercanías Station wish to see fulfilled their desire not to have to face the memory of the 11-M massacre on a daily basis”. Despite this, others said in the same article that "when I returned to Atocha, the vast swathe of candles was very powerful and moving to me (...) I would like the “shrine” to remain like this, as it is, until the last candle burns out. This distils sadness, it's true, but it has given many people the opportunity to express their anger, their pain or their solidarity". At the other extreme, the relative of a victim explained that for the families the presence of the “shrine” was not important, “because those who survive will always be 'marked' in one way or another”. Psychiatrists and psychologists who take on enormous significance as experts in post-traumatic stress following the attacks advised that the candles be removed: “We want those affected to resume their daily life as quickly as possible (...) It is not therapeutic to keep them indefinitely. In the worst case, some people may develop phobias because not everyone perceives it as a tribute to the victims, but as a deeply traumatic reminder” (Barroso, 2004). Days later “that smell of wax and flowers that penetrated our lungs like a poisonous vapour” (Serrano, 2004) was replaced by a computer system that allowed messages of solidarity to be sent. A year later, a kind of virtual condolence book was opened; a computer where users could leave messages.17 However, the visitors, unable to leave their words beyond the virtual sphere, wrote them on the columns surrounding the computer. Although the presence of new technologies was all the rage in 2004, the tangible link continued to be a basic instrument for connecting with the tragedy. The definitive monument was inaugurated in 2007. Eight years later, the press reflected

Bruce Springsteen dedicated a song to illustrate that void that could be seen from his native New Jersey, Empty Sky, the name that later was designated to the monument erected by the State in Jersey City.

See l The Chapel was turned into a makeshift memorial shrine following the 11September attacks. Retrieved from: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ St._Paul%27s_Chapel#/media/ File:1.12.02StPaulChapelByLuigiNovi.jpg (Consulted on 2 September 2018).

https://elpais.com/ diario/2004/05/12/ ultima/1084312801_850215.html (Consulted on 2 September 2018).

"Minister of Public Works, Magdalena Álvarez, yesterday announced the construction of a monument at Atocha Station in memory of the victims of 11-M", ABC (Madrid), 23 April, p.44.

Un dia para el recuerdo. (2005). The Mundo.es . Retrieved from: http://www.elmundo.es/documentos/2004/03/espana/atentados11m/anodespues1_09.html (Consulted on 2 September 2018).

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Virtual condolence book Madrid, Atocha (April 2005) M. ALLUÉ. PERSONAL ARCHIVE

on its abandoned state and the unhappiness of relatives. The installation was not classified as a monument, according to Pilar Manjón, President of the 11-M Association of those Affected by Terrorism. She added that nobody ever consulted them about the project, nor did she receive any interest on the part of the ADIF company, which owns and is responsible for the station (Gualtieri, 2015). The monument at Atocha station is a diaphanous room within a cylinder made of glass pieces at the centre of which there is a plastic structure that has words dedicated to the victims inscribed on it. After the attack on the Rambla18 in the summer of 2017 in Barcelona, the first phase of these example of cult, based on the laying down of offerings, was repeated in the heart of the Pla de la Boqueria, on the mosaic of Joan Miró. Again, the press questioned whether the offerings that were removed on 29 August 2017 should be taken away or not. Naciódigital.cat published: “First day of the Rambla without offerings: Was it a good idea to remove them?” (Santiago, 2017). Removing the cult site when it was the location of an attack creates less controversy than when the physical remains of the deceased,

or their belongings, may be mixed with the rubble and dust of the demolished building, as in the case of the 11S to New York. On Saturday 10 May 2014, a procession transferred the unidentified human remains from the disaster up to the permanent resting place at the 9/11 Memorial & Museum.19 This site is located at the foot of the place where the two World Trade Center skyscrapers stood. The resting place, says the website,20 offers a dignified and reverential setting so that the remains repose, either temporarily or permanently, as the identifications go on. The resting place is separated from the public part of the Museum and is exclusively for family members. For years, and for various reasons, some families wished to prevent the placement of the remains in the underground museum before the identities had been established. Graves conceal rotting corpses, but they are individual and accessible to survivors; the memorial that masks the horror of the drama is public, charged for and accessible to everyone, despite the limited access to the area of the resting place. Clavandier (2004: 144) says that the elements affected by the disaster are symbolically pathogens, harbingers of trauma, and should consequently be handled in order to reduce their danger, but they should not be

Complete information, supported by considerable documentation can be found in Catalan at Wikipedia. Attack on the Rambla. Retrieved from https://ca.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atemptat_a_la_Rambla_de_Barcelona (Consulted on 2 September 2018).

Remains repository at the World Trade Center. 9/11 Memorial & Museum. Retrieved from: https:// www.911memorial.org/remainsrepository-world-trade-center-site (Consulted on 2 September 2018).

The home page of the official website of the 9/11 Memorial & Museum can be visited at https:// www.911memorial.org (Consulted on 2 September 2018).

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Mass grave at the BergenBelsen concentration camp, Germany (July 2008) M. ALLUÉ. PERSONAL ARCHIVE

removed. Relatives who have not recovered any part of bodies of their loved ones do not have anything left, since this fact diffuses the void and leaves no trace. Another point of controversy was the order of the names of the victims on the memorial. The names of the victims are a recurring topic in terms of monuments dating back to the two world wars, and naming them one by one publicly is part of the public farewell ceremonies. The names of almost 3,000 men, women and children who died in the attacks on 11 September 2001 and 26 February 1993, which was the date of the first attack,21 are inscribed on bronze plaques that surround the quadrangular voids of the Memorial. The conflict arose when it came to setting them out randomly or in relation, for example, to the companies where they worked, or the passengers of the aircraft, or to putting those of the fire-fighters who died during the rescue on separate list. Both the ritual of farewell and the cult of memory must be anchored to a part of the lost body, even to an object associated with the deceased;22 otherwise the complete loss may hinder the process of mourning. If the new resting place of scattered human remains of the victims of the World Trade Center today forms part of the museum, the question is: what is the building, a cemetery,

a part of a forensic laboratory23 or a grave for a stranger who will never be identified? Strozier and Knowles (2014) wrote that “it will be, but at the same time it will not be, a cemetery”. It will be, in any case, a museum with many noisy visitors. These conflicts and opinions, today with the much more subliminal presence of the remains of the victims, can also be documented in the museums and memorials to the Nazi concentration camps, or ”Gedenkstätte" in German. It is true that some, like Bergen Belsen in Lower Saxony, preserve the bodies of prisoners in the mass graves of northern Germany, but are identified as “Gedenkstätte” (memorials). In others, they preserve the memory of the pain, the crematory furnaces and the buildings, like at Auschwitz-Birkenau in Oswieczim, Poland, or in Mauthausen, Lower Austria. The memorialmania described by Erica Doss (2010) has a branch in the world of another phenomenon, the so-called "dark tourism" or “thana-tourism”, first recorded in the case of John Lennon and Malcom Foley (2000). For some years now, places associated with tragedies have become pilgrimage destinations for tourists who are eager for strong emotional experiences associated with death, even if they are unrelated to them.

Complete information, supported by considerable documentation may be found on Wikipedia. 1993 World Trade Center bombing. Retrieved from: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1993_World_Trade_ Center_bombing (Consulted on 2 September 2018).

Antònia gave the bodies of her son and her husband to scientific research. Since there were no graves in a cemetery or ashes in an urn, I asked her how she managed to overcome the moments of despair following the complete loss of her family members. She told me: "I keep a shirt. It has his smell. And, from time to time, I open the closet that it’s in” (field note).

The jurisdiction over this underground Memorial is held by theNew York City Office of Chief Medical Examiner (OCME), the forensic doctors.

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Messages left in front of the interpretation centre of the “Gedenkstätte” Bergen-Belsen (July 2008) M. ALLUÉ. PERSONAL ARCHIVE

The descendants of the victims in these cases echo this sense of violation of the sacredness of the places by the “noisy visitors”, who also leave deferred condolences. And not only when the topography itself records the tragedy, like at the Läger, but also at monuments in memory of the victims, as is the case of the monument and interpretation centre erected by the architect Eisenman in front of the Tiergarten in Berlin, taking the form of a field of quad-

rangular concrete slabs, Stiftung Denkmal für die ermordeten Juden Europas.24 Even an Israeli artist, Shanak Shapira (2017), was widely discussed for demonstrating with photography the violation of sites within the framework of this new commemorative culture.25 His work, Yolocaust, put into question the frivolity with which the "noisy visitors” take selfies and climb or jump on the slabs. The artist retrieved images of some visitors from Instagram, Tinder or Facebook and, with a parallel montage of

The official website. You can visit it at https://www.stiftung-denkmal. de/en/home.html (Consulted on 2 September 2018).

Yolacaust, the forceful reprimand to tourists and their "fun" photos. (2 September 2018). Infobae. Retrieved from: https://www.infobae.com/america/ fotos/2017/01/23/yolocaust-la-impactante-reprimenda-a-los-turistas-y-sus-fotos-divertidas/

Cenotaph in memory of the victims of Air France flight 447, located in Père-Lachaise Cemetery, Paris (October 2010) M. ALLUÉ. PERSONAL ARCHIVE

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images of the Holocaust, demonstrated the contrast. Some ask themselves whether “museumising” would reduce voyeurism? It may reduce the awareness of the visitor because it is the museum designer or the memorial architect who decides what the visitor should see, as is the case of the World Trade Center underground resting place reserved for families. And yes, it must reduce it because tourists are interested in the subject that was a victim of the horror; while the relative of the victim is interested in the preservation of a site where their loved ones were lost. You do not need to “museumise” the subject to evoke the memory or the trauma. So, what then? On the day following the attack on the barracks of the Civil Guard in Vic, in May 1991, the badly damaged building was demolished.26 The relatives of the victims requested that the site not be used as a parking lot or for a lucrative activity,27 but rather to host a building dedicated to social services, or be kept as a green area. There were no remains, but it was the place where they lived and lost their loved ones. In this case, the families, although they did not demand the total preservation of the site, did desire a social function more appropriate than the impersonal nature of a parking lot, or a commercial establishment, that would completely blur the memory for one and all. The memorial sites of attacks, but also the place where a catastrophe has occurred, are associated with specific and accessible geographical coordinates, where offerings can be deposited. Later, if required, a monument may be built, as we have seen. But, what if there is no topography to the horror? In the case of shipwrecks or planes that crash into the sea, the site is neither concrete nor affected and, therefore, the sense of loss, the shock, is difficult to centralise in one significant location. These catastrophes are assimilated with enormous pain because they leave no traces, despite the terrible consequences. This was the case of Air France flight 447 which crashed into the Atlantic in June 2009 off the coast of Brazil.28 Although

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some bodies were recovered, a cenotaph – an empty grave – was later built in Père-Lachaise Cemetery in Paris in memory of the victims: a monument, not a memorial, without spatial significance or remains of the victims. With air disasters in general, the site for laying down offerings ends up being the airport the flight departed from, where the victims were last seen. This was the case with the disappearance of Malaysia Airlines MH370 flight, that disappeared on the Kuala Lumpur-Beijing route in 2014. The walls of the airport were filled with handwritten messages under the slogan: Pray for MH370. In this case, it was a cry of prayer to try to find them. Later on, the wall became virtual as images in support were posted on Pinterest from around the world.29 It was never possible to anchor the loss physically: no remains, no objects, no bodies. What should be done in this event? Robert's family, who were lost in the Bosphorus as a result of an airplane crash, had a copy of the marine chart of the accident site on the wall of his living room. A location, the only vestige. What happens, however, once the first phase of pain, grief and anguish that produces the effusive laying of offerings and messages has passed? They have been laid down at a shrine and, as we have seen, they must be removed without causing more pain or offending the affectionate, symbolic nature of the gesture of solidarity. In the case of the offerings placed at the Renfe underground stations in Madrid, the teams at the Historical Railway Archive30 collected all the preservable material and archived, catalogued and labelled it at the buildings of the Spanish Railway Foundation. From there, a project called the Archive of Mourning (Sánchez Carretero, 2011) came into being with the aim of building a memorial by documenting and archiving the samples of all the objects that people laid down at improvised shrines, as well as to analyse all this material from an anthropological point of view along the lines of research into violence, the analysis of the urban site and as expressions of the ritual of group mourning and of popular religion, as the project says. These works were under-

"I just saw glass flying, says a nun from the school next to the barracks" (31 May 1991, p. 14). La Vanguardia,. Retrieved from: http://hemeroteca.lavanguardia. com/preview/1991/05/31/ pagina-14/33478981/pdf.html (Consulted on 2 September 2018).

"The relatives of the victims of the 1991 ETA attack in Vic ask that the old barracks not be reused as a car park". Europa Press (2 September 2002). Retrieved from https://web.archive.org/ web/20100902024956/http:/ terranoticias.terra.es/articulo/html/ av225730.htm (Consulted on 2 September 2018).

Complete information, supported by considerable documentation may be found on Wikipedia. " Air France Flight 44". Retrieved from: https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Vol_447_Air_France. (Consulted on 2 September 2018).

On Pinterest there is a specific page: MH370 We'll find you. Access requires subscription.

The official website Docutrencan be visited at http://www.docutren. com/index.asp (Consulted on 2 September 2018).

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Display case at the 11M exhibition at the National Museum of Anthropology, Madrid (27 April 2016) M. ALLUÉ. PERSONAL ARCHIVE

taken in collaboration between RENFE and the CSIC (Sánchez Carretero, 2011). In March 2016, the National Museum of Anthropologyinaugurated an exhibition that displayed some of these objects. Following the attack on the Rambla de Barcelona in the summer of 2017, the offerings were taken away and moved to the Collections Centre at the Barcelona History Museum (MUHBA) in the Zona Franca. The intention was for this material to end up as part of the city's heritage and memorial archive. There they proceeded to document the artefacts,31 with the aim that they might be publicly viewed. "The exact point at which each of the nearly 150 victims was recovered from the street, from locations related to the victims to places of significance, as well as random places” were taken into account. According to Williams (2007: 29 and foll.), in museums there are three categories of artefacts: personal effects of the victims, human remains (this is the case of the World Trade Center Memorial) and commemorative offerings. These are objects which are evaluated and documented for a new destination. In themselves they are artefacts that do not make sense; they are only imbued with sense when they evoke greater meanings because they have been recovered from significant places. They are, then, objects which bear witness. Erica Doss (2010: 74, 80) asks whether museums should be responsible for ordering, classifying and eventually displaying this type of artefact found at temporary memorials as contemporary evidence of the

collective affliction. Taking them there can be, as we have seen, an ethical dilemma for documentalists because, in some cases – like the Columbine Memorial–,32 the site has been associate with healing, as part of the grief closure process. According to Williams (2007: 43), the intrinsic meaning of the offering is only known to those who bring it, who lay it down, but placing it in a museum loses the sense of its arbitrary nature, its spontaneous display and emotional public placing. To conclude, Williams (2007: 128-129) adds that the so-called "sites of memory" or "sites of mourning" were built so that people could grieve, lament their loss and be seen crying. But the ritual meaning has been displaced by political symbolism and, once the grief has passed, this is the only one that can be seen. Memorial museums, it is said, are the subsidiary educational arm of political actions. Conclusion or proposal? At this point I would like to point out that I have used two words which are more archaeological than anthropological in nature: a verb, "to lay down" (offerings), and a noun,"artefact". Also, a procedure for the collection of artefacts, which has been set out by those responsible for the MUHBA and the Barcelona City Archive, which resemble the Cartesian coordinate grids from archaeological sites. This opens the door just a little for me, it brings new reinterpretations of the meaning of the findings that archaeologists catalogue, archive, document and place in a storeroom following digs at inhospitable

Cortés Vidal, C. (2017). Com s’estan tractant i catalogant les ofrenes de l’atemptat a la Rambla. Betevé, 13 September Retrieved from https://beteve.cat/societat/arxiu-ofrenes-atemptat-rambla/ (Consulted on 2 September 2018).

The official website of the Columbine Memorial Foundation is https://www.columbinememorial. org (Consulted on 2 September 2018).

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sites of past cultures. Is what is found next to human remains more often "spontaneous offerings" rather than hidden symbols of religious beliefs or propitiatory ceremonies? The ancestral graves could well be indicators of the orography of the path along which the group passed through each station; the objects found next to the deceased in the dust, the artefacts, would be those that accompanied them in life. Everyday objects, with a hidden meaning like the teddy bear,

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the religious prayer card or the I Love NY t-shirt. Perhaps, for the person making the offering, they have a mystical purpose of communion with the spirit of the person who was lost, but they are not necessarily religious objects for the group, because removed from the environment, many change their use and meaning. Because, after all, the name “shrine” was given by journalists. n

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Barroso, M. A. (2 June 2004). Hasta que se apague la última vela. ABC (Sevilla), p. 17. Boggan, S. (7 September 1997). Diana (1961-1997): The cortege- A flower strewn path leading to the Abbey. The Independent. Retrieved from: https:// www.independent.co.uk/news/ diana-1961-1997-the-cortege-aflower-strewn-path-leading-to-theabbey-1237781.html (Consulted on 28 August 2018). Clavandier, G. (2004). La mort collective. Pour une sociologie des castastrophes. Paris: CNRS Éditions. Doss, E. (2002). Death, Art and Memory in the Public Sphere: the Visual and Material Culture of Grief in Contemporary America. Mortality, 7(1), 63-82. Doss, E. (2010). Memorial Mania: Public Feeling in America. Chicago: The Universsity Chigago Press. Efe (31 August 2017). París hace del Puente del Alma un memorial improvisado en recuerdo de Lady Di. El Diario.es. Retrieved from: https://www.eldiario.es/ politica/ Paris-Puente-AlmaLady-Di_0_681732303 Fellous, M. (2001). A la recherche de nouveaux rites. Rites de passage et modernité avancée. Paris: L’Harmattan.

Steve Irwin and the Issue of Public Mourning. Mortality, 12(1), 1-3.

Death and Disaster. London: Thomson.

Groote, P. (2007). Place meanings of Memorialised Roadside Accident Locations. The Social context of Death, Dying and Disposal. Mortality, 12(1), S1-S98.

Nicholas, L. (30 January 2007). Les bouquets funéraires des bords de routes. Imageson.org. Retrieved from: http://www.imageson.org/ document860.html

Gualtieri, T. (25 November 2015). El monumento del 11-M lleva dos meses cerrado y tirado en el suelo. El País. Retrieved from: https:// elpais.com/ccaa/2015/11/16/ madrid/1447703379_372858. html

Roberts, P. (2004). The Living and the Dead: Community in the Virtual Cemetery. Omega-Journal of Death and Dying, 49(1), 57-76.

Haney, C. A., Leimer, C. and Lowery, J. (1997). Spontaneous Memorialization: Violent Death and Emerging Mourning Ritual. Omega: The Journal of Death and Dying, 35, 159-171. Hartig, K. V., and Dunn, K. M. (1998). Roadside memorials: Interpreting new Deathscapes in Newcastle. New South Wales. Australian Geographical Studies, 36, 5-20. Henzel, C. (1991). Cruces in the Roadside Landscape of North-eastern Mexico. Journal of Cultural Geography, 11(2), 93-106. Klaassens, M., Groote, P., and Huigen, P. P. (2009). Roadside Memorials from a Geographical Perspective. Mortality, 14(2), 187-201.

Fletcher, H. (October 1999). Cross Purposes. Westworld.

Kear, A., and Lynn Steinberg, D. (1999). Mourning Diana: Nation, Culture and the Performance of Grief. Psychology Press.

Gibson, M. (2007). Some thoughts on Celebrity Deaths:

Lennon, J., and Foley, M. (2000). Dark Tourism. The Attraction of

Romero, J. M. (12 March 2004). Cuatro atentados simultáneos causan una matanza en trenes de Madrid. El País. Retrieved from: https://elpais.com/ diario/2004/03/12/espana/ 1079046001_850215.html Rulli, J. E. (2013). La muerte de Olof Palme: una nueva orfandad. In J. E. Rulli, Peronismo, cuentas pendientes (p. 30). Buenos Aires: Editorial Milena Caserola. Sánchez Carretero, C. (2011). El archivo del duelo. Análisis de la respuesta ciudadana ante los atentados del 11 de marzo en Madrid. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Sáez Mateu, F. (13 January 2015). Les identitats tristes. Diari Ara. Santiago, S. (29 August 2017). Primer dia de la Rambla sense ofrenes: ha estat bona idea retirar-les. Nació Digital.cat. Retrieved from: https://www.naciodigital.cat/ noticia/137253/primer/dia/rambla/ sense/ofrenes/estat/bona/idea/ retirar-les

Santino, J. (2003). Spontaneous Shrines, Memmorialization and the Public Ritualesque. Ristsumeikan. Revista de l’Institut d’Humanitats, 94, 51-65. Serrano, M. I. (2 June 2004). Un sistema informático para dejar mensajes sustituirá el «santuario» de Atocha (p. 16). ABC. Madrid. Silverman, S. M. (6-7 September 1997). Diana remembered. Fondly, powerfully. Special report, Princess Diana, 1961-1997. People Daily. Retrieved from: https://web.archive. org/web/20000914205926/ http:/www.time.com/time/ daily/special/diana/timeline/ augsept97/6.html (Consulted on 28 August 2018). Shapira, S. (2017). Yolocaust. Impressum. Retrieved from: https:// yolocaust.de (Consulted on 2 September 2108). Strozier, C. B., and Knowles, S. G. (2014). How to Honor the Dead We Cannot Name. The problems with the Sept. 11 memorial museum. Slate. [Consulted on 12 May]. Retrieved from: http:// www.slate.com/articles/health_ and_science/science/2014/05/ september_11_memorial_mu seum_controversy_unidentified_ remains_and_lessons.html?via= gdpr-consent Williams, P. (2007). Memorial Museums. The Global Rush to Commemorate Atrocities. Oxford-New York: Berg Publishers.

In recent times, direct testimony by people has become one of the most valuable sources of information for social researchers. The interview technique, previously almost exclusively associated with anthropologists, today is one of the most widely used methods in research of all types. Local-level research has been one of the great beneficiaries of this extension.

The Ethnological and Immaterial Heritage Observatory presents, for the 10th consecutive year, a series of experiences which have taken place based on initiatives proposed by the entities that comprise it, or by research teams in our country. The Observatory proposes, therefore, a route throughout the territory to learn about the experiences of many people who are both personal and representative of the heartbeat of our society.

Consult the list of workshops and conferences here

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Deathscapes and diversity in England and Wales: setting an agenda

T Introduction

he UK is an ethnically and religiously diverse country, shaped by long-standing ties with communities from the New Commonwealth, and other dynamic flows of international migration, particularly within Europe. National and local government, and other service providers, play an important part in the well-being of established minority groups and migrant residents within this

Aquest article se centra en una dimensió poc discutida, però important, de les experiències dels migrants i les minories a Anglaterra i Gal·les: els cementiris i crematoris de què disposen. Basat en una àmplia investigació amb comunitats locals i proveïdors de serveis en quatre ciutats casos d’estudi, aquest article explora les diverses necessitats funeràries culturals i religioses a Anglaterra i Gal·les, els reptes que hi estan associats i les formes en què tant les comunitats com els proveïdors de serveis (p. ex.: planificadors i directors funeraris) hi responen. Destaquen vuit temes clau: i) l’oferta de cementiris; ii) l’oferta de crematoris; iii) l’oferta desigual per diferents grups migrants i minoritaris; iv) la diversitat en la diversitat; v) els canvis de patrons de repatriació; vi) el foment del diàleg; vii) la comprensió entre professionals i comunitats, i viii) la planificació dels cementiris com a espais de trobada.

multicultural society. For instance, they play a key role in the provision of social housing, education, employment and leisure facilities. Likewise, many migrants and successive generations work in public sector services such as the NHS, as well as for private companies.

This paper is based on the briefing report: Maddrell, A. et al (2018), Diversity-ready Cemeteries and Crematoria in England and Wales, University of Reading, Reading.

This paper focuses on a scarcely discussed yet important dimension of migrant and minority experiences in England and Wales: cemetery and crematoria provision1. These important spaces and services, including their gardens of remembrance,

Este artículo se centra en una dimensión poco discutida pero importante de las experiencias de los migrantes y las minorías en Inglaterra y Gales: los cementerios y crematorios de que disponen. Basándose en una amplia investigación con comunidades locales y proveedores de servicios en cuatro ciudades casos de estudio, este artículo explora las diversas necesidades funerarias culturales y religiosas en Inglaterra y Gales, los retos asociados a estas y las formas en que tanto las comunidades como los proveedores de servicios (p. ej.: planificadores y directores funerarios) responden a ellos. Destacan ocho temas clave: i) la oferta de cementerios; ii) la oferta de crematorios; iii) la oferta desigual por diferentes grupos migrantes y minoritarios; iv) la diversidad en la diversidad; v) los cambios de patrones de repatriación; vi) el fomento del diálogo; vii) la comprensión entre profesionales y comunidades, y viii) la planificación de los cementerios como espacios de encuentro.

This paper focuses on a little discussed but important dimension of migrant and minority experiences in England and Wales: cemetery and crematoria provision. Based on extensive research with local communities and service providers in four case study towns, this paper explores the varied cultural and religious funerary needs in England and Wales, the associated challenges and the ways in which both communities and service providers (e.g. cemetery managers, town planners and funeral directors) respond to them. It highlights seven key themes, namely: i) cemetery provision; ii) crematorium provision; iii) unequal provision across migrant and minority groups; iv) diversity within diversity; v) changing patterns of repatriation; vi) fostering dialogue; vii) understanding between professionals and communities; and viii) planning for cemeteries as spaces of encounter.

Fading away. Reflections on death

are provided and managed primarily by local government, alongside some private providers, including faith groups (e.g. the Church of England/Wales) and commercial services. Planners play an important role in forward-planning for and mediating negotiations around the location of local services. In the UK as a whole more than 70% of the dead are cremated, the remainder being buried and a small percentage repatriated internationally (Cremation Society of Great Britain, 2018), a pattern broadly replicated in England and Wales. Funeral and remembrance practices are increasingly co-created by the bereaved, the deceased, the wider community and the funerary professionals (Mathijssen, 2017). Thus, as society becomes more culturally diverse, so do funerary spaces and practices, and the requirements for them. Having the ‘right’ sort of burial, cremation and associated rituals is important for the respectful treatment of the deceased and for those mourning them. The bodily remains of family and friends are widely deemed to be ‘sacred’ and where the dead are buried, scattered and remembered is of deep significance to many (Maddrell, 2016). Yet, it is notable that cemetery and crematorium provision in England and Wales is uneven, and provision for different ethnic-religious groups can likewise be uneven and inadequate. Based on extensive research with local communities and service providers in four case study towns, this paper explores the varied cultural and religious funerary needs in England and Wales, the associated challenges and the ways in which both communities and service providers (e.g. cemetery managers, town planners and funeral directors) respond to them. After discussing theory, methods and the English and Welsh planning context, it highlights seven key themes, namely: i) cemetery provision; ii) crematorium

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Avril Maddrell UNIVERSITY OF READING

Ms Maddrell is a professor of Social and Cultural Geography at the University of Reading. She is a feminist geographer, with research interests in spaces, landscapes and practices of death, mourning and remembrance; pilgrimage and sacred mobilities; gender, and historiography. She is a co-editor of Social and Cultural Geography and has co-edited such works as "Deathscapes. Spaces for death, dying, mourning and remembrance" (Ashgate, 2010); "Memory, Mourning, Landscape" (Rodopi, 2010); "Sacred Mobilities" (Ashgate, 2015), and "Contemporary Encounters in Gender and Religion" (Palgrave, 2017).

Yasminah Beebeejaun UNIVERSITY COLLEGE LONDON

Ms Beebeejaun is an associate professor at the Bartlett School of Planning, University College London. She is the vice-chair of the Urban Affairs Association. Her research interests encompass ethnic and racial diversity in planning, postcolonial and feminist planning debates, and community engagement and empowerment.

Katie McClymont UNIVERSITY OF THE WEST OF ENGLAND, BRISTOL

Ms McClymont is a senior lecturer of Urban Planning at UWE, Bristol. Her teaching and research interests are focused on planning theory and questions of ethics and decision-making in urban policy. Her recent projects explore cemeteries in multicultural urban settings and the unspoken value of community spaces.

Danny McNally UNIVERSITY OF READING

Mr McNally is a postdoctoral research assistant in Human Geography at the University of Reading. He is a social and cultural geographer whose research focuses on contemporary urban issues and their intersections with the ideas of participation, difference and diversity. He addresses such issues by focusing empirically on (1) town and city planning, and (2) the arts and cultural sector. His academic work is supported by previous industry experience in urban planning policy and consultation work in galleries and museums.

Brenda Mathijssen UNIVERSITY OF GRONINGEN

Ms Mathijssen is an assistant professor of Psychology, Culture and Religion at the University of Groningen in the Netherlands. Her research centres on the various ways in which people make sense of death, placing particular interest on the roles of ritual and belief in meaning-making processes. Her work also delves into religious-ethnic diversity, health and well-being.

Sufyan Abid Dogra UNIVERSITY OF READING

Mr Dogra is a senior research fellow and an anthropologist interested in exploring how practising Islam in the United Kingdom is being shaped by transnational networks of reformist Muslims. He is currently investigating the role of Islamic Religious Settings in tackling childhood obesity in the UK.

Paraules clau: Cementiris, crematoris, minories, migracions, diversitat cultural i religiosa Palabras clave: Cementerios, crematorios, minorías, migraciones, diversidad cultural y religiosa Keywords: Cemeteries, crematoria, minorities, migrations, cultural and religious diversity

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provision; iii) unequal provision across migrant and minority groups; iv) diversity within diversity; v) changing patterns of repatriation; vi) fostering dialogue; vii) understanding between professionals and communities; and viii) planning for cemeteries as spaces of encounter. By doing so, it illustrates that diversity-ready cemeteries, crematoria and remembrance sites are a necessary but currently neglected aspect of an inclusive and integrated multicultural society (§6). It must be understood that there are not simply diverse cultural and religious practices, but rather ‘diversity within diversity’ (e.g. denominational and regional differences). Likewise, there is a need to understand how such practices are mediated in local and personal circumstances. Addressing this will contribute to greater social well-being and a more inclusive civic culture Mapping grief Dying, death, burial, cremation, bereavement, mourning and remembrance create overlapping spatial patterns in physical space, body-minds and virtual arenas, which in turn can reflect and create powerful fixed and dynamic relations to particular spaces and places (Maddrell, 2016). Places that have or take on meaning in relation to the dead can therefore act as a catalyst, evoking memories, loneliness and/or comfort, or an unpredictable combination of the three. This includes within the body, as the mourner can carry grief within, which can come to the fore in response to specific places at particular times, producing individual and collective emotional-affective ‘maps’ which can serve as navigational aids and route maps for those living with loss (Maddrell, 2013, 2016). Dying, death and bereavement produce new and shifting emotional-affective geographies, whereby material objects, places and communities can elicit new and heightened significance for individuals and groups.

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Figure 1

Physical spaces

omic rs con o io-e ral fact c o S u cult d n a

Virtual spaces

Embodied -psychological spaces

Mapping grief: a conceptual framework for understanding the spatial dimensions of death, dying, bereavement, mourning and remembrance (Maddrell, 2016: 181)

In Figure 1 the ‘Mapping grief ’ framework highlights the ways in which dying, death, grief, mourning and remembrance are experienced in and mapped upon (i) physical material spaces, including the public and private arenas and artefacts of everyday life; (ii) the embodied-psychological spaces of the interdependent and co-producing body-mind; and (iii) the virtual spaces of digital technology, religious-spiritual beliefs and non-placebased community. These maps can provide insight into the geographies of emotionally ‘safe’ and ‘unsafe’ places at a given juncture (Maddrell, 2016: 166), including places where the dying or bereaved find comfort and consolation, i.e. what might be described broadly as ‘therapeutic environments’ (see Bell et al, 2018). Inevitably, such mappings of grief and consolation are dynamic. Figure 1 also highlights how the experience of dying and mourning are shaped by socio-economic and cultural factors such as wealth, ethnicity, gender, religion and family (Maddrell, 2011, 2016). The 2011 Census showed that 13 percent of the population in England and Wales (7.5 million people) were born overseas (the majority identifying as white) and 14% of the population identified as non-

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white (ONS, 2012). Increasing international migration and socio-economic and cultural factors impact on existing requirements and preferences at cemeteries, crematoria and remembrance sites in England and Wales. The expression of the importance of place attachment in ‘continuing bonds’ with the dead has been documented in works noting the use of vernacular language, symbols of local identity and the choice of specific materials in memorial practices (e.g. Maddrell, 2009, 2011, 2013). This research on dying, death and memorialisation has begun to consider the implications of international migration and the contexts of multicultural societies and post-colonial legacies in Europe (Venhorst et al, 2013; Hunter, 2016; Gunaratnam, 2013; Jassal, 2015) on hospitals, hospices, cemeteries, rituals etc., adding insight into the ways in which death and remembrance are deeply cultural and political (Stevenson et al 2016). The meaning of ‘home’ can be complex for established minorities and migrants (Kaplan and Chacko, 2015). Within multicultural societies, what might broadly be described as the spaces and practices of ‘deathscapes’ play a significant part in facilitating or hindering that sense of being ‘at home’. In England and Wales, municipal cemeteries, as material, symbolic and performative sites, are particularly important public spaces of

representation of collective identity and memory, intertwined with discourses of heritage and nation, and the demarcation of ‘insiders’ and ‘outsiders’ (see McClymont, 2018). Municipal cemeteries and crematoria (i.e. cremation facilities with gardens of remembrance) are the focus for the following discussion, which outlines key findings from the ‘Deathscapes and diversity’ study in England and Wales and highlights an ongoing agenda for researchers, planners, policy-makers, practitioners and communities. Deathscapes and diversity research methods Extensive fieldwork was conducted in four large multicultural towns in England and Wales: Huddersfield, Newport, Northampton and Swindon (2017-18). Each town has a broadly similar population (approximately 100,000-150,000) including ethnically diverse populations as identified in Census data (see Table 1 below) with varying countries of origin or heritage, religious groups, long-standing established ethnic minority communities and clusters of recent migrants, including those from within the European Union (EU) and beyond (known as Third Country Nationals [TCNs]). Towns were chosen in contrast to large cities where multicultural communities tend to be most highly concentrated and related minority services most highly developed. Extensive interviews and focus groups

Table 1. NEWPORT

NORTHAMPTON

SWINDON

HUDDERSFIELD

Other white

1.7%

6.5%

4.2%

2.9%

Pakistani

2.1%

4.2%

0.6%

9.9%

Indian

0.8%

2.5%

3.3%

4.9%

1.2% Bangladeshi 1.0% Black/African

3.1% Black/African 1.5% Mixed-race white/afro-Caribbean

1.6% Other Asian

1.1% Black/AfroCaribbean

Other significant groups

General description of the populations of migrants and minorities in the cities under study (ONS, 2016)

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were conducted with cemetery, crematoria and funeral service providers and users, as well as local established minority and community interest groups. Figure 1 shows the location of the case study towns, and Table 1 gives an overview of the migrant and minority populations within them. Planning and policy context Mainstream services typically base their offer on the historic traditions of the Christian and secular ‘majority’ population. Where cemetery and crematoria managers and funeral directors aim to meet faith-based requirements, such as burial within 24 hours, these may still be deemed as outside of ‘normal’ practice. For example, while private funeral directors usually provide a 24/7 service, public sector workers such as GP doctors, coroners and cemetery workers typically have a Monday-Friday working week. As a result, for those migrants and established minorities unable to ensure a timely and appropriate burial or cremation of kith and kin, cemeteries and crematoria can be experienced as spaces of difference and exclusion, generating a sense of marginalisation and less than full citizenship (Maddrell, 2011; Stevenson et al, 2016). There is, therefore, a need ‘to include the excluded’ (Beebeejaun, 2012) in bereavement services, and to be attentive to further differences within and between ethnic and religious groups.

In England and Wales there is a lack of national and local government planning policy for cemeteries and crematoria. Partly, this is the result of the limited legal responsibility for local authorities to provide funerary services. Spaces for new cemeteries and crematoria, or expansion of existing ones, can be identified by the town planning system but, unlike other European countries, there is no specific requirement to provide spaces. Therefore, local authorities may not have designed and/or prioritised a specific policy to deal

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with changing cemetery and crematoria needs. Previous research shows that less than 25% of English planning authorities mention planning for cemeteries in their Local Plan; those that do, typically group them together with green space, heritage spaces, or sites of biodiversity (McClymont, 2016). In the post-2008 era of austerity, local government budgets have been under severe pressure, resulting in some cases in bereavement services (including cemeteries and crematoria) being sub-contracted or reduced, and service users facing increased costs. Private providers are also becoming more diverse, including crematoria and natural or ‘green’ burial grounds. Key themes Cemetery provision Our research shows that cemetery provision, in general and for migrant and minority groups in particular, varies considerably between different towns in England and Wales. In some towns, for example, it is possible to conduct sameday burials, as well as burials during weekend hours. This is important for the local Muslim and Jewish communities, who need to bury their kin as soon as possible after death, but this challenges a cemetery system set up around a Monday to Friday working week. While seven-day services are available in some larger cities, towns are lagging behind to the frustration of those living there.

The facilities are not here yet, unlike in bigger cities such as Leicester and Birmingham. They can bury the dead at any time, because they can do the burial first and the paperwork later. So that’s the kind of provision that we want. In Islam, when someone passes away, we have to hasten the burial because there is no good in keeping the body. (Male, East African origin, Muslim, Northampton) Where same-day burials or burials during weekends are difficult to arrange, this is

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often due to austerity measures restricting the availability of registrar and cemetery staff at weekends. We get a phone call on Monday morning saying, we need a Muslim funeral, dug and ready by the afternoon. And often we can say, okay, no problem. But there are times we got to refuse them. There is no choice but to refuse them. With the staff we got it is just impossible. Years ago, we could do it because we had plenty of men [sic]. Now we haven’t. (Cemetery manager, Newport) Lack of burial space also impacts on local cemetery services. While burial space is in short supply in some cemeteries, overall, demand is falling. Yet, demand for particular faith groups, especially Muslims, is increasing. Also, we observed specific community needs and creative solutions from cemetery managers and personnel to address them. These include creating the possibility to book the complete cemetery for a single lengthy funeral with large numbers of mourners, such as a Caribbean funeral, and a crowd-funding project to develop an Italian-style mausoleum, based on the needs of the local Italian Roman Catholic community and the local cemetery.

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At the cemetery, there is a lot of singing and there are lots of people. And it takes time. Celebrating the person’s life. You know that could be 45 minutes. And I have seen that they don’t put anything else on the agenda then. There is no-one to be seen. (Male, Christian, Northampton) We did a crowd funding project to build a mausoleum to facilitate above ground burials for our Italian community. The community had come forward to us, and we appointed a community team who worked closely with the cemetery team here. We did an in-house design of the mausoleum, so it met with their specifications. Everything down to the bricks we used, what tiles we used, sizes of the mausoleum to accommodate different types of caskets and coffins. And then, because it was hard to get the money out of capital product, we agreed with the community that they paid a deposit, out of the final cost of what the burial would be. And then we could build the mausoleum. (Male, Cemetery manager, Kettering, Near Northampton) Lastly, access and transport are fundamental to people visiting the cemetery or crematoria, whether to attend a burial or cremation ceremony, fulfil ritual or

Muslim area of the Towcester Road Cemetery in Northampton, East Midlands, England. SOURCE: AUTHORS

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religious obligations, tend a memorial or remember the deceased. Research participants stressed the importance of having enough parking space at the cemetery, especially when large groups attend funerals, as well as the need for easy and regular access by public transport, a necessity for those without cars (typically the poor or elderly). In addition, when visiting the cemetery, visitors would feel more secure if staff were present – a significant issue for those who may already feel vulnerable as a result of age, race-ethnicity and/or religion. When I go to the cemetery on my own, I don’t stay long, because there is nobody there sometimes. It is frightening. Because there are people walking around, someone may attack you, because there is no-one in the office anymore. (Female, Mauritian origin, Christian, Newport) In sum, our research shows that cemetery space needs to be planned in light of population trends for the diverse communities in a given area, as well as the particular religious and cultural requirements of local communities. Crematorium provision UK crematoria are used for the overwhelming majority of funerals in England and Wales, creating high demand for their services and a consequent pressure on time and space. Some religious traditions require the cremation of the dead and prescribe specific ritual practices. Hindus and Sikhs, for example, are cremated after death, with the exception of young children. Prompt cremation is custom in the countries of origin of many, and can also be a desire in the UK. Moreover, resembling open pyre cremations, the dearest and nearest family members may initiate or witness the charge of the cremator or – exceptionally – the full cremation process.

Crematorium managers and users mentioned both challenges and examples of

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good practice when catering for (large) groups of people with diverse needs. A key challenge is the issue of time. Typical time allocations of approximately 30 minutes for cremation services do not meet the needs of large groups or lengthy rituals and fixed-time slots can create the feeling of an impersonal service. A number of both professionals and users mentioned feeling being rushed through the ceremony, and finding the proximity of mourners attending the previous or following funerals ‘unsettling’ and ‘disconcerting’. The slots at the crematorium are either 20 or 40 minutes. … it’s a bit of a horrible conveyor belt. (Man, British origin, Christian, Swindon) Furthermore, short timeslots often do not suit funeral services with a large number of mourners attending. The practicalities of parking, entering and leaving the crematorium and completing an appropriate service within the tight timeslot can be difficult. Solutions included offering Saturday services, or being proactive in offering extended weekday slots where capacity allowed. This year, due to feedback from families and funeral directors (and actually increased competition), we ended up with enough capacity to extend our service time to one hour. People feel less rushed, groups of mourners can go in and out of the chapel and we can get in to clean it. We have seen decreases in all the [negative] things…. It avoids that [mixing] of mourners and generally it makes people feel that they have more time. (Man, British origin, Crematorium manager, Kettering) Contemporary cremation ceremonies are often characterised by personalised practices, such as the display of personal photos, PowerPoint presentations, music and videos. Most crematoria are well-equipped to meet these requests. For migrant and minority groups, however, audio and video tools can also be used to enable their wider kith and kin including international

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family networks to view, participate in, and even contribute to, the service. The installation of webcams, screens and programmes such as Skype and video recording facilitating this virtual participation. She didn’t get a visa to attend her father’s funeral [in person], but she actually said a poem on the telephone and she was watching on Skype. She was actually live! And somebody made a speech as well from Pakistan I think, so it was very interactive. (Female, British-Bangladeshi origin, Christian, Focus group, Newport) Online memorials can also offer an opportunity for national and international networks of family, friends and colleagues to share condolences and memories (Maddrell, 2012). In addition to personalised practices, religious and traditional music and symbols play a significant role in many funeral services. Compared to conducting religious ceremonies under the fixed symbols of another religion, typically Chris-

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tian crosses, the availability of appropriate portable religious symbols was much appreciated by diverse groups. A number of years ago, they installed a curtain, ’cos there’s a cross in the chapel. So if you don’t want the cross they cover it. So that’s quite good. ’Cos people with no religion at all don’t want that. Some people will. (Man, British origin, Baha’i, Swindon) When we arrived at the crematorium that day, I hadn’t even thought about anything. But they had a CD playing with the Aum Nama Shiva, and this was done by an orchestra. It was a really nice arrangement. They had like the Hindu Ohm at the front. And one of the big things, they have got a Shiva murti, the god statue, which is all in place there. (Female, Indian origin, Hindu, Northampton) Few crematoria can accommodate large group of funeral attendees, making it necessary to accommodate overspill. Larger

Jewish funerary chapel in St Woolos Cemetery in Newport, Wales. SOURCE: AUTHORS

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anterooms and televised relays on big screens can allow a large number of funeral attendees to witness the ceremony, even if they cannot fit into the main chapel. In 2013 we rebuilt the smaller chapel. That now seats 135, plus the room for standing for 50 [in the anteroom], plus we have speakers on the outside, should our capacity be exceeded, so people can still hear the service taking place. And what we find with the Hindu services that we do on the weekend is that it reduces the stress for the family. They know there is going to be plenty of car parking for everyone, and there is no crossing over with anyone as well. (Man, British origin, crematorium manager, Kettering) In contrast, there are a small number of migrants with no kin locally to arrange and pay for funerals. Crematoria managers reported a small but growing number of public service funerals for young East European migrants who moved recently for short-term work, often without supporting family networks. These were predominantly young Poles whose death was unanticipated and for whom no funeral finances were available (funeral costs are covered by taxes in Poland, making private funding unnecessary). Poles are predominantly Roman Catholic and favour burial, but either public service funeral budget constraints and/or families in Poland being unable to afford and organise the repatriation of bodies has resulted in their cremation, allowing ashes to be sent back to their families in their country of origin. Negotiating these provisions and arrangements sometimes requires the services of a translator in order to liaise with the next of kin in other countries. Cemetery and crematorium provision not only involves managing space and time, but also facilitating emotional and spiritual needs and people’s sense of those needs being understood, accepted and met. It also includes considering the impact of provision on the social and financial situation of mourners. Research from the case-study towns

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suggested that different groups are not equally provided for. Unequal provision across migrant and minority groups Some people felt that their needs to have religious symbols or washing facilities for the deceased are not fully understood. For example, Hindus in Swindon felt under-represented in the religious landscape as a whole, including funerary provision: We had to highlight there is a 12,000 Hindu population across the town, and these are the needs. So it was not very easy to convince and highlight. I think maybe because we are the minority, nobody understood the requirements. (Man, Indian origin, Hindu, Swindon)

Also, groups had different degrees of provision in local cemeteries: We wanted to make provision for the Baha’is of Northampton to be buried at the cemetery. It was easily arranged, because of the lady that was there then. She was very sympathetic. I think we have been very fortunate actually. Because cemetery space is in quite short supply. Not far from ours, there is the Chinese space, and a Jewish one, and an Islamic one. But some of them are struggling [with insufficient burial space]. For the size of the town, we have been very fortunate. (Woman, British origin, Baha’i, Northampton) Likewise, provisions for diverse ash scattering rituals are infrequently addressed. Hindus and Sikhs, for example, seek to fulfil the religious prescription that cremated ashes should be dispersed in the Ganges or over moving water. Yet, their needs tend to be overlooked. We said: “Look, you provide all these graveyards and everything, for the Christians, the Muslims and anybody else. What have you done for the Sikhs or the Hindus?” We have been dealing with this for the last four years now. I’ve been attending meetings with the Welsh government and everything, and we are trying to get a location where

Fading away. Reflections on death

we can build a place to scatter. Because at the moment, you have to hire a boat. And obviously, that is an extra expense. (Man, African origin, Sikh, South Wales) Burial costs in England and Wales have increased significantly in recent years. This imposes a particular financial burden on those whose faith requires the burial of the dead, such as Jews, Muslims and Orthodox Christians, and those who are strongly directed to use burial, such as Roman Catholics. Further religious requirements can incur additional costs, for example where Muslim graves are organised so they occupy double grave plots or special kerbs to allow for varying body positioning within the grave according to different regional practices. These additional costs can exacerbate funeral costs, especially in cases where costs are already high due to a cultural norm of large scale funeral hospitality. As you might need a different coffin to lay the deceased on his/her side, and need double burial space the price goes up extensively. (Man, Pakistani origin, Muslim (Shia), Newport)

I understand that for them, we are all the same. He is black African, I am black African. But I don’t necessarily follow the Zimbabwean culture, as my Dad is Malawian. (Woman, Malawian origin, Christian, Northampton)

These issues need to be addressed more directly if services are going to be able to truly and equitably reflect the needs of the whole local community, rather than maintaining the status of ‘outsiders’ for people of migrant descent.

To cater for diverse funeral needs, it is helpful to have an overview of specific wishes and needs of particular groups. At the same time, it is important to not make assumptions based on previous engagements with those from a particular country or religion, and to be attentive to the wide variety of funeral needs that exists within communities. Women might have different preferences to men, and younger generations could have different preferences or knowledge of rituals compared to older/ first generation migrants. Likewise, traditions change and adapt, and are responsive to cultural influences beyond their own community, including challenging traditional gendered roles or assumptions. We actually asked the priest whether we could [give speeches and witness the cremation] as women. And he said, you know, [the deceased] hasn’t got a son, he can’t go out to find a son, so there is no reason why a daughter wouldn’t be able to do it. But our religion is very male orientated, and some people said it shouldn’t be woman. (Woman, British-Indian origin, Hindu, Northampton)

Diversity within diversity As the above examples illustrate, there is not only variation between different religious or ethnic groups, but also significant diversities within them. This ‘diversity within diversity’ is the result of differences in characteristics such as age, generation, gender, ethnicity and country of birth or heritage. Service providers need a nuanced understanding of diversity in order to accommodate the diverse cemetery, crematorium, and remembrance needs of people living in a multicultural society.

Regarding faith groups, it is important to be attentive to differences between prescribed religion, the rules established by religious texts or leaders, and lived religion, the way religion is practiced by people themselves. Not everyone follows the same teachers and prescriptions. For example, Hindu participants reported different views about ash disposal practices, with older generations favouring repatriation of ashes to the Ganges, whereas women and younger generations reported being in favour of dispersal near their current home and/or children, for example at a river at a

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stately home which the family frequently visited for outings, or a local river: We used to have the river Ganges, flowing water. But I said to my children, you know what, just do it down the stream at the back of the house or in the garden. That will be fine for me. (Woman, Indian origin, Hindu, Northampton) Some participants were aware of the consecration of the River Soar in Leicestershire2 with water from the Ganges allowing ash scattering, or the possibility of making similar local facilities in agreement with the Environment Agency (Maddrell, 2011). For Hindus and Sikhs, our big problem is scattering of the ashes. We’re supposed to put the ashes in running water, like a river or a canal, but in the UK, I don’t think there is any designated site you can go to. (Man, Sikh, Swindon) The environmental agency’s meeting was very, very productive. The environmental agency outlined the place where the river met, and it was flowing into the main, and they said, if you go to that point and do the rituals, and off they went. And now what the environmental agency has done is, they put it all together, for the rest of the local Sikh community to know. (Woman, Indian origin, Sikh, South Wales) Non-ecclesial or ‘secular’ funerals, usually attributed to the majority population, are often seen as ‘personalised’, whereas the funerals of minority and/or religious groups are often portrayed as ‘traditional’. Within religious groups, however, death practices are tailored beyond religious prescriptions, influenced by personal, social and cultural wishes (Mathijssen, 2017). Hindu and Sikh cremation ceremonies, for example, can include popular music songs and personal photographs, and some Muslim graves have been decorated with elaborate floral tributes to ‘Dad’ or ‘Sister’.

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Those service providers with knowledge of diverse funerary customs can assist bereaved families in conducting funerary rites according to religious and personal needs. What was identified as an ‘Irish’ firm of undertakers was praised by several respondents for their knowledge of, and sensitive guidance on, diverse religious practices: The funeral directors were really good. With our funerals, there is ceremonies that take place. You are meant to put things in the mouth of the deceased and they knew. So they were like: “Do you want us to leave the mouth slightly open, so you can do that?” Whereas, when you are in that state, you don’t think about those things. But they knew, so they could prompt that. So that was very, very helpful. Stressing, but needed. Little things like that really helped. (Woman, Indian origin, Hindu, Northampton) In addition to those who only have loose ties to their inherited faith tradition, those without any religious affiliation have desires and needs that have to be met. Secularisation or change not only occurs within Christian communities, but also within other faith groups. Some migrants and minorities are changing and re-inventing their funerary and remembrance practices in response to the legal and cultural context in England and Wales. This includes constraints such as public health regulations, and liberties such as the freedom to collect ashes from the crematoria and disperse at chosen sites. This evokes creativity among individuals, families, communities and service providers. Changing patterns of repatriation Repatriation from England and Wales to the country of origin was commonly practised by first generation migrants from South Asia during the late Twentieth Century. Due to increasing family ties within England and Wales and successive generations living here, those belonging to established minorities are

For ash scattering facilities in Leicester see https://scattering-ashes.co.uk/boats-scattering-ashes/soar-leicester/.

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increasingly choose to bury, inter or scatter ashes locally, rather than burying the body or taking the ashes to the country of origin or heritage. Theological debates about international repatriation and the costs and practicalities of transporting the deceased back to the country of origin or heritage also influence local disposition. However, there is evidence of regional repatriation within England and Wales e.g. a Muslim burial council collecting the deceased from London to be buried near family in Northampton. I think there is a cultural change where people are […] no longer sending bodies to Pakistan. They’re saying: “No, we want to have our loved ones buried here”. And this has made a big difference [to our burial service] (Man, British origin, Muslim, Huddersfield) There are Hindu people in this country for three generations. So people settled and brought up here obviously they will not be repatriated to India. But first generation

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or second generation definitely would want to do that. (Man, Indian origin, Hindu, Swindon) Whereas local burial and disposal is increasing relative to repatriation, variety exists within and between groups. Those with ties abroad, including land and close family, might choose to repatriate. Also recent migrants, especially those who saw themselves as temporary migrants, may prefer to bury the body or take the ashes to the country of origin. This, for instance, comes to the fore among more recent European migrants. Whereas Roman Catholic migrants from East and Southern Europe traditionally bury the deceased, our research shows that many choose to cremate the deceased, easing the transport of the cremated remains back to the country of origin: I know a handful whose ashes have been taken back, the most recent being another friend in London. He had no relations in

Muslim graves at a cemetery in Leeds, Yorkshire and the Humber, England. SOURCE: AUTHORS

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the UK and his next of kin, his niece, still lives in Lithuania. (Woman, Lithuanian origin, Christian, Newport) Self-help and Fostering dialogue and understanding between professionals and communities Some faith groups are supporting their own funeral needs through various cooperative initiatives, such as Hindu and Sikh liaison with the Environment Agency to provide ash scattering points on designated rivers, and burial schemes organised by Muslim and Jewish communities. Burial schemes often require a nominal annual fee and cover all members of the household. At the time of a death, the burial cooperatives liaise with the family and coordinate all the funeral needs and requirements.

Creating a context of mutual understanding and respect within communities and between communities and service providers improves the experiences and provisions around death for both. While many professionals effectively supported bereaved individuals, families and communities and their diverse needs, understanding and provision was uneven, varying by cemetery/crematoria provider and funeral directors. There was a widespread awareness of the core needs of key minority groups: cemetery managers, for instance, were well educated on Muslim burial needs and funeral directors were often praised for their tailor-made services. However, in some cases a lack of understanding or an unwillingness to meet the needs of specific migrant and minority traditions was reported. The motives behind certain wishes were unclear to some professionals, or not deemed ‘necessary’. Consequently, bereaved families felt that their cultural needs were misunderstood or marginalised: I understand that there is a lot of cultures and traditions, and that sometimes you have to settle for this. But we also have

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the responsibility of introducing our cultures [and] our ways of living to people for people to understand. And some funeral services are not tailor-made for the Black African. When we cry, for example, we can be really ‘hysterical’. They probably won’t understand. Or if I was to bring my drum … they will get the shock of their life. So that’s things that they wouldn’t understand. (Woman, Malawian origin, Christian, Northampton) It is also important for communities to be informed about and understand funerary systems in the UK. Increasing practical knowledge, such as knowing when to call a doctor and undertaker, when an autopsy and coroner’s report might be required, where and how to register a death, and public health regulations relating to having the deceased at home, will reduce stress for mourners at what is already a difficult time. There needs to be something, like a step to step plan, just so you know the steps. Not even for Hindus necessarily. Just something accessible, so a person would know where to go when someone passes away. I kind of Googled, but there was not one place where you could just see: you take the death certificate from the doctor, you take it to register, then you contact the funeral director. I was lost, getting this piece of paper from the doctors, not knowing what to do with it. (Woman, British-Indian origin, Hindu, Northampton) Migrants may be unaware of the expectation that families pay for funerals, burial or cremation. Likewise, they may be unaware that local authorities have a legal requirement to provide basic funerals for those who have no provision under their ‘environmental health’ remit. Literal and cultural translation can help with these processes. Where local authorities and services provide information on legal procedures and religious practices these often benefit from translation into key migrant/minority languages. Likewise, focus groups highlighted how commu-

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nities can play a pivotal role in giving service providers insight to the meaning and significance of religious and cultural practices. So the first burial that was going to be there, I rang up the Council and said “there is going to be a Baha’i funeral”. And they were very pleased to know […] It is a relief that somebody knew what was going to happen. (Woman, British origin, Baha’i, Northampton) Furthermore, trusted members of a community, who are familiar with the systems and confident in dealing with officials in English can play an important role as mediators for families. One of our community members died in an accident and I was actively involved in repatriating the body to India. So I formed a task force liaising with police, hospitals, cemetery services, Indian high commission, the airlines, everything. The police department also has a community liaison officer. And I would say that only 1-5% of those liaison officers across the country have knowledge about all the faiths, so the police force was very happy for us to make a task force and be the source of contact. (Man, Indian heritage, Hindu, Swindon) Fostering collaboration between professionals and communities enhances mutual understanding between service providers and communities regarding specific needs; identifies the key stakeholders from both parties; informs planning processes; and helps to co-design cemetery and crematoria spaces to cater for diversity. A number of local initiatives to meet the needs of migrants and minorities have been welcomed by members of the wider community, for example the possibility of witnessing the body going into the cremator, the use of moveable religious symbols, TV screen relay into overspill areas for large funerals, and webcam links facilitating virtual attendance/ participation.

Planning for cemeteries as spaces of encounter Cemeteries and crematoria gardens are public spaces with various functions that offer a variety of uses in urban spaces. Their primary use is for the remains of the dead and the conduct of personal or religious rituals, including the placing of material ritual items or mementoes such as prayer beads, candles and flowers. As such, they are of ultimate importance to individuals, families and communities, as they include the precious remains of loved ones, are ‘sacred to the memory of ’ the deceased, and are sites of religious significance for many; they are also where many continue to talk to and express their ongoing attachment to, and care for, the deceased (Francis et al, 2005; Maddrell, 2016). In this regard, cemeteries can be understood as important spaces of comfort (Price et al, 2018).

At the same time, cemeteries are also seen as part of the green infrastructure of towns and cities, and used as spaces for leisure and recreation, as well as impacting on civic identity and local place attachment (McClymont, 2016). Therefore, cemeteries can be understood as having potentially competing functions. Moreover, they can be seen as social worlds which have their own shifting communities (Francis et al, 2005), being sites of encounter and interaction where different types of people meet, either in person or through encountering the graves and material artefacts of remembrance. I’ve found people when I’ve gone there. I’ve always bumped into somebody that’s just come there to visit their dad or somebody. Quite often someone I know. (Man, British-Pakistani origin, Muslim, Huddersfield) In other words, cemeteries and crematoria are places that matter beyond their practical and symbolic functions, but their different meanings and uses can cause friction. Despite this complexity, they

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are typically overlooked in local authority planning. Future planning needs to consider the functional, symbolic, social and leisure aspects of cemetery spaces within a diverse multicultural society, including the comfort and safety of visitors and the mediation of different user needs and interests. For example, the social potential of a cemetery could be enhanced with services such a café, information point or a flower shop, which also increases personnel on site. People often come from a long way. In London they have a flower shop and a café. I think it is good, because sometimes you get there, you have arrived there 45 minutes early and it is nice, rather than sitting in Tesco’s, to go there and have a coffee. (Woman, Indian origin, Hindu, Northampton) Conclusion In conclusion, this study shows that whilst there has been increasing understanding of the cemetery, crematoria and associated funerary needs of the diverse communities in England and Wales, more remains to be done. Both service providers and migrant and minority communities have evidenced examples of good practice, but ongoing dialogue and understanding of local needs and constraints are central to improving current services for mourners and for planning better diversity-ready facilities and services in the future. It has also highlighted discrepancies between more sophisticated diversity ‘readiness’ in cemeteries/crematoria in large cities with significant minority populations relative to the towns in this study, despite having a similar proportion of minority population. These discrepancies can perpetuate or even create a sense of post-colonial marginalisation for the bereaved and on behalf of the deceased. The confluence of different practices in cemeteries etc., e.g. unfamiliar religious rituals and secular leisure pursuits, can foster misunderstanding between individuals and communities sharing the space, undermining the sense

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of citizenship and belonging for both parties. Within a multicultural society these factors combined make diversity-ready cemeteries and crematoria a political priority for politicians, planners, providers, and both majority and minority communities. It is hoped that this study will provide an agenda for future practice and further scholarship. An agenda for diversity-ready cemeteries and crematoria requires forward-thinking policy making and formal urban and rural planning based on population and cultural trends. There are opportunities for local authorities to work across boundaries to collectively provide diversity-ready cemeteries. While some minority communities have worked collectively to address their needs e.g. funeral collectives, this study also evidenced how service providers and communities have worked together to meet the practical and religious cemetery and burial needs for migrant and minority groups, e.g. mechanisms to facilitate same day burials and community-led public meetings being organised to challenge changes to municipal policy without consultation. Furthermore, in order to create diversity-ready cemetery and crematorium provisions, service providers should actively engage with and listen to the diverse needs of individuals and families as well as community groups and figureheads. Diversity-readiness also requires a threeway informed understanding between providers, majority and minority users; this can be developed and maintained through a variety of channels including education, information, liaison meetings, interfaith groups, open days / fetes, and cemetery volunteer groups. This in turn can ease social and cultural encounter and engagement within the public space of the cemetery or crematorium. While the detail of what is required for diversity-ready cemeteries and crematoria is complex and relational, i.e. it will vary

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locally according to existing infrastructure, practices and emerging population and cultural trends, it relies upon openness to and respect for the needs of others, other citizens, other neighbours. Acknowledgements We would like to sincerely thank all of the project participants who offered their

thoughts, insight and time to the study; likewise our Advisory Board members. We would also like to thank the AHRC (Arts and Humanities Research Council) and ESRC (Economic and Social Research Council) for funding, and the Royal Town Planning Institute and Institute for Cemetery and Crematorium Management for their support for the project. n

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Beebeejaun, Y. (2012). “Including the excluded? Changing the understandings of ethnicity in contemporary English planning”, Planning Theory & Practice, 13(4), 529-548. Bell, S., Foley, R., Houghton, F., Maddrell, A. and Williams, A. (2018). “From therapeutic landscapes to healthy spaces, places and practices: A scoping review”, Social Science & Medicine 196: 123-130. Cremation Society of Britain (2016). International Statistics. [Consulted on 30 May 2018, http://www.cremation.org.uk/ international-statistics-2016#]. Francis, D., Neophytou, G. and Kellaher, L. (2005). The Secret Cemetery. London: Berg. Gunaratnam, Y. (2013). Death and the Migrant: Bodies, Borders and Care. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Jassal, L. K. (2015). “Necromobilities: The Multi-sited Geographies of Death and Disposal in a Mobile World”, Mobilities, 10: 486-509. Kaplan, D. and Chacko, E. (2015). “Placing immigrant identities”, Journal of Cultural Geography, 32: 129-138. Maddrell, A. (2009). “A place for grief and belief: the Witness Cairn on the Isle of Whithorn, Galloway, Scotland”, Social and Cultural Geography, 10: 675-693. Maddrell, A. (2011). “Bereavement, belief and sense-making in

the contemporary British landscape”, In C. Brace et al. (Eds.). Emerging Geographies of Belief, 216-238. Newcastle: Cambridge.

cising the geographies of dying, death and mourning, Social and Cultural Geography, 17(2), 153165.

Maddrell, A. (2012). “Online memorials: the virtual as the new vernacular”, Bereavement Care, 31(2): 46-54.

Venhorst, C., Quartier, T., Nissen, P. and Venbrux, E. (2013). Islamic ritual experts in a migration context: motivation and authority in the ritual cleansing of the deceased, Mortality18(3), 235-250.

Maddrell, A. (2013). “Living with the deceased: absence, presence and absence-presence”, Cultural Geographies, 20(4) 501-22. Maddrell, A. (2016). “Mapping grief. A conceptual framework for understanding the spatial dimensions of bereavement, mourning and remembrance”, Social and Cultural Geography, 17(2), 166-188 [open access]. Mathijssen, B. (2017). Making sense of death. Ritual practices and situational beliefs of the recently bereaved in the Netherlands. Münster: LIT Verlag. McClymont, K. (2016). “That eccentric use of land at the top of the hill”: Cemeteries and stories of the city. Mortality, 21(4), 378-396. Office for National Statistics – ONS (2016): Census aggregate data, 2011. UK Data Service (June 2016). DOI: http://dx.doi. org/10.5257/census/aggregate2011-1. Price, L., McNally, D. and Crang, P. (2018). The Geographies of Comfort. London: Routledge. Stevenson, O., Kenten C. and Maddrell, A. (2016). And now the end is near: Enlivening and politi-

Welsh Government (2018). Draft Planning Policy Wales: Edition 10. Retrieved from: https://beta.gov.wales/sites/default/files/ consultations/2018-02/ppwrestructure-draft-ppw_en.pdf [Consulted on 5 June 2018].

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Virginia de la Cruz Lichet

Paraules clau: retrat, fotografia, difunt, memòria, Catalunya.

UNIVERSITY OF LORRAINE

PhD in Art History from the Complutense University of Madrid (2010). Specialist in post-mortem photography in Spain. She is currently a lecturer at the University of Lorraine, France, and is working on her second doctoral thesis, entitled “Identitat i memòria. Construcció, re-construcció a través de l’art contemporani colombià” (Identity and memory. Construction and reconstruction through Columbian contemporary art).

Palabras clave: retrato, fotografía, difunto, memoria, Cataluña. Keywords: portrait, photography, deceased, memory, Catalonia.

Portraits of mourning. Portraits of child death in Catalonia Similarities and differences1 Introduction: the birth of photography and the first postmortem portraits

hen photography first saw the light in 1839, nineteenth century society was faced with a new way of looking at the world. From the small lens of a camera, professional photographers – and later on, amateurs – could capture the reality around them: their surroundings, the landscape and the people of the time in their private and public lives. Des de l’inici de la fotografia, el retrat de difunt ha tingut un gran protagonisme i ha continuat realitzant-se fins ben entrada la segona meitat del segle xx; una pràctica que acabarà per integrar-se com una etapa més dins del ritu funerari. Malgrat que hi ha un mode de representació comú per a aquest tipus de retrat, la majoria de les vegades existeixen particularitats –que tenen a veure amb el lloc geogràfic de la seva execució i amb la mirada del fotògraf– que fan que cada retrat sigui únic. En aquest estudi, es presenten quatre casos d’estudi comparatiu de fotografies fetes a la zona de la Mediterrània (des de Girona fins a València) amb similituds i diferències.

Thanks to scientific progress and the rise of the bourgeoisie, photography, and portraits in particular, reached the height of its splendour during the second half of the nineteenth century. From 1789, economic and political liberalism brought about capitalism and democracy. The bourgeoisie had a new positivist attitude, aiming to achieve a social status that could emulate that of the nobility. In the same way that the aristocracy used portraits as a means of reflecting the social status of the subject, the bourgeois also made the art of the portrait – both pictorial and photographic – their own, in order to present themselves within the new emerging society. The style they favoured was realist,

Desde el inicio de la fotografía, el retrato de difunto ha tenido gran protagonismo y ha seguido realizándose hasta bien entrada la segunda mitad del siglo xx; una práctica que terminará por integrarse como una etapa más dentro del rito funerario. Pese a que existe un modo de representación común para este tipo de retrato, la mayoría de las veces existen particularidades –que tienen que ver con el lugar geográfico de su ejecución y con la mirada del fotógrafo– que hacen que cada retrato sea único. En este estudio, se presentan cuatro casos de estudio comparativo de fotografías realizadas en la zona del Mediterráneo (desde Girona hasta Valencia) con sus similitudes y diferencias.

The images presented in this article form part of the exhibition Imatges de mort. Representacions fotogràfiques de la mort ritualitzada (Images of death. Photographs of ritualised death), December 2017-June 2018, at the Valencian Museum of Ethnology in Valencia, which has ceded the right to reproduction.

Since the beginning of photography, the portrait of the deceased has played a leading role and continued into the second half of the 20th century; a practice that has become integrated as another stage in the funeral rite. Although there is a common style of representation for this type of portrait, there are particular differences to do with the geographical location where the portrait is taken and with the photographer’s gaze- that make each portrait unique. In this study, we compare four cases of photographs in the Mediterranean area (from Girona to Valencia) presenting their similarities and differences.

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because it was the most useful and faithful to the desired objectives. For this reason photography became the most appropriate tool to represent reality, by usurping the function of painting, at least initially.2 The 1840s were very important in the history of photography. Whilst in 1842 a daguerreotype cost 10.50 francs, by 1846 it still cost 10, so in just four years the cost had barely decreased. Initially, it appeared to be a magical, avant-garde process, but commercial demands soon brought this hegemony to its end (McCauley, 1994: 49). In addition to the remarkable rise of the bourgeoisie and extensive research into improvements in photographic techniques, the arrival in power in France of Louis Napoléon Bonaparte in December 1848 led to a period of stability, which followed a period of revolutions that came to an end that same year. So, the second half of the nineteenth century in France was a prosperous time in every way (commercial development, industry, etc.), and photography benefited as a result. The repercussion of the news of the invention of the daguerreotype was immediate in Europe. Only a few days after the presentation of this technique by Aragon to the Academy of Sciences and Arts in Paris, El Diario de Barcelona mentioned this new invention, as is pointed out by Publio López Mondéjar (1999: 15). Similarly, on 27 January 1839 in the Semanario Pintoresco Español, an anonymous article in the Sciences and Arts section, entitled “El daguerrotipo. Nuevo descubrimiento” (The daguerreotype. New discovery), states: Mr Daguerre has found a means of fixing images that are painted on the bottom of a camera obscura, so that they are no longer a fleeting image of objects, but a fixed, permanent impression of them, which can be taken out of the presence of such objects, as if it were a painting or a print. (p. 27) In Spain, competition between photographers was such that prices dropped significantly. However, they varied depending on the reputation of the photographer and, as

indicated by Publio López Mondéjar, the majority oscillated between the 60 reals of a velló (a velló was the equivalent to 25 cents of a peseta) that Constant was charging in 1842 and the 30 established by Clifford in 1852, probably for standard quarter- and sixthplate portraits.3 However, the daguerreotype was no longer a unique, luxury item or only accessible to the few. Louis Désiré Blanquart-Évrard once again expressed the need for the industrialisation of photography when, in 1851, he sent a letter, dated 4 April, to the Société Héliographique4 (Identities..., 1986: 14). The daguerreotype was worth five times more than an average salary; the high prices of developing a print went up to 1 or 1.5 francs, fixed by the commission. In addition to the high cost that held back the democratisation of this medium, there were technical limitations that were very cumbersome for photographers, such as the need to develop only on sunny days, exposure times that were too long, etc. A series of initiatives was proposed as a solution, which included using chemical reaction facilities that would allow photographers to developing their work regardless of the sun, reducing the working time for each development and necessarily lowering prices. Blanquart-Évrard designed a factory capable of producing between 5,000 and 6,000 developed photographs, thereby reducing costs and achieving a price of between 5 and 15 cents, depending on the format of the image (Gautrand, 1986: 199-200). In this way, demand would increase as it would be accessible to more potential customers. On 28 September 1851, La Lumière published another letter from Blanquart-Évrard announcing his intention to set up a “photographic printing press” near Lille, based on the house of Hippolyte Fockeday (3, bis quai de al Haute-Deule, Loos). The idea was perfect, but his company did not prosper due to the continuing high prices of prints (Sagne, 1984: 161). In a way, Blanquart-Évrard had an intuition of what would completely change the history of photography a few years later. The urgent

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Regarding the rise of the bourgeoisie in Europe during the nineteenth century and the introduction of photography, see, amongst others, Bicknell, A. (September-October 1895). Life in the Tuileries under the Second Empire. By an inmate of the Palace. Century Magazine 50 , 5-6, 709-726 and 915-931; Johnson, W. S. (1990). Nineteenth-Century Photography. An Annotated Bibliography. 1839-1879. Boston: G. K. Hall & Co.; Frères, M. and Pierson, P. L. (1862). La photographie considerée comme art et comme industrie. Histoire de la découverte, ses progrès, ses applications, son avenir. Paris: Hachette; McCauley, E. A. (1994). Industrial Madness: Commercial Photography in Paris. 1848-1871. Dexter, Michigan: Yale University Press. Col. Yale Publications in the History of Art; McCauley, E. A. (1981). Likenesses: Portrait Photography in Europe 1850-1870. Albuquerque: Art Museum. University of New Mexico; Melchior-Bonnet, S. (1994). Histoire du miroir. Paris: Auzas Editeurs; Nori, C. (1978). La fotografia francese dalle origini ai nostri giorni. Modena: Biblioteca di Storia della Fotografia. Col. Punto e Virgola; Pellerin, D. (1995). La photographie stéréoscopique sous le Second Empire. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France; Rouillé, A. and Marbot, B. (1986). Le corps et son image. Photographies du dix-neuvième siècle. Nancy: Contrejour; Rouillé, A. (1989). La photographie en France. Textes et Contreverses: une anthologie. 1816-1871. Paris: Macula.

Workers' average salary ranged from 6 to 10 reals a day, although as Publio López Mondéjar states: “Catalan industrial workers earned between 4 and 7 reals for daily shifts of up to 11 hours, whilst Andalusian peasants barely earned two reals [a day...]. It was taken for granted that only members of the well-off classes, landowners, senior government officials or those belonging to the nobility or the up-and-coming bourgeois would go to the early photographic studios”. p. 22-23.

The creation of Société Héliographique was announced at La Lumière on 13 April 1851, quoted in: Identités. De Disderi

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need for the democratisation of photography, together with the technical advances that took place from the 1850s – such as the invention of collodion and albumin emulsions, the visiting card format, etc. – would lead to the birth of a new type of business: the photographic studio. This new profession was organised around a closed space, the studio, as a result of a sociological need: producing photographic portraits. The setting up of a studio was linked to the presence of a potential clientèle. In Paris, these establishments increased from 12, in 1844, to 50 in 1851. In Spain, the 1870s and 1880s saw a huge growth in photographic studios, as López Mondéjar (1999: 65) points out. In Barcelona, for example, there was a total of 57 studios in the glorious era of the studio, which grew to 73 by the end of the century; Valencia was also important in this regard, with 32 photographic studios (López Mondéjar, 1999: 65). And it is in this dynamic of the democratisation of photography in which photographic portraits of the deceased must be included. Although this practice took place throughout the Iberian Peninsula, it is interesting to compare the similarities and differences between the portraits of the deceased in different areas of the Mediterranean coast, in a geographical context that ranges from Girona to Valencia. The deceased child: variations in representation The first photographic portraits produced within the framework of the funeral rite aimed to “portray” the deceased. Initially, just a single photograph of that moment was taken, due to the high costs of this type of commission. It is important to emphasise that the news article regarding the invention of the daguerreotype published in the Semanario Pintoresco Español (1839: 28) insisted that the best way to produce a daguerreotype is with motionless objects, without movement, saying: “The triumph, then, of the invention of Mr Daguerre is in still life or architecture”. Portraits of the deceased would thus prove an easier commission, since we may consider it as a type of still life. The body of the deceased and the features surrounding them were arranged in a specific

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manner to achieve a photographic objective. However, this type of portrait did indeed bring about other complications, one such example being photographers' need to take the photograph in the home of the deceased, which would cause problems with lighting, decorative layout, etc., rather than in their studio's controlled environment. Over the course of almost fifty years, the nineteenth-century Western world witnessed the emergence of new types of photographic representations of the deceased. This was accompanied by a change in attitude towards death which, to simplify greatly, may be summarised in two clearly opposed attitudes: the denial of death and its acceptance. In response to this attitude, three different types can be distinguished, as identified by Jay Ruby in his book Secure the Shadow (1995): the first type, called “as alive”, prevailed between the 1840s and 1850s and was especially typical for children. It consisted of representing them as if they were alive, as if at play, even with their eyes open in many cases. The second type, given the name “as asleep” was a kind of transition stage, taking place between 1860 and 1880. This type aimed to represent the deceased as if they were asleep, understanding sleep as the first idea of death. Finally, there came the “as dead” type by the end of the nineteenth century, which coincided with a change in attitudes to death, where the deceased is shown without simulation and is presented in their new social condition.5 By considering the photography undertaken along the Mediterranean coast, it is possible to observe the way in which these three types vary. Initially, it was common to portray the child as if they were alive, imitating poses or situations that could be seen in everyday life, such as the child surrounded by toys, sitting in a chair adapted to their size, or reclining on a sofa. In the portrait of a deceased child taken by Cantó, a photographer from Barcelona who carried out his work during the second half of the nineteenth century,6 we observe this type of representation. Faced by the overwhelming horizontal posture imposed by a lifeless body,

au photomaton. (1986). Exhibition catalogue in the Centre Nacional de la Photographie (Palais de Tokyo). Paris: Centre Nacional de la Photographie et Sainte Nouvelle des Éditions du Chêne. (Photocopy collection), p. 14.

This evolution and analysis of typologies, by way of introduction, is derived from the studio mentioned by Jay and Ruby, which, it should be emphasised, focuses exclusively on North American examples. This typology may be applied to other European examples, although in slightly different chronological order, depending on the evolution of photography and the attitudes in each place.

There are three photographers registered during the second half of the nineteenth century with the name of Cantó: Joan Cantó Esclús (circa 1833-1874), Augustus Cantó Mas (1856-1879) and Joan Cantó Mas (circa 1858-?). The first of them carried out his professional activity as a photographer between 1874 and 1879, located at Conde del Asalto, 18, mezzanine floor (from 1872 to 1874), and subsequently on the ground floor (from 1876 to 1877). August Cantó Mas was involved in the profession between 1874 and 1879, on the same mezzanine floor. One might think that he took the studio of Joan Cantó Esclús. Meanwhile, Joan Cantó Mas undertook his professional activity between 1874 and 1893, also located at Conde de Asalto, 18, under the trading name Cantó i Ótnac, but we do not have further more information on him. In all events, it may be said that this portrait was undertaken by the Cantó studio between 1864 and 1893. The portrait's characteristics allow us to assume that it was made in the early 1860s, probably by Joan Cantó Esclús, although it is not possible to confirm this information. (Might there be kinship between these photographers? We can not be sure.)

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this type of portrait reflects the desire and intention to conceal the true nature of the event. Here Cantó shows the whole scene, although in a very minimalist setting, with a dark, neutral background and tiled floor that allow for the creation of depth in the scene, a style adopted from Renaissance painters for interiors. The only feature that appears in the image is the sofa with the little girl resting on it. The small pillow allows the girl’s torso to be supported and lifted, and it can be observed how her feet have been placed together, in small boots, to prevent them falling apart in a lifeless manner which would reveal the artifice of the whole scene. The same thing has been done with the little girl’s hands, which are resting on her stomach to avoid them falling apart. Nevertheless, the rigidity of the lower part of her small body,

difficult to conceal, is evident (de la Cruz Lichet, 2017: 39). Less common, but also a type that was habitually used, was the representation of the child in their cradle, or bed, as in Antoni Esplugas Puig's portrait of a deceased child in a cot, circa 1896 and 1899.7 This portrait shows the way in which the photographer decided to choose to present the child’s side profile, thus avoiding the rigid frontal nature and rigorous profile that was common at this same time in other places, as was the case of Galician photographer Maximino Reboredo. This option gives a little more gentleness to the image since it offers a closer and less harsh portrait. We also see that the child is in the cot with his eyes half open. There are no flowers and the child is placed in a seemingly more natural way, which may

Cantó (Barcelona). Portrait of deceased little girl on a sofa. Business card. Circa 1865-1901. JULIO JOSÉ GARCÍA MENA COLLECTION.

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We can date this photograph between 1896 and 1899, since on the back of the photograph we can discern certain information, such as the address of the studio, located in Plaça del Teatre, no. 7, 4t. Thanks to the Clifford directory, a website on nineteenth-century photographers in Spain put together by FotoConnexió, we can consult and ascertain the production dates of this type of material. Visit: http://www.fotoconnexio.org/ clifford/

A. Esplugas (Barcelona). Portrait of a deceased child in a cot. Cabinet. Circa 1876-1904. JAVIER SÁNCHEZ PORTAS COLLECTION.

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raise the question of whether or not this portrait was actually taken posthumously. However, the fact that it was taken in the cot indicates that it is indeed a post-mortem portrait, as the family would surely have opted for another setting if the child were alive8 (de la Cruz Lichet, 2017: 48). Little by little, representing deceased children as alive started to seem forced, unnatural, and people would soon lean towards a more appropriate image: the sleeping child. So, representations of children in their everyday surroundings led the way to representations of them placed on a delicately decorated post or table as a way to present them to the community. Therefore, vigils were chosen as the ideal moment to take photographic portraits, as they constituted the stage of the funeral rite for presenting the deceased to the entire community, who would say their last farewells and the necessary prayers. Vigil comes from the Latin word vigilia (watchfulness), expressing people's desire to watch over and protect the body from the spirits before it is buried. However, this moment has a much more complex meaning and purpose: the laying out of the corpse, the well-being of the soul of the deceased and the psychological needs of relatives. In this way, this stage eases the anxieties of the most affected individuals and the group that witnesses the event (Gondar Portasany, 1987: 32; Puckle, 1929: 61-62). The custom of watching over the deceased is very ancient, but it did not always have the same purpose. According to Habenstein and Lamers, this custom comes from the Hebrews, where it was carried out in the form of a vigil at the grave itself. In the Greek tradition, it was customary to wait three days before the deceased were buried, a duration which is maintained by Poles and Italians according to Kephart, although in these cases it was habitually one night. Later, the Romans made this custom their own. And from there it passed to the first Christians and has been maintained, although with variations, to this day (Habenstein-Lamers, 1955: 67; Kephart, 1950: 640-641). But what is the purpose of a vigil? In the Roman era,

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according to Apuleius, it was intended to prevent witches from mutilating the body; amongst the ancient Germanic tribes, it was a celebration in honour of the deceased; and amongst the Anglo-Saxons there is a legend that says that the body could be possessed by the devil, for which reason the corpse was not to be left alone until it was buried (testimony of the cleric Wace in La crónica ascendente de los Normandía, 1160). Therefore, from the twelfth century, the widespread idea was to watch over the deceased to prevent spirits from snatching its body, thus bringing to mind the Galician corpo aperto. For this reason, in thirteenth-century France, the body was laid out in the Church and kept under lock and key at night (Heran, 2000: 46-47; Lecouteux, 1999: 74-76). Moving forward to a more contemporary era – the nineteenth and twentieth centuries –, the vigil acquires a significance of psychological restructuring, serving as a method for dealing with the anxieties that occur during this stage. As Howard C. Raether states, the opportunity to see and observe the lifeless body of a loved one is a positive experience, as it allows those around them to adapt to the new situation. According to Raether, not seeing the body is an opportunity to deny death and convince oneself that the traumatic event has not occurred; seeing it is the first step towards accepting death, affirming it and seeing evidence of it (Raether, 1978: 292-293). The vigil is characterised by hospitality, a fundamental feature of the community, which encourages the funeral rite to be carried out properly. The family must feel supported, and this moment ends up becoming an expression of honouring the deceased, but also as a reason for a community get-together (Van Gennep, 1998: 558; Villa Posse, 1993: 121-125). The purpose of the group is to divert the attention of the affected family members and reduce the anxiety caused by the loss. There are, according to Gondar Portasany, three features which allow this distension, which are called “attention diversion mechanisms”: the get-together or visits, the leria (small talk) and the games and falcatruadas (jokes)

View the exhibition catalogueImatges de mort: Representacions fotogràfiques de la mort ritualitzada. (2017). Exhibition catalogue. Valencia: Valencian Museum of Ethnology.

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(Gondar Portasany, 1982: 117-135).9 These moments alternate with others, the purpose of which is to channel anxiety and anger via the least destructive routes: as is the case of planto (crying). In this way, mechanisms are put in place which allow the community to be close to and support the grieving relatives. Given the trauma of death and the effects it causes (loss of appetite, distraction, and ultimately, total apathy), the vigil becomes, on the one hand, a time lapse that allows grievers to adapt to life following the death of their loved one, including the consequent social restructuring of the family within their community. On the other hand, it is like community therapy, the features of which accentuate the most vital aspects of life in order to combat death, such as eating and drinking, jokes about death and laughing, all to an excessive degree with the sole purpose of confronting death, so that the funeral rite becomes a ritual of action (Di Martino, 1975: 214-229; Di Nola, 2007: 46-49; Metcalf-Huntington, 2006: 68-71). As such, the portraits of the deceased were usually taken during the vigil. Gradually, children would be presented and represented

with the aim of seeking a more and more realistic final appearance, without forgetting that it ought to be gentle and delicate. For this reason, one of the options was to present the child as if they were an “Ophelia”, surrounded by floral garlands to imitate a kind of heavenly paradise, as in the portrait taken by photographer M. Piqué de Vilassar de Dalt. Although the coffin would slowly be included in the scene, as a container of a flower-surrounded body, symbolising the start of a new life under their floral shroud, as we see in the photography by M. Verdés, whose studio was located at Carrer Emparo Guillén 6, Cabanyal, Valencia. In the case of the portrait by Piqué, circa 1932-1933, the use of blurring manages to erase the features that surround the scene – not usually arranged for the portrait – to focus our gaze on the small body. However, it is possible to see neutral-coloured fabrics used as a backdrop and plants that cover the bed frame and background. The child is slightly turned towards the camera, as was the custom. In the portrait by Verdés, dated between 1928 and 1945, we may observe the way in which the photographer has taken a step further in the type of presentation of the deceased

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Regarding this topic, see Di Nola, (2007: 243-279); Gondar Portasany (1987: 34-47); Gondar Portasany (1982: 117-135); Puckle (1926: 102-111); Walter (1990: 151-158).

M. Piqué (Vilassar de Dalt, Barcelona). Portrait of deceased child surrounded by flowers. Postcard. Circa 19321933. JAVIER SÁNCHEZ PORTAS COLLECTION.

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child: the child no longer appears laid out on a table, but inside the coffin, and is placed on a structure that allows his torso to be raised. This resource meant a new type of presentation emerged: the child shrine It was no longer a question of merely producing a portrait of the child, but of sanctifying them by imitating those Baroque sculptural groups of saints. These shrines defy the horizontal position imposed by coffins by means of different levels of depth. The layout, the backdrop, the arrangement of the child and all the features were paid very careful attention to. Nothing interrupts the scene. Whilst one of the evolutionary features of the portrait of deceased children was this passing from the arrangement of the body on a sofa to a coffin, as has been observed, another feature that emerged between the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth centuries was the presentation of the child outside. In the portrait taken by an anonymous photographer in Valencia at the end of the nineteenth century (or beginning of the twentieth ), we see the presentation of a child placed on a table, perhaps also in a subtly covered coffin, or turned towards us thanks to the placement of some pillows. Surprisingly, the photographer has not cut the image further, since we can see both sides, which again indicates the simulation of an inside portrait, when it is in fact an outside one which has been staged for photographic objective. In the last portrait, a photograph by Lázaro Vert, San Andrés del Palomar, Barcelona, in 1902, we are already with no need to conceal it. Moreover, the natural background of the wall is taken advantage of to blend in with the floral decoration placed on the table and with the decoration painted on the secondary cardboard support; decorated with a floral frame, these same floral features appear to give this sense of visual continuity (de al Cruz Lichet, 2017: 68). In this example, the photographer used his artistic creativity to create a compositional and iconographic unity of the whole scene. As well as the photograph of the deceased child, as an individual portrait taken at the time of the vigil or outside of the house, we

M. Verdés (Cabanyal, Valencia). Portrait of a deceased child in a coffin. Postcard. Circa 1928-1945. JAVIER SÁNCHEZ PORTAS COLLECTION.

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Anonymous (Valencia). Portrait of deceased child on a table. Postcard. End of the nineteenth century to the beginning of the twentieth. JOSÉ HUGUET ARCHIVE.

Lázaro Vert (Sant Andreu del Palomar, Barcelona). Portrait of a deceased child outside. 23.4 x 28.2 cm. 11 August 1902. JAVIER SÁNCHEZ PORTAS COLLECTION.

must not forget the portraits of mourning, the group portraits in which the mother or father – or both – appear represented along with the deceased child in their arms, as if it were a family portrait. The posthumous portrait of mourning has the role of an icon for the afflicted family member. Being able to look at it is part of the mourning ritual, and it was common for first the painter, and later

the photographer to present the deceased as if they were alive. The production of posthumous portraits was at its height between 1830 and 1860. They were named posthumous mourning portraits by Phoebe Lloyd. That name was chosen because these portraits were commissioned by the family for use during the mourning period. Therefore, the portrait was looked at on repeated occa-

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sions, particularly coinciding with the date of the death (Ariés, 1983: 268; Frank, 2000: 280; Juillerat, 2000: 6; Lloyd, 1981: 105). At the same time, these portraits of mourning were produced to present an image that included the parental bond between mother (or father) and child. In this way, the portrait produced by the Masaguer Photography studio, the trading name of which was J. Masaguer i Fotografia de Joaquín Masaguer, which was in business between 1858 and 1876, allows us to observe a portrait of a mother and her son. In these cases it is more difficult to discern if it is a portrait of a deceased child. However, we may frequently detect certain features that indicate this, such as the position of the child, the placing of fallen hands, the rigidity, or the pose of the mother or father. This photograph, produced in Girona circa

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1870-1876,10 presents the mother sitting with the child in her arms with a neutral background. The portrait produced by Eduardo Ruiz made between 1860 and 1880 is very similar. This photographer had his studio at Carrer de les Barques 17, Valencia. In this example, we see a father with his little girl in arms. Here the pose of the child is more obvious: the girl falls under her own weight, as if sleeping on her father's shoulder. In these cases, the evidence of death is hidden, concealed; a more “as alive” presentation is sought. These two portraits coincide in date with the “as alive” style defined by Jay Ruby, which is unsurprising given the type of pose. Later, these portraits also changed and the coffin was allowed to be seen, with the parents around it looking at their child for the last time.

Masaguer Photography (Girona). Portrait of a mother with a deceased baby. Business card. Circa 18601880. JAVIER SÁNCHEZ PORTAS COLLECTION.

We can ascertain this date because on the back of the photograph we find the publicity ink stamp of the photographic studio which states the address, located at Plaça de les Cols, no. 2, 1st floor. According to the Clifford directory, this photographer had a studio at this address between 1870 and 1876, which gives a slightly more accurate idea of the date that this portrait was undertaken. Visit: http://www.fotoconnexio.org/ clifford/.

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Conclusion Through these Catalan and Valencian examples, we have been able to observe the similarities and differences between different portraits of the deceased. However, there are coinciding features that correspond more to an era and its respective attitudes towards death, than to a particular geographical region. However, there are small differences in some, for instance in the clothing of the deceased child, or in the choice of background fabric that might be decorative to a greater or lesser extent. Despite their differences, post-mortem portraits, or portraits of the deceased, have some universal features, at least in Western societies with a Catholic tradition. One stage of the funeral rite in particular is presented in these portraits: the vigil What is more, the photograph became another stage of the funeral rite, since the taking of the portrait was a time

of great importance to the family, both in order to remember the face of their deceased child and capture the essence of that tragic day. The image also allows their memory to be honoured, to include the deceased child, despite their premature death, in the family album and, therefore, in the family history. These images were sometimes the only portrait of the deceased, and so they also helped loved ones deal with grief and overcome the period of mourning. Thus, this type of portrait had many functions that were superimposed on each other: from the psychological needs of the closest family members, who needed to overcome the traumatic event, to the representation of the day of the death within the community. In this way, these images not only integrated the deceased into the family history, they also depicted a proper funeral rite in case of media coverage. All these features are present

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Eduardo Ruiz FotĂłgrafo (Valencia). Portrait of a father with his deceased baby. Business card. Circa 18601890. JAVIER SĂ NCHEZ PORTAS COLLECTION.

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in these portraits. In turn, they also reveal how attitudes changed over the times: from the denial of death, with the representations of the deceased “as alive” or “as asleep”, to the inevitable acceptance of death by the nineteenth century, with the inclusion of the coffin in the image. As Philippe Dubois (2002) affirms, the photograph: [...] has been attributed with a credibility, an absolutely unique, real weight. And this irreducible virtue of bearing witness rests mainly in the conscience of the mechanical process of production of the photographic image: [...] the photograph as a mirror of what is real, the photograph as a transformation of what is real, and the photograph as a print of what is real. (Dubois, 2002: 19-21) However, “the photograph is not just an 'image', it is also, by nature, a truly iconic act, an image, if you wish, but as work 'in action' [...] an 'image-act'” (Dubois, 2002: 11) and “to cut from life to perpetuate the dead” (Dubois, 2002: 148-149) and to preserve it thus from “its own loss” . (The emphasis has been added by the author). Although at their beginnings photographic portraits of the deceased inherited and adopted some types of pictorial representation, post-mortem photography acquired its own language over the years. The images mentioned of those unmoving silhouettes are the irrefutable proof of their existence, and they became true obsessions with memory. A moment came when, as Belting (2007: 181) indicates: [...] the “creation of images was more important than the possession of images”, because it was a way of actively defying the disruption of community life, whilst at the same time restoring the natural order: the deceased members of a community were thus given back the status needed to be present in the social nucleus [...] The image was not only a means of compensation, but, with the act of supplanting, a “being” was acquired that could present itself on behalf of a body, without it being

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refuted by the appearance of the body that had ceased to be. (Belting, 2007: 181) In this way, the portrait of the deceased had two main functions that depended on two very different moments: the moment in which the photograph was taken during the vigil and the moment in which it is viewed, taking place in a time-place that could be extended to a greater or lesser extent. In the first case, the portrait took on an active role during the funeral rite to actively defy death and restore the natural order within the community, as indicated by Belting. In the second case, however, there was a move from action to non-action, or an act of contemplation, that was decontextualised to a greater or lesser extent from the fact that it was part of a family and community history. If it was viewed by the members of the family who commissioned it, then it served as a means of overcoming the period of mourning and as a way of honouring the memory of the dead. However, if later generations with less of a bond to the deceased, or even strangers, looked at it, then the contemplation of these portraits becomes a reflection on ourselves, on our attitude towards loss and absence and, without a doubt, on death. In spite of everything, Antonio Ansón tells us: We also have portraits of death. We no longer see absence in these images. The absence corresponds to a photograph which, belonging to a time gone by, resides, lives on. The absence continues to be enriched to the extent that it belongs to the lives of the living. It is a latent image, because it does not cease to create a current as it flows from inward reflection. Portraits of loss are there to grow, until they become a photograph, living with which turns into an lacklustre custom, the lessening clarity of the event causing the memory of it to eventually crumble away. (Ansón, 2007: 79) n

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

Ansón, A. (2007). El limpiabotas de Daguerre. Murcia: Centro Municipal Puertas de Castilla. Col. de Ensayo.

Héran, E. (2000). Le dernier portrait. Exhibition catalogue. Paris: Editions de la Réunion des Musées Nationaux.

Ariés, P. (1983). Images de l'homme devant la mort. Paris: Seuil.

Juillerat, V. (2000). Vie et mort dans la photographie post-mortem. Mémoire de licence. Master's thesis. Art History Section under the supervision of professor Michel Thévoz. University of Lausanne.

Belting, H. (2007). Antropología de la imagen. Madrid: Katz. Col. Conocimiento, 3032. El daguerrotipo. Nuevo descubrimiento. Semanario Pintoresco Español, 27 January 1839, 4, 27-29. Di Martino, E. (1975). Morte e pianto rituales (del lamento fúnebre antico al pianto di María). Turin: Boringuieri. (Col. Universale Scientifica Boringuieri, volume doppio, 123-124). Di Nola, A. M. (2007). La muerte derrotada. Antropología de la muerte y el duelo. Barcelona: Belacqva. Dubois, P. (2002). El acto fotográfico. De la representación a la recepción. Barcelona: Paidós Ibérica. (Col. Paidós Comunicación, 20). Frank, R. J. (2000). Love and Loss. American portrait and mourning miniatures. New Haven & London: Yale University Press. Gautrand, J. C. (1986). Hippolite Bayard. Naissance de l’image photographique. Amiens: Tríos Cailloux. Gondar Portasany, M. (1987). A morte. Santiago de Compostela: Museo do Pobo Galego. Gondar Portasany, M. (1982). Velatorio e manipulación de tensions. In I Coloquio de Antropología de Galicia. Santiago de Compostela: Museo do Pobo Galego. Col. Cuadernos do Seminario de Sargadelos, 45. Habenstein, R. W. and Lamers, W. M. (1955). The history of American funeral directing. Milwaukee: National Funeral Directors Association of the United States.

Kephart, W. M. (1950). Status alter death. American Sociological Review, vol. 15, 5 (October), 635-643.

Sagne, J. (1984). L’atelier du photographe. 1840-1940. Paris: Presses de la Renaissance. Van Gennep, A. (1998). Le folklore français. Du berceau à la tombe. Paris: Robert Laffont. Villa Posse, E. (1993). Muerte, cultos y cementerios. Santa Fe de Bogotá: Disloque Editores. Col. Investigación y Desarrollo. Walter, T. (1990). Funerals and how to improve them. London: Hodder & Stoughton.

Lecouteux, C. (1999). Fantasmas y aparecidos en la Edad Media. Majorca: José J. de Olañeta. López Mondéjar, P. (1999). 150 años de fotografía en España. Barcelona: Lunwerg. Lloyd, P. (1981). A young boy in his first and last suit. The Minneapolis Institute of Arts bulletin, vol. LXIV (1978-1980), 105-111. Metcalf, P. and Huntington, R. (2006). Celebrations of Death. The anthropology of mortuary ritual. New York: Cambridge University Press. McCauley, E. A. (1994). Industrial Madness: Commercial Photography in Paris. 1848-1871. Dexter, Michigan: Yale University Press. Col. Yale Publications in the History of Art. Puckle, B. (1926). Funeral customs. Their origin and development. London: T. Werner Laurie. Raether, H. C. (1978). The place of the funeral: the role of the funeral director in contemporary America. In R. Fulton, E. Markusen, G. Owen and J. L. Scheiber (Eds.), Death and Dying. Challenge and Change (p. 289-295). San Francisco: Boyd & Fraser Publishing Company, University of California. Ruby, J. (1995). Secure the shadow. Death and photography in America. London: The MIT Press. Cambridge (Massachusetts).

EXHIBITION CATALOGUES

Identités. De Disderi au photomaton. (1986). Exhibition catalogue in the Centre Nacional de la Photographie (Palais de Tokyo). Paris: Centre Nacional de la Photographie et Sainte Nouvelle des Éditions du Chêne. (Photocopy collection) Imatges de mort. Representacions fotogràfiques de la mort ritualitzada. (2017). Exhibition catalogue. Valencia: Valencian Museum of Ethnology.

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Sol Tarrés UNIVERSITY OF HUELVA

PhD in Social Anthropology and lecturer at the University of Huelva, Ms Tarrés specialises in the field of religious diversity in Spain (Islamic religiosity), and is involved in research on the cultural heritage of religious minorities, as well as the relationship between funerary cultural heritage and tourism.

Funerary cultural heritage: analysis introduction notes Introduction1

eath is an individual event, but it is also a social reality that affects the whole community. As such, death can be said to constitute a total social fact (according to the Marcel Mauss concept developed, among others, by Lévi-Strauss), through which the relevant set of cultural practices and institutions are revealed, since it activates and integrates all aspects of culture, as well as its underlying order. Death has represented a major area of research in the field of sociocultural anthropology almost since its inception. Today, however, there is a relative scarcity in terms of studies and research projects that

Paraules clau: Patrimoni funerari, cementiris, mort, empreses de serveis funeraris, turisme funerari Palabras clave: Patrimonio funerario, cementerios, muerte, empresas de servicios funerarios, turismo funerario Key words: Funerary heritage, cemeteries, death, funeral companies, dark tourism

En aquest text es fa una breu introducció al patrimoni cultural funerari, el seu contingut i les característiques, així com al procés de reconeixement institucional d’aquest, que encara és incomplet. Es presta atenció al paper de les empreses de serveis funeraris com a gestores patrimonials.

analyse the various funerary aspects from a global perspective, linking beliefs and funerary rituals with the representation of death or the transmission methods of the practices related to the life cycle or nature, as well as the significance that spaces associated with death have acquired in the modern day. A whole cultural construction exists for the purpose of explaining death; this is present in all the symbolic and ritual elaborations of the life cycle and represents a point of culmination in ritual symbolism across all cultures worldwide. A significant change in relation to all aspects associated with death has been observed in Spain, particularly since the end of the twentieth century and, despite evidence of a degree of social and symbolic rejection with regard to anything associated with actual death,2 a strong interest in ‘virtual’ death (film, comics, computer games, legends and traditions, etc.) does exist. Contemporary society is expunging everyday death: “death is being hidden or symbolically disguised” (De Miguel, 1995: 109); it is avoided and attempts are made to side step or hide it. The changes with regard to its

En este texto se hace una breve introducción al patrimonio cultural funerario, su contenido y características, así como al proceso de reconocimiento institucional del mismo, que todavía es incompleto. Se presta atención al papel de las empresas de servicios funerarios como gestoras patrimoniales.

This text has been developed as part of the, ‘The Construction of European and foreign identity during the sixteenth century under the Spanish Monarchy: lines of continuity and comparative analysis’ R&D&I project (reference: HAR2014-53024-P), funded by the Spanish Government’s Ministry of Economy and Competitiveness with a PGE grant.

As De Miguel maintains (1995: 11), “Thinking about one's own death is a morbid experience, even representing a symptom of mental illness. Openly talking about death in public is frowned upon. The subject of death is not taught in universities, is not researched and articles published on the subject are rare in Spain. Death is a clandestine subject, even among social researchers”. Biological death is the great medical challenge, sometimes treated as an illness; in recent years there has been a resurgence with regard to the idea of potentially being able to overcome or find a cure for it. Thus, for example, in April 2018, a number of national newspapers reported the following story: ‘Death will by optional by 2045’ (Agencia EFE, ABC, 20 minutos, El Mundo, etc.)

This text offers a brief introduction to the funerary cultural heritage, its content and characteristics, as well as the process of institutional recognition of it, which is still incomplete. It looks at the role of funeral services companies as asset managers.

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perception, the religiousness and traditional practices are closely related to current social changes.3 Not only is the perception of death and the fact of dying, of dying a 'good death', changing, so too are the practices and rituals (e.g. funeral honours, epitaphs, periodic commemorations), funerary spaces (cemeteries, columbaria, nature), social interactions (vigils, introduction of funeral homes), and even the festivities and celebrations (the Feast of All Saints and Halloween, among others). Another phenomenon also being observed is the way in which large funeral companies are becoming the main agents of change in transforming, redefining and desacralising the rites of passage and bereavement being offered and increasingly used as part of their range of services (funeral banquet, civil rituals). Likewise, a growing level of asepsis is apparent in relation to the organisation of funeral services (the deceased body being kept away from the living, funeral homes in which glass panels form a partition separating the deceased and their relatives, embalming and cosmetic restoration practices, etc.). Technological solutions are also assigning new practices and meanings to death, and not only with regard to the perpetuation and reproduction of social differences (sending ashes to space, funeral processions featuring horses and aesthetics of the nineteenth, creation of exclusive jewellery containing ashes, etc.), but also in terms of ideological expressions, such as environmentalism (a rise in cremation, biodegradable urns containing tree seeds, etc.) and remembrance, commemoration and celebration (delivery of flowers via the internet, use of social media to participate in and share funeral rituals, QR (Quick Response) codes on headstones, virtual cemeteries, among others). All this is evidence of the fact that people are now facing death in a ways that differ from the recent and distant past, while reformulating beliefs and practices, adjusting and adapting them to modern society.4 These rapid and profound changes, embedded within contemporary globalisation and which may be forgotten if not documented, create a need for conservation and preservation (through documentation) to learn about the past and the

processes of change being generated, in order to understand and interpret today’s society; in other words, a socio-historical and heritage knowledge base. Recognition of funerary cultural heritage Cultural heritage is a changing and negotiated dynamic sociocultural construction that corresponds to the specific evaluation and selection criteria used at any given time. Its conceptualisation will depend on the meaning attributed to the polysemic concept of culture at each moment in time. As such, where heritage was traditionally constituted by that which was artistic, historic and monumental, characteristics then considered significant; today, by integrating the broad concept of culture provided by anthropology,5 the diverse activities, expressions and manifestations of culture are now seen as important elements. In terms of funerary cultural heritage, which has traditionally almost exclusively been considered from a historical-artistic perspective, initial steps are now being implemented towards viewing it as a total social fact, which would result in the inclusion of funerary spaces and rituals, as well as all cultural expressions associated with death.

Some authors, such as Parga Otero (2015), suggest that the conservation of funerary heritage corresponds to the recognition of funerary spaces as part of cultural heritage that was introduced in the mid twentieth century and was consolidated at the start of the twentyfirst century.6 As such, although cemeteries located on the outskirts of cities and the practice of visiting them was consolidated in the nineteenth century with an associated romantic perspective and the development of a “necrophilic and necrological culture surrounding death and cemeteries characterised by literary movements and art” (Richard et al., 2018: 871), it would not be until the twentieth century that dark tourism would begin to develop within the variant of cultural tourism, with funerary spaces, “beginning to be considered as ‘open-air museums’, as monumental spaces and recipients of works of art, as an example of the historical and artistic heritage that represents a reflection of society

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According to Casquete and Cruz (2009), not all deaths are the same. Thus, for example, while some are buried among the smell of crowds, others are done so quietly, by night, furtively (in common graves, in unmarked tombs, etc.). Moreover, death, in addition to its social and economic significance, is also used politically as a way of representing and portraying political ideals.

The works of Philippe Ariès (1987, 2011).

UNESCO adopts the concept of anthropological culture proposed by the anthropologists that have worked with the organisation almost since the time it was founded. For example, Claude Lévi-Strauss began collaborating with the institution in 1949 and was the director of the International Social Science Council from 1959 to 1960. A number of other anthropologists, such as Georges Balandier and Alfred Métraux, also collaborated on this Council and all contributed their vision and anthropological approach to this institution, to the extent that the promotion of cultural diversity now forms a key part of UNESCO's activities, particularly in the field of intangible heritage.

Tarrés and Gil, 2016 provide insight into the concept of visits and the importance of cemeteries in Europe.

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itself and which illustrates the way in which it is structured, as well as its signs of identity, thus justifying their promotion as sites of interest for visiting and, therefore, being opened up to tourists” (Tarrés and Gil, 2016: 439). The scant interest demonstrated within Spanish anthropology with regard to funerary heritage is significant, in contrast to the studies on death, which remain an indispensable source of reference in this discipline. Moreover, the interest in funerary heritage is also focused on cemeteries and funerary spaces, as, to a large extent, there is a belief that anything related to cultural expressions associated with death has already been considered within other types or categories of heritage, such as that of intangible heritage, and the holistic perspective is therefore blurred. Thus, from the institutional heritage point of view, the Declaration of Newcastle (2005) on natural landscapes represents a significant milestone, which, in Article 8, establishes “that cultural landscapes are not just pleasant and agreeable places, but can also be places of pain, suffering, death, war, therapy, reconciliation and memories”; that is to say, there is an implicit recognition of cemeteries and other sites associated with death not only as cultural landscapes but also as an important part of cultural heritage (both tangible and intangible), as they provide a sense of identity and belonging to the relevant communities. From that point on, the different institutions that sign declarations and charters on funerary heritage would take into account, and abide by, the different conventions established by UNESCO, such as UNESCO's 1989 Recommendation on the Safeguarding of Traditional Culture and Folklore, UNESCO’s 2001 Universal Declaration on Cultural Diversity, the 2002 Istanbul Declaration and, above all, the 2003 Convention for the Safeguarding of Intangible Heritage.7 That same year, in 2005, the Morelia Charter on cemeterial heritage and funerary art was published, which set out a series of guidelines for “all those interested in knowledge, promotion, evaluation, preservation and social appropriation related to tangible and intan-

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gible cultural heritage, particularly in relation to funerary sites, monuments, ensembles and elements and the cultural uses, customs and manifestations associated with them” (Morelia Charter). When being drawn up, the Charter “took into account the Charter of Venice (ICOMOS, 1964)8 and the Nairobi Charter (UNESCO, 1978), concerning the safeguarding and contemporary role of historic areas, as well as the Recommendation on the Protection of Movable Cultural Property (UNESCO, 1978) and the Florence Charter on Historic Gardens (ICOMOS, 1980)” (Richard et al., 2018: 872). The Morelia Charter offers an initial definition of funerary cultural heritage, including the intangible elements that form part of it, which, as a first point states: The funerary sites, monuments, ensembles and elements constitute a unique, little valued and in the most part overlooked case of tangible cultural heritage, accompanied in turn by uses, customs, rites, behaviours and manifestations relevant to each specific culture with regard to the inevitability of death and the disposition of human remains, which constitutes any equally important asset of intangible cultural heritage and one of the manifestations of cultural diversity that have formed part of the human condition from the earliest of times and will continue to do so until its extinction. In this context, this Charter refers not only to the existing heritage constituted by funerary architecture, artefacts and customs, but to the whole range of this type of expression observed throughout the ages and across different cultures, which aims to reaffirm the cultural status of these funerary spaces and the advantages of combining the preservation of authenticity with their management in both the present and the future. This proposal formulates a number of principles and criteria to be applied to their promotion, appreciation and protection in the international arena (Morelia Charter, 2015). The Charter makes another significant contribution by addressing the types of herit-

All UNESCO’s recommendations on heritage are available at http:// portal.unesco.org/es/ev.php-URL_ ID=13649&URL_DO=DO_TOPIC&URL_SECTION=-471.html

ICOMOS, the International Council on Monuments and Sites, was founded in 1965 as a result of the 1964 Venice Charter and is the body responsible for proposing the assets to be certified as World Heritage Sites. It is an international non-governmental organisation whose mission is to promote the application of theory, methodology and technology to the conservation, protection, enhancement and appreciation of the designated monuments, complexes and sites. The official website for the ICOMOS Spanish Committee can be found at: http://www.esicomos. org/Nueva_carpeta/info_ICOMOS.htm

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age with the establishment of three major categories: sites; monuments, architectural ensembles and elements (including vegetation and cultural and artistic elements); and funerary uses and customs. Likewise, it includes problems associated with their conservation and preservation. In 2001, the Association of Significant Cemeteries of Europe (ASCE) was formed,9 representing a European network that integrates public and private organisations involved in the management of those cemeteries considered to be of historical or artistic importance. The main objective is the promotion of cemeteries as a fundamental part of the heritage of humanity. This association develops numerous activities to preserve and promote the cultural heritage of cemeteries, including, by way of example, its participation in the European Year of Cultural Heritage (2018) and the various initiatives it has implemented to raise awareness with regard to the cultural heritage to be found at funerary sites. In addition to promoting the European Cemeteries Route, it has also developed the ASCE Week for Discovering European Cemeteries and launched an e-platform providing information on the significance and stories behind cemetery symbolism. The organisation’s greatest achievement, however, has been the role it has played in achieving recognition for and promoting the European Cemeteries Route, designated as a European Cultural Route by the Council of Europe in 2010 (and as a Great Cultural Route in 2012), thereby putting it on par with other major routes, such as the Camino de Santiago de Compostela (the Way of St James, the first to obtain this certification in 1987) and emphasising the heritage value of European cemeteries10, as well as their value as a resource for cultural tourism: “The principal aim of the European Cemeteries Route is to raise public awareness in relation to Europe’s funerary heritage, presenting a changing polyphonic picture of the representative funerary customs, traditions and art of the European continent from the last two centuries, as well as providing insight into recent history. It also seeks to promote quality cultural tourism

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through the provision of new spaces, while establishing transnational cooperation relationships” (Tarrés and Gil, 2016: 443).

Also in 2010, the Ibero-American Network for the Assessment and Management of Cemeteries signed the Declaration of Paysandú, Uruguay, which emphasised the educational dimension of funerary cultural heritage. The main contribution of this declaration, in addition to ratifying the Morelia Charter, is precisely its reflection on the teaching value of cemeteries, the potential “these spaces have with regard to the development of comprehensive pedagogical projects that promote educational value, thereby fostering the appreciation and activation of their heritage (Prats, 1997, 2005; Lladó, 2014). The idea is, therefore, to view them as open classrooms for the general public” (Richard et al., 2018: 872); as well as the need for their recognition as part of cultural heritage among young people, and of the importance of the community as a repository of the cultural values conveyed by the expressions of funerary culture.

The Operational Guidelines for the Implementation of the World Heritage Convention (2005) include cultural routes as a specific new heritage category.

Large funeral companies also form an active part of this movement to promote the recognition, appreciation and management of funerary heritage. Thus, the FIAT-IFTA (World Organization of Funeral Operatives)11 has included among its objectives “the safeguarding of global funeral heritage in a joint effort with other organisations and the generation of awareness among governments and international bodies”.12 The Organization also adopted the Global Funeral Heritage Charter,13 as an operational guide in Barcelona in 2008. In the Charter, funerary cultural heritage is defined as “the expressions, customs, rituals, sites, buildings, constructions and instruments associated with death, loss and grief”, and relevant activities include “collaborating with the UNESCO World Heritage Centre in order to establish and increase the presence of funeral heritage sites in the World Heritage List and to provide expert knowledge”. In 2011, this Organization founded the Funeral Heritage Advisory Committee to advise, inform, document and identify special funerary heritage projects, as well as the International Association of Funeral Muse-

http://www.significantcemeteries. org/

Fédération Internationale des Associations de Thanatologues (FIAT) – International Federation of Thanatologists Associations (IFTA). This federation was founded in Monaco in 1970 with the aim of promoting “ preservation care through thanatological/embalming practices”. The organisation’s growth and recognition led to FIAT-IFTA becoming the World Organization of Funeral Operatives in 1988, which includes members and representatives from 80 countries. The FIAT-IFTA has been acting as the voice of the international funeral sector for the United Nations Economic and Social Council since 2016. Their website can be accessed via the following link: http://www.thanos.org/en/ page/fiat-ifta

http://www.thanos.org/en/page/ fiat-ifta/objectives Consulted on 1 October 2018

http://www.thanos.org/en/page/ funeral-heritage/xàrter Consulted on 1 October 2018

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Bosque de las Almas (Forest of the Souls). Municipal cemetery in León (2011). SOL TARRÉS

ums (IAFM), which works to raise awareness of intangible funerary heritage through its publications. As such, in 2012 the FIAT-IFTA was accredited as an international NGO to act in an advisory capacity to UNESCO's Intangible Cultural Heritage Commission. All the initiatives and discourses observed in relation to funerary cultural heritage follow a set of guidelines and a thematic approach common to all heritage discourses in relation to its conservation, preservation and promotion. However, and despite the importance attached to the intangible aspects of funerary cultures, most of these initiatives relate to tangible heritage and to funerary spaces and cemeteries in particular. These initiatives,

especially those implemented by funeral companies, are based on the idea of cemeteries being ‘living museums’, spaces that are presented not as places of death, but of life, as cemeteries represent a record of our most recent history where many of our prominent figures can be found; and are promoted and highlighted, essentially, through tourism, so that they become part of the range of cultural and tourism options provided by cities. It is the funeral companies that are, to a large extent, responsible for establishing the guidelines pertaining to funerary cultural heritage for those institutions that have traditionally been responsible for the management of this heritage. This can, for example, be observed

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in Spain, where the major associations and funeral companies represent the principal asset managers in relation to cemeteries. Thus, for instance, Cementiris de Barcelona manages the collection of hearses located at the Montjuïc Cemetery. Grupo Mémora (a conglomerate formed by a number of Spanish and overseas funeral companies), as part of its corporate social responsibility commitment, organises a touring exhibition entitled ‘The Other Side of Life’, which puts its collection of funerary art and culture, composed of different archaeological pieces, on public display. Grupo Funespaña (a conglomerate of Spanish funeral services and businesses founded in 1990), through its magazine, Adiós Cultural, works extensively to raise public awareness of funerary heritage, also promoting the Spanish Cemetery Competition, in which people vote to select the best cemeteries within various categories (cemetery, architectural monument, sculpture, environmental initiative, etc.). The Spanish Association of Municipal Funeral Services and Cemeteries (AFCM) is promoting funeral heritage and its protection, as well as cemetery tourism, for which it has created a web page, available in Spanish, (http://cementeriosvivos.es), in order to generate awareness and publicise the artistic, historical, cultural and scenic heritage contained at the funerary sites associated with the AFCM. This partnership between heritage and tourism in cemeteries is demonstrated by the recent creation, in March 2018, of the Association for the Promotion of Tourism and Cultural Heritage of the Andalusian Public Cemeteries, which brings together the municipal public companies (members of the AFCM) that manage the cemeteries of Cádiz, Granada, Córdoba, Monturque (Córdoba) and Málaga. As such, cemeteries, rather than funerary cultural heritage, have become the focus of research (archaeology, architecture, history of art, urban planning, tourism, etc.), which has paved the way for entities and network associations, such as the aforementioned ASCE or the Latin American Network of Heritage Cemeteries, which work to analyse, protect, conserve and safeguard this cemetery-related heritage.

What is funerary cultural heritage and what does it consist of? Based on the premise that death is a total social fact, the definition of funerary cultural heritage must necessarily include the entire spectrum of cultural expressions related to death and not just the sites, rituals and customs associated with death, loss and grief. Therefore, this heritage needs to be considered from a holistic perspective (which also implies a multidisciplinary approach in order to capture the overall, interconnected picture), which is integrated, transcultural and contextual to death (Tarrés and Moreres, 2012: 268), and needs to be prioritised as a major area of study and analysis within the heritage field.

Given the apparent predisposition for prioritising the legal aspect of heritage, according to which only that which has been declared and recorded as part of a catalogue or inventory specified for that purpose by the competent institutions can be considered as heritage, funerary heritage does not constitute a significant body of analysis in terms of heritage. And although heritage legislation is a necessity with regard to all that relates to its management and protection, the elements that make up and integrate this body of funerary heritage are divided across the various legally established categories of heritage. Thus, for example, cemeteries would be considered monuments (immovable heritage assets), the historical-artistic elements would constitute movable heritage assets, and rituals and other forms of cultural expression would be classified as ethnological or anthropological heritage. Thus, the commodification imposed by the current system of heritage legislation when it comes to classifying and cataloguing cultural assets excludes the cohesive and coherent story that provides meaning to funerary heritage, and the holistic, integrated, comparative and contextual perspective is lost. In an attempt to combine the broad consideration of funerary cultural heritage with heritage legislation, and following the definition of heritage assets established by Law 10/2015, of 26 May, for the safeguarding

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Latest national level Spanish legislation that establishes the adaptation of all national heritage laws to this one.

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of intangible cultural heritage,14 funerary cultural heritage can be defined as that made up of cultural expressions, manifestations and activities (practices, representations, expressions, beliefs, knowledge and techniques) that communities, groups and, in some cases, individuals recognise as an integral part of their cultural legacy and are directly or indirectly associated with death.

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From this point of view, without losing the holistic perspective and considering the different legally established heritage categories,15 funerary cultural heritage includes all the following heritage categories and types listed in the table below: It should be noted that the examples provided in each category represent an orienta-

As such, the following national Spanish legislation applies: Law 16/1985, of 25 June, on Spanish Historical Heritage; and Law 10/2015, of 26 May, on the safeguarding of intangible assets. The different autonomous communities apply heritage legislation in accordance with national legislation, although specific categories or typologies are extended or iden-

FUNERARY CULTURAL HERITAGE TANGIBLE HERITAGE Immovable property

–– Monuments • Cemeteries • Wayside shrines • Catacombs • Ossuary architecture –– Historic ensemble, site • Dolmens of Antequera –– Historic garden • English cemetery –– Cultural landscape –– Area of archaeological interest • Necropolis without current funerary use

INTANGIBLE HERITAGE( ) Social uses, rituals and festive events

–– Funeral rituals • Preparation and shroud • Vigil • Burial/cremation • Mourning • Remembrance –– Celebrations honouring the dead –– Traditional celebrations • Funeral processions • Holy Week in Corella –– Social, religious, ethnic diversity

Knowledge and –– Conceptualisation of death ying a 'good death' practices concerning ––D –– The representation of death nature and the • Holy Week universe

Movable property

–– Sculpture, reliefs, plaques –– Headstones, funerary steles –– Ritual objects –– Work objects –– Coffins, urns, etc. –– Grave goods –– Hearses –– Ornaments (floral art, ceramics, wrought iron, etc.) –– Funerary clothing and apparel –– Relics and incorrupt bodies

Traditional handicraft –– Death-related professions • Headstone maker techniques • Gravedigger • Undertaker • Florists • Embalming • Cosmetic restoration practices

Documentary heritage

–– Wills and funeral dispositions –– Obituaries and funeral notices –– Epitaph –– Letters of condolence and funeral missives –– Memorials –– Post-mortem

Forms of collective socialisation and organisations

–– Corporations, brotherhoods and associations –– Those involved with taking care of the dead –– Those involved with caring for souls –– Those involved with keeping records

Natural heritage

–– Botany and gardens –– Water

Oral tradition and expression

–– Beliefs and legends –– Traditions surrounding tombs –– Sayings and humour –– Toponymy

Expression related to sound, traditional music and dance

–– Choral societies, song and dance troupes, etc. –– Flamenco: seguidillas planyívoles –– Traditional songs

Performing arts

–– Dances of death –– Theatre and film

Gastronomy, culinary –– Funeral banquet ––F uneral cuisine creations and food Specific use of natural landscapes Source: Author

–– Cemetery park

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tive rather than exhaustive list. This proposal for the systematisation of funerary cultural heritage aims to provide basic guidelines when it comes to developing an integrated and contextualised story, as well as evaluating the importance of a shared heritage, in which diversity forms part of the unit. The tangible/intangible comparison is formulated solely for the purposes of analysis and although each of the elements included is significant in itself, it is when they are related to each other that they acquire a comprehensive meaning; for example, the funeral banquet, which relates to the other established intangible heritage categories, and even to

the movable heritage assets. On the other hand, it may be the case that elements that have no heritage value from an institutional point of view acquire it in the context of and connection to others, such as, for example, coffins, the value of which corresponds to the object itself, as well as to funeral rituals, expressions of status, social class, gender, etc. Similarly, although each proposal may appear within a specific category, that does not necessarily exclude it from sharing and featuring characteristics that may form part of another category and both the ‘objects’ (tangible elements) and the ‘subjects’ (repositories and social stakeholders) need to be considered. Finally, it is worth stressing that funerary

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tified in each case. In that event, Law 14/2007, of 26 November, on the historical heritage of Andalusia would apply.

The systematisation of intangible funerary heritage has been produced with reference to Title 1, Article 2 of Law 10/2015, 26 May, on the safeguarding of intangible assets, which in relation to the concept of intangible heritage states: “The uses, representations, expressions, knowledge and techniques that the communities, groups and, in some cases, individuals recognise as an integral part of their cultural heritage, are considered assets of intangible cultural heritage and, specifically: (a) oral traditions and expressions, including forms and particularities of language as vehicles of intangible cultural heritage, as well as traditional toponymy as an instrument for specifying the geographic designation of territories; (b) performing arts; (c) social uses, rituals and festive events; (d) knowledge and practices concerning nature and the universe; (e) traditional craftsmanship; (f) gastronomy, culinary dishes and food; (g) specific exploitation of natural landscapes; (h) forms of collective socialisation and organisations; and (i) expressions related to sound, traditional music and dance”.

Advert showing an example of a headstone featuring a QR code. Huelva (2014). SOL TARRÉS

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Recommendations and curses regarding the deceased. SOL TARRĂ&#x2030;S

heritage, like any other type of heritage, is constituted by expressions and manifestations of a shared culture, in which identity, sense of belonging and diversity all form a part; and, as such, it is about living, dynamic cultural expressions subject to a process of constant transformation, which reflect social and cultural exchanges.

It is precisely this dynamism, the rapidly changing processes to which cultural expressions are subject in relation to death, which requires them to be recognised as part of cultural heritage (creating a public and institutional appreciation of the value of these cultural expressions and activities) and asserting their worth. Their importance is dependent

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on research and extensive documentation as fundamental elements for the preservation, protection, safeguarding, promotion and dissemination of funerary heritage. Funerary cultural heritage as a tourism resource Funerary cultural heritage, and more specifically cemeteries, are presented as open, outdoor museums, the importance and activation of which is in the process of being included as part of the range of cultural tourism options available in Spainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cities and represents a significant boost for the traditional range of tourism options, becoming increasingly pop-

ular among tourists. Given that, according to data published in a 2018 Eurobarometer on Cultural Heritage commissioned by the European Commission, 68% of European tourists select their holiday destination based on the cultural heritage it contains and that for each direct job, the heritage sector generates 26.7 indirect jobs in tourism, cultural heritage and its preservation, conservation and promotion, represent an efficient and sustainable resource for tourism.17 Tourism (leisure trips, travel and visits) associated with death in any of its forms has several names, such as necro-tourism, dark tourism,

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https://europa.eu/cultural-heritage/ toolkits/special-eurobarometer-europeans-and-culturalheritage Consulted on 1 October 2018

Funerary areas as an extension of the family home. Municipal cemetery in LeĂłn (2011). SOL TARRĂ&#x2030;S

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grief tourism and thanatotourism,18 and is habitually defined as tourism involving travel to places associated with death or tragedy. At present, seven types of necro-tourism have been identified relating to visits to: (1) disasters areas, both natural and those caused by human actions; (2) sites of human atrocities and genocide, such as concentration camps; (3) battlefields; (4) prisons open to the public; (5) tombs, catacombs and cemeteries; (6) execution sites; and (7) places where someone famous died. Bearing in mind that many of the spaces mentioned may be or form part of a heritage site, (e.g. cemeteries that are listed as Assets of Cultural Interest, BIC, in Spain), funerary heritage could be considered a form of cultural tourism. The latter includes visiting, travelling to or touring destinations that have a historical, artistic or social interest in order to learn about history, culture and enjoy the relevant heritage and landscape. As such, cultural tourism becomes the main vehicle of heritage appreciation, transmission and acquisition of knowledge, safeguarding and interiorisation. Cemetery tourism is currently the most widely promoted form of necro-tourism. This consists of visiting unique or significant cemeteries for the historical and artistic attributes found there, for the prominent figures that are buried there, for the funerary works they contain, because they are the sites of unique events or because they form part of popular devotional practices, among other reasons. This type of tourism allows visitors to discover places and sites associated with death, but also with life over the passage of time and history of cities (Tarrés and Gil, 2016: 438). The aforementioned Great European Cultural Route of Historic Cemeteries provides a notable example of this type of tourism. This route is based on the idea of the cemetery as an “open-air city/museum”, a space of remembrance, and aims to present these areas not as places of death, but of life, to describe communication routes between the different European countries on the route from a transnational, comparative and holistic per-

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spective, thereby strengthening the bonds of identity among European citizens based on common cultural heritage and an interconnected history. For its part, funerary heritage becomes a resource for tourism, promoting quality cultural tourism through the provision of new trails and spaces, while tourism promotes the protection, conservation and appreciation of both the cultural trails and accompanying landscapes, as well as the relevant heritage experience itself. In the context of an increasingly demanding cultural tourism market (domestic and international), and with the ever growing homogenisation of cultural destinations, funerary tourism and the Significant Cemeteries Route represents an alternative or addition to the range of cultural and tourism options available, which is why more and more cities are highlighting, including and promoting this type of heritage. Final reflections Contemporary societies are becoming increasingly heterogeneous at the same time as being subject to rapid processes of change that affect different cultural aspects, given that culture is structured as an integrated and interrelated system. This phenomenon can also be observed in relation to the way in which societies and citizens face death.

In this context, funerary cultural heritage represents a record and aspect of history, as well as of the change processes that correspond to the cultural expressions, manifestations and activities associated with death. It becomes highly significant that the major funeral groups and companies represent one of the main agents of change with regard to cultural expressions and activities associated with death, and are the principal agents and managers of funerary cultural heritage. Thus, as a result of the FIAT-IFTA’s activities, guidelines have been established regarding the content of funerary heritage based on the three classifications established by the Morelia Charter (sites; monuments, architectural ensembles and elements; funerary uses and customs), which limit tangible and intangible

John Lennon and Malcolm Foley, from the University of Glasgow in Scotland, were the first to use the term 'thanatourism' in 1996. The subject of terms and concepts has also been studied by the following: P. Stone, 2006; R. S. Sharpley, 2009; and R. Stone, 2012.

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funerary heritage to anything associated with cemetery heritage. They also, however, establish the guidelines for heritage activities, such as the preservation, restoration, conservation, promotion and dissemination of information in the field, since, as managers and administrators of the cemeteries, they identify which cultural expressions and activities need to be safeguarded and transformed into heritage. They establish the social uses that are considered appropriate for the assets they have chosen to preserve, as well as the socioeconomic benefits sought, which are generally linked to cultural tourism. Finally, they outline the forms of heritage promotion they wish to implement, both through the routes and guided tours of the cemeteries themselves, and the funerary museums, exhibitions and publications they organise to promote the history and historical and artistic heritage of the cemeteries they manage.

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larly in terms of its intangible content, is that it represents a living, dynamic, constantly changing heritage asset, the preservation of which lies precisely in the documentation of the process. As such, heritage management needs to go beyond the mere restoration of its historical-artistic assets. On a final note, management of this type of heritage also runs the risk of proportioning folklorish characteristics to its associated intangible cultural expressions, stereotyping them or highlighting the more ‘exotic’ traditions as anecdotes or ‘oddities’. In short, the substantial influence wielded by funeral companies in the field of heritage also illustrates the cultural processes and dynamics within which we operate and that cause us to contemplate whether we need to reassess current heritage-related concepts and models. n

Generally speaking, the major issue with this type of management, however, is that it fails to recognise the fact that one of the main characteristics of funerary heritage, particu-

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Ariès, P. (1987). El hombre ante la muerte. Madrid: Taurus. Ariès, P. (2011). Historia de la muerte en Occidente. Desde la Edad Media hasta nuestros días. Barcelona: Acantilado. Casquete, J. and Cruz, R. (Eds.). (2009). Políticas de la muerte. Usos y abusos del ritual fúnebre en la Europa del siglo xx. Madrid: Cascada. De Miguel, J. M. (1995). “El último deseo”: para una sociología de la muerte en España. Revista Española de Investigaciones Sociológicas, 71-72, 109-156. Declaration of Newcastle. Retrieved on 1 October 2018 from http://www.forumunescochair. upv.es/esp/catedra_unesco_upv/ resoluciones/doc/2005Newcas tle_esp.pdf

Declaration of Payasandú. Ibero-American Network for the Assessment and Management of Cemeteries (2010). Retrieved on 1 October 2018 from www.unesco. org.uy/ci/fileadmin/cultura/2011/ Declaracion_de_Paysandu.pdf Lladó, J. M. (2014). Los paisajes culturales patrimonio mundial como herramientas de gestión territorial. El caso de la Serra de Tramuntana de Mallorca. Boletín de la Asociación de Geógrafos Españoles, 66, 253-270. Morelia Charter. (2005). International Morelia Charter. On cemeterial heritage and funerary art. Revista Apuntes, 18(1-2), 154-157. Parga Otero, M. (2015). Patrimonio Cultural: nuestro, vuestro, de todos. Mito. Revista Cultural, 22. Prats, Ll. (1997). Antropología y patrimonio. Barcelona: Ariel.

Prats, Ll. (2005). Concepto y gestión del patrimonio local. Cuadernos de antropología social, (21), 17-35. Richard, E. and Contreras, D. I., et al. (2018). Cementerios: expresión de identidad y pertenencia social, recuso patrimonial del paisaje cultural y turismo especializado necrológico. Tres estudios de caso en Latinoamérica. Actas del V Congreso Internacional de la ciencia, tecnología, emprendimiento e innovación. Ecuador: Dirección de Publicaciones de la Escuela Superior Politécnica de Chimborazo, 870-885. Sharpley R. S. (2009). The Darker Side of Travel: The Theory and Practice of Dark Tourism. Clevedon: Channel View Publications. Stone, P. (2006). A Dark Tourism Spectrum: towards a typology of death and macabre related tourist

sites, attractions and exhibitions. Selected Works, 145-160. Stone, R. (2012). Dark Tourism and Significant Other Death: Towards a Model of Mortality Meditation. Annals of Tourism Research, 39(3), 1565-1587. Tarrés, S. and Gil, P. (2016). Turismo funerario, turismo en cementerios. Andalucía y la ruta europea de cementerios. In J. L. Jiménez Caballero, El turismo y la experiencia del cliente: IX jornadas de investigación en turismo. Sevilla: Facultad de Turismo y Finanzas, 435-462. Tarrés, S. and Moreras, J. (2012). Patrimonio cultural funerario. Los cementerios de las minorías religiosas en España. In B. Santamaría (Coord.), Geopolíticas patrimoniales. Valencia: Germania, 267-283.

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Maria Getino Canseco UNIVERSITY OF BARCELONA

Emeritus professor at the School of Nursing at the University of Barcelona’s Faculty of Medicine and Health Sciences, she holds a PhD in Social Anthropology from Rovira i Virgili University in Tarragona. She has lectured on the anthropology of health and on issues related to death and interculturalism at universities in Cuba (Havana and Santa Clara), Brazil (Belo Horizonte and Florianópolis) Bolivia (La Paz), as well as other faculties of medicine and nursing.

(In)visible death. The diseased body

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his article is based on an ethnographic study on death carried out at a palliative care unit (PCU) in a hospital in Barcelona.1 Death forms part of an individual’s life and is a fact that defines every moment of their life process. Death goes beyond the individual experience (Barley, 2000: 15); it also has a cultural and social dimension that configures the specificity of its management. Anthropology observes death as a process in which each society establishes its own specific cultural patterns. It studies the way in which an individual’s various life phases or stages, such La mort és un fet reconegut universalment en totes les èpoques. El que canvia és la manera com l’afronten les diferents societats, com enterren els difunts i instauren el dol. A través del cos es tracen unes línies visibles del patiment i deteriorament per la malaltia. Quan el tractament curatiu no és eficaç, la persona és derivada al Servei de Cures Pal·liatives, on és atesa pels professionals i pels familiars fins al final de la vida. En situacions irreversibles i de gran patiment, hi ha persones que volen finalitzar la seva vida amb l’eutanàsia, però actualment a l’Estat espanyol aquesta pràctica no està legalitzada.

as birth, puberty, pregnancy and death, occur and verifies the way in which these changes are ritualised in most societies, from unborn child to infant, from pre-pubescent to adolescent, and from life to death. As such, the groups are underpinned by a complex system of beliefs, regardless of the type of religion or value system acquired. In all societies, they manage the removal of the dead, express grief, bury or cremate loved ones, all of which is evidenced by the collection of ethnographic and historical information.

Research carried out to defend my doctoral thesis and later published as a book, entitled: La espera. Construcción social de la muerte en el mundo de cuidados paliativos (Waiting. Social construction of death in the world of palliative care, Getino, 2012).

The stages leading up to death are accompanied by situations of health, illness or care. The type of suffering is the factor that determines the degree of severity of an illness, which ranges from mild to life-threatening, as well as the

La muerte es un hecho reconocido universalmente en todas las épocas. Lo que cambia es el modo en que la afrontan las diferentes sociedades, entierran a sus difuntos e instauran el duelo. A través del cuerpo se trazan unas líneas visibles del padecimiento y deterioro por la enfermedad. Cuando el tratamiento curativo no es eficaz, la persona es derivada al Servicio de Cuidados Paliativos, donde es atendida por los profesionales y familiares hasta el final de su vida. En situaciones irreversibles y de gran sufrimiento, hay personas que desean finalizar su vida con la eutanasia, aunque esta en la actualidad en el Estado español no está legalizada.

Death is a fact universally recognized throughout history. What changes is the way in which different societies face it, the way they bury their dead and experience mourning. Throughout the body, the visible lines of the suffering and deterioration produced by disease can be seen. When a curative treatment is no longer effective, the patient is referred to the Palliative Care Service where they are cared for by professionals and their family until the end of life. In situations of immense irreversible suffering, there are some people who would like to end their life by means of euthanasia. Currently, in Spain this is not legalized.

Fading away. Reflections on death

intensity of care and treatment, both on the part of family members and medical professionals. In cases of serious illness, affected individuals will begin a journey through the healthcare institution in pursuit of regaining health and will receive the corresponding treatment for their illness. When an illness progresses, the process of pathological malignancy begins, which leads to a path of deterioration and suffering caused by ongoing long-term treatment. It is the body which suffers the effects of the disease, in this case, cancer, which is progressively transformed and altered. It may remain hidden to begin with, but subsequently becomes visible, as it takes root and produces changes to the body. These changes may be the signal that alerts the person that something is wrong and that their life is in danger. Despite developments making pain relief increasingly precise, in some cases those suffering go through critical moments of pain which leads to loss of control and despair. When curative treatment proves ineffective, patients are referred to a palliative care service (PCS), where they are looked after as their condition progressively worsens. Anyone admitted to the service is arriving with an experience of their illness and a suspicion or a conviction that it will follow its course and not be cured. This is the stage at which they enter the process of terminal illness, during which the individuals experience periods when their illness becomes increasingly acute, with uncontrolled symptoms, periods of regularisation, in which the person remains relatively stable, until the symptoms once again intensify, and so on, until they reach the end (Getino, 2012: 15). The transition from life to death involves a series of rituals that mark the specificity within different societies. A ritual or rite is understood to be any standardised cultural act of a sacred or profane nature, performed repetitively and predictably, and in which the relationship between the action and intended end is not intrinsic and cannot be rationally explained (Rodríguez, 2015: 193). From the point terminal illness is diagnosed, a care pathway is created moving towards the final process that occurs on both an individual and social level.

The fact that we will all die is a given, although that does not mean that we accept death socially, since the tendency exists to reject and treat it as something that concerns others. Similarly, when death is personalised, it increasingly forms part of the sphere of that which is private and difficult to deal with. Social participation, particularly within an urban context, is relegated to personal decisions associated with each family group, and the role of accompaniment and mourning, which were decisive until the end of the twelfth century, have been progressively modified since. Today, it is no longer a ceremony involving and organised by an associated social group (Ariès, 1977). It is now organised by funeral institutions, which are responsible for modifying the times and spaces, as well as the way we bid farewell to our loved ones. As a result of medical advances, we are now living longer but as yet no option exists with regard to making the decision to die with dignity. The relevant elements that need to be addressed relate to advance healthcare directives, which provide the opportunity to prevent prolonged suffering either by withholding medical intervention or administering euthanasia, which is still not accepted in Spain, despite being advocated by a growing number of people. The socio-cultural construction of death All societies construct death based on their beliefs, associations and values; in other words, they make a social and cultural interpretation of death. We learn about death from childhood and this learning is conveyed by the group to which we belong and our social environment, as well as being influenced by the relevant historical context.

Death in our society is considered a taboo, rejected, perceived in the long term and not accepted. There is a tendency neither to think or talk about it, even though it is a universal fact. According to Fernández, death is a universal and inevitable event, even if we attribute it to a sort of culmination or consummation (Fernandez, 2007: 41). Neither is death interpreted, manifested and experienced in the

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Paraules clau: mort, cos, patiment, cures pal·liatives, eutanàsia. Palabras clave: muerte, cuerpo, padecimiento, cuidados paliativos, eutanasia. Keywords: death, body, suffering, palliative care, euthanasia.

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same way in different cultures. This way of conceptualising death does not mean that an individual is unaware of their mortality and the fact that they will die, rather that they do not think about it on a regular basis at that specific time. In general, it is often considered to be something that happens to others. Anthropologists conceptualise death as a biological and social process. Biological death implies the failure of cellular activity recognised by the evaluation of certain clinical indications that are determinants in the cessation of biological functions. Social death, in a hospital setting, occurs when the patient is treated like a corpse, although clinically and biologically, they remain alive. It is defined as “the moment at which the most important social attributes of the patient begin to cease to be operational conditions for those treating them, and when the patient is essentially considered dead” (Sudnow, 1971: 93). The corresponding question is: How is it possible to die socially before dying clinically? All societies base their cultural interpretation of dying on their beliefs, associations and values. Thus, dying represents a transition that affects the main individual and the group from which they are lost; a transition that is facilitated by the ritual acts that serve to symbolically restore the disturbed social order (Barley, 2000). In short, the individual ceases to belong to their social group and their memory disappears (Thomas, 1993). History provides evidence of the fact that human beings accompany our loved ones, bury them and maintain a period of mourning. This practice differentiates us as a species and assigns specific traits to each act within the dying process. Death is a determinant factor for individuals that should be considered as part of the life process. Therefore, each human being, by the fact of being born, is aware that they are going through an event that triggers a physical death to bring about an end to life. The factor that differentiates individuals in death is the way in which their social group recognises and accompanies and says goodbye to them, as well as the way in which mourning is organised on an individual and social level.

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Death and dying in different societies Death is considered a cessation of the person's biological faculties and dying is a transitionary event within life. For Vovelle, death is neither achronical nor static, but is a fact that must be studied over the longue durée (Mateo, 1999: 324).

Across Africa, the body’s association with death is seen as a passive element, suffering death as a result of the disappearance of the element that kept it alive, or the spirit that sustained it, as well as all that constituted it (name, representation, etc.), which disappears. It is the soul that leaves the body by all organic orifices, the buzima as it is called in Bantú, retreats from the cultural world to return to the natural universe. This is not perceived as a sudden disassociation and, as such, the body is believed to be able to preside over their own funerals. It is the object of vigilant care for a period of time. Later, some key parts, such as the shin bones or skull are eventually turned into objects of worship. The body of the person is also assured partial survival through inheritance. The Ashanti people consider that every man possesses the blood of his mother and the bones of his father (Thomas, 1993: 254-255). For Africans death does not indicate a disappearance or denial of life, but a change of state, a restructuring of the previous person. This change implies a temporal extension of the ontological order, or at least its symbolic likeness, which is transferred from the previous state to the new one, often giving rise to a symbolic repetition. The newborn reflects the characteristics of the reincarnated ancestor. The nit-ku-bon child of Senegal’s Wolof people evokes memories of the spirit and body of the deceased. Socially, this is reflected in a child being given the same name in the case of a recognised reincarnation (Thomas, 1993: 255-256). In a way, the person who dies is someone who returns, who is present in the associated group since it is that person that assigns characteristics to the new being. In Sub-Saharan Africa death is perceived as part of the participatory category, everything works collectively so that death can be accepted and transcended, and thus the rejection and horror

Fading away. Reflections on death

associated with death are dissipated (Thomas, 1993: 259).

right from school, based on a consumer and benefit society (Thomas, 1993: 259).

In Melanesia, the Baruya people conceptualised the idea that death was not a natural event but rather the inevitable and definitive departure of the spirit that inhabits the body of a person (Godelier, 2018: 357). Before the arrival of the Europeans, they believed that a young person dying was the most common act associated with an invisible attack by the evil spirits that lived in the surrounding mountains, or of the shamans of the neighbouring tribes that captured their spirits when they slept (Ibid.: 362). The Baruya are now Lutheran Christians.

A bibliographical study2 conducted in Andalusia emphasises that at the start of the twentieth century it was common for death to occur at home, with the death throes being expected, accepted and feared by the family. When the time came, the individual would be surrounded by their family and, sometimes, a priest would be present in order to help them die well. Absence had to be justified. Relatives and friends spent all or much of the night at the funeral home keeping vigil over the corpse; it was a way of fulfilling their obligations within the community (Rodríguez, 2015: 196-197).

In Western societies, death was framed in a context of ecclesiastical power. The culture and organisation of death went, from the Late Middle Ages, from being a function controlled by the dioceses and parishes, with burials within the churches themselves, to being an activity that came under the exclusive competence of civil society in the nineteenth century and is currently in Spain the premise of the autonomous communities and city councils. The process of abandoning the use of churches as a place of burial went on for more than a century. It was opposed by the clergy, as the practice represented a source of income, as well as the nobility, who occupied privileged places within the chapels. It was the bourgeoisie and the commoners that benefited the most; firstly, due to the construction of mausoleums, and secondly, as their dead were protected to a greater degree in the cemetery than in unenclosed areas. The creation of cemeteries outside the urban centres did not become general practice until the second half of the nineteenth (Rodríguez, 2015).

The attendance and knowledge of someone’s death was known to all and corresponded to a duty within the community. The community was informed as were, more tactfully, any relatives living elsewhere. Even up until recently, the unjustified absence of close family members from funerals was still considered inexcusable. These bonds of compliance demonstrate a strong sense of reciprocity among the members of the social group. In the event of any discord that had the potential to cause disruption in relation to the burial ritual, those involved would wait until it was over to come up solutions (Rodríguez, 2015: 197, 202).

As the church lost control over funerary practices, death was no longer perceived as part of the life cycle of the individual. Laicisation has also contributed to that, stripping away the rituals of accompaniment, vigil and burial from death, all moments in which the social group fulfilled its function of support (Blanco, 2005). Thus, in the West, death represents an individual event, with a keen awareness of the self, reinforced by the competitive ideal, learned

The burial was not attended by the relatives of the extended family (parents, in-laws, siblings, etc.), nor women. Mourning was based on the proximity of kinship, sex, age and professional activity. The period of mourning was very lengthy, particularly for women; in the case of widows, it represented a very long period or a lifetime (Rodríguez, 2015: 199, 200). This type of organisation and ritual concerning burial was not limited to Andalusia but also applied to the rest of Spain. Other relevant studies are those concerning the subject of death with regard to immigrants from the Senegal region who have come to Barcelona. The event of a death away from someone’s own country of origin generates a series of actions taken to ensure the rituals associated with the individual’s religion are performed and they are surrounded by their

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Based on written sources, the Ateneo de Madrid Survey on births, marriages and deaths in Spain (1901-1902), and the work of Federico García Lorca, The House of Bernarda Alba (1936), it is an ethnographic study on death and the associated rituals in Andalusia at the end of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The survey is divided into sections, with the section on death the work of Salvador Rodríguez Becerra (2015).

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group and loved ones. The Muslim rite of the cleaning and purification of the body of the deceased is still carried out even today (Solé, 2012: 65). Gatherings are held in the homes, both in the country of origin, Senegal, and in Catalonia, that include food, the celebration of prayers and recitations of the Qur'an (Solé, 2014: 8). According to the Muslim rite, the corpse must be buried quickly and exclusively by the men. The body must be buried directly in the ground, lying on its right side with the head facing towards Mecca and without a coffin, a practice which is prohibited in our society (Moreras, J. and Solé, A., 2014: 13, 22). In cases where bodies need to be transported, the bodies are usually placed in zinc-lined coffins in order to be hermetically sealed for international transfer (Solé, 2014: 8-9), as a result of which the body of the deceased does not comply with the principle of being buried directly into the ground due to the international agreements regarding coffin transfer (Solé, 2012: 66). The preference for repatriation is understood to be largely in response to the wishes of the relatives, in this case, in Senegal (Solé, 2012: 67). Returning an individual’s body back the own country establishes ties with their community and reinforces the sense of identity within migrant communities. The body and its meanings In social terms, people’s perception of the human body relates both to a physical structure and to a set of attributes concerning its social and psychological significance and its structure and function (Helman, 1994). According to Bourdieu, our interpretation of the body as a perceptible signal generates an impression both in terms of the body’s physical conformation and the way in which it is presented. Of all the expressions of the individual it is the one that is least and most difficult to modify across all its dimensions (Bourdieu, 1997: 183).

The individual maintains a close relationship with their body throughout the different stages of life. Within each passing stage, a cultural system of meanings is inscribed in the body, through specific practices that are acquired

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through learning and within a specific context. It represents a social and cultural construction of the different societies. The relationship between the person and the body can be interpreted either as a single unit, in the case of traditional societies, or as dualism, in the case of Western societies. In the latter case, the body is the sign of the being, that which differentiates and distinguishes it (Le Breton, 2002: 8). The individual prevails over the collective as a distinctive sign of this. The concept of 'body image' encompasses “an individual’s collective attitudes, feelings and fantasies about his body and the manner in which a person has learned to organise and integrate his body experiences” (Fisher, 1986). It is in the socio-cultural context in which social subjects learn how to perceive and interpret their own changes and those of others. In addition, they learn to distinguish the evolutionary stages, both in the states and forms adopted by the body throughout the course of their life, as well as in the management and control of the body itself. Knowledge of the body, based on culture and, to a greater or lesser extent, common to the community as a whole, has gradually been replaced by specialist knowledge, such as biomedical or therapeutic knowledge. Biomedical knowledge is considered the official representation of the human body today but is an element of erudite culture that is only partially shared. The majority of people only possess a relatively vague knowledge of their own bodies. Changes in image draw a dividing line between the healthy body and the cancer carrier (Le Breton, 2002: 83). Changing body image Disease is situated in the body as a physiological state and independent to the subjective aspect of the individual minds of doctors and patients. Medical knowledge is based on an objectivised representation of the diseased body. “For the patient, as for the clinician, disease is experienced through the body” (Good, 2003: 215). It forms an essential part of personal self.

Fading away. Reflections on death

Patients often notice physical changes in their appearance. In general, people with an endomorphic body type, who had lost a lot of weight and were aware of that fact, mentioned it in their interviews with the researcher. Another patient was also worried about losing her hair as a result of her treatment. Factors such as age and the way we perceive our own image influence the decision-making process:3 When I had surgery on my breast, the doctor who operated on me said he could put another one in, but I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want that. What they did do was give me a prosthesis five months later in orthopaedics (...). (Tico.) (Getino, 2012: 151). The effects of the illness and its consequences are transcribed onto the body (Le Breton, 2002: 83). Returning to the topic of changes in appearance, there are some types of cancer that produce more visible and disturbing alterations. That was the case of a patient admitted to the service in the terminal stage of his illness. The jaw of this patient, diagnosed with laryngeal neoplasm, had been completely invaded and obscured by the tumour, making it very dif-

ficult to understand him when he spoke and he was showing signs of extreme anxiety and distress. His wife was by his side looking sad and resigned. They would frequently ring for attendance and, although the staff and the observer were aware of the diagnosis and the advanced stage of the disease, they found it difficult to keep their composure and not change their expressions on entering the room. Degradation in terms of appearance is the main influential factor corresponding to rejection. These patients have a significant effect on the professionals of the unit and their relatives bear the burden of a great deal of suffering. During my study, I encountered three similar cases and always came away with a sense of how difficult it was for both the patient and for their family. As the disease progresses, those affected are obliged to develop an adaptive attitude towards events that cannot be changed. The deterioration of body image develops progressively and relentlessly. The perceptions that patients have of their body are usually realistic, perceiving the deterioration in all its dimensions, which frequently represents a source of distress. The testimony of two patients interviewed highlights their concerns:

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All accounts are extracts from Getino (2012).

Work entitled El tiempo (Time), by Nino Cabero MorĂĄn.

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This is not my face anymore either, I’m swollen, I suppose that it’s down to the disease and the cortisone, a combination of both things. (Nena.) Then look, you see: I'm all dried up. I’m completely flat chested. No breasts at all. And now that I’m on so many diuretics even less (...) I’m finding that hard to cope with as well. But there you go, all of those things. As long as I’m feeling well, it was worth ending up like this (...). (Fina.) Thus, the discourse concerning how their body has changed is one that is reiterated and ongoing, as is the subject of finding it hard to recognise themselves. Corporal changes influence the emotional state of patients. They usually start out with a positive frame of mind but this declines as the disease progresses: When I'm feeling bad then, you know... I’m best off in bed, in bed and without wanting to see anyone or talk to anyone and, in fact, since my last relapse, I haven’t felt like talking either (...). (Nena.)

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of the body, the structuring principle of the experience of the disease (Alonso, 2008: 3). The body deteriorates as a result of the changes produced corresponding to the illness which implies a necessary awareness of loss of health. The body reflects collective negative implications, such as suffering, pain, etc., that generate unpleasant feelings in the individual such as suffering, insecurity and guilt. (Menéndez, 1991). The body is that which externalises the changes caused by disease and alerts the individual to the fact that all is not well. The sick person becomes aware that their functional capacities are being steadily impaired and that there is no going back. Their relationship with their body at times appears detached from reality, as a compensatory mechanism, to once again confirm that the events are occurring. In the final stage they go through a process of unavoidable deterioration and awareness of their own death (Getino, 2012: 156).

Thus, the way we present ourselves to others, the way we see ourselves and the way in which others see us affect us emotionally. The deterioration of the body alerts us to the fact that something is wrong.

In general terms, patients experience a gradual decline, both physically and psychologically, losing their autonomy and become increasingly dependent on family members and medical staff. This aspect, for some, makes an end, death, the preferred option, while others, despite the obstacles, prefer to keep going and accept or resign themselves, as far as possible, in the hope that something is able to turn their bad luck around. Strikingly, faced with this situation patients express a separation between the body, which is not responding to them, and the mind, which is capable of replicating unattainable desires and actions throughout the course of each of the stages experienced.4 The majority are aware that the next stage will be even worse (Getino, 2012: 154).

The body, conduit of illness In everyday life, the body’s existence becomes transparent, a factor which is reflected in the various ways we have to relate to each other, establishing distances. In everyday life, the body goes from being invisible, docile, to being perceptible as a function of the disease. The onset of an illness, or the discomfort associated with physical indications, makes the body visible. The focus moves to the materiality

Disease and physical suffering One fact to highlight in relation to cancer sufferers is that they tend to appear older than they actually are, particularly when approaching the end of their life. The patient perceives the progressive ageing of their body with each day that passes. This deterioration is also noted by others even if they are unaware of the facts. The deterioration of the body tends to be appreciated as a result of a person

Corporal decline adds to mental decline, which gradually progresses leading to periods of forgetfulness, even if only at times: I forget loads of things. I remember some things and then there are things that... Because this last one really left its mark on my brain... (Nena.)

Also expressed by Carlos Cristos in the documentary, Las alas de la vida (The Wings of Life), directed by Antoni P. Canet. Time of History section. Valladolid International Film Festival, 2006.

Fading away. Reflections on death

looking older than they are, as can be seen in the following case: (...) I’m only 55 but you would say that it belonged to someone in their sixties because my skin... it’s bad, it looks old, like everything else, old, I don’t know how to explain it. Yes, it’s changed. I don’t know if it’s because of the disease and the chemo or just the disease or (...), I suppose a combination of everything. (Nena.) Family members also express similar concerns in relation to comments made by other people, which also echoed the confusion about the age of Ms Toñi’s husband, for example. These physical changes are hugely significant for patients and their families, prompting lots of questions in relation to their condition. As the disease progresses, the difficulties and obstacles experienced become greater and more frequent until they get to the point where they are no longer able to cope with everyday activities: The physical limitations, it's hard, you can’t go about your normal life. It’s my bones that are the problem, I can’t pick up a piece of paper if it falls on the floor. I don’t know how I'm going to cope when I go home. I’m worried that I’m not going to be any use to anyone. What will happen to me, I’m no use to anyone like this (...) (Tico.) Pain usually becomes more persistent and acute, testing a patient’s self-control. Pain and its relief are central to the medical treatment administered in a palliative care scenario. In general, it represents an unbearable experience for patients and an indication of their own death, with hope returning once the pain ceases. A patient’s emotional state is revealed in the face of acute pain: Oh! Really bad. I wanted to throw myself out of the window. Really. I told them: either do you do something or I’m going to throw myself out of the window or do something drastic. Because it was unbearable. They had to drag me. My feet weren’t working; I was completely useless. In the lower part of my body, nothing. My feet weren’t working (...). (Alegre.)

End-of-life care: the world of palliation Palliative care (PC) is designed for those whose illness is not responding to curative treatment and, as such, the care is directed towards the alleviation of pain and other symptoms. This type of care involves a multidisciplinary team, which offers a support system to help patients live as active a life as possible until their death and help relatives to cope with the final stage.

Significant advances have been made with regard to this type of palliative care in recent decades, a social movement that originates from the hospices set up the United Kingdom, introduced in England in the 1960s in order to facilitate a dignified transition towards death, offering medical and emotional support to both patients and their relatives. (Getino, 2012). Hospices and palliative care services (PCS) apply an integrated or holistic care model. They approach pain from the concept of ‘total pain’, which includes physical, social, emotional and spiritual elements. A patient’s total experience includes anxiety, depression and fear; concern about the pain felt by their family and, often, a need to make sense of their situation (Saunders, 1980). In both systems, communication and interaction are established as vital therapeutic instruments which perceive the patient and their family as a unit. In this research study, carried out within an oncological institution, the PCS is situated on one of the floors of the institution itself, as is the case with most of the PC services or PC units that exist in Spain. When patients are referred to the PCS, they have usually already experienced a long process of being in and out of one or a number of hospitals and are familiar with the relevant operational and organisational systems. Patients tend to feel a greater sense of being well cared for and of calm when in palliative care in comparison to any previous experiences of hospitalisation. They are admitted to PC because their cancer treatment has not been effective and their illness is progressing. For the patients, the first impression of the oncological

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hospital and PCS is one of an intimidating and ominous but familiar place: The hospital, the whole hospital, (...) when you see it from the outside, it’s awful. I’ve been going past it for years, and I always used to say: it looks like somewhere where they bury the dead. It seemed like that from the outside, like something from the Third World, back then. Then when I came in for the first time, I thought: this isn’t so bad, the outside is different from the inside, and now I see, now I’ve seen it, of course. (Pepe.) In general, both patients and their relatives are aware of the differences between the palliative care service and the other services they have had experience with and say, despite the fact that nothing has been said, that they are aware of what it means to be in palliative care: [Do you know what palliative care is?] Well, nobody has explained anything to me but ‘palliate’. (...) ‘to palliate’, means to ease the effects of whatever it might be, I don’t know, like lessening the pain or reducing the suffering, that’s what palliate means to me. (Nena.); and, for others, familiar: it’s about keeping going. It is not about being cured or anything, just getting through it. (...). (Toñi.) That said, most patients do go there hoping that a new drug will be developed which is capable of curing them. Awareness of death: the bad news People who are suffering from an illness which is not responding to treatment are usually aware that all is not well. Information is a necessity to facilitate decision-making but corresponds to the way in which the patient and family members respond to this uncertain situation. The question is: if we reject death on a daily basis, how will we be able to accept it when faced with a cancer diagnosis. PC patients often contemplate death when they are struggling to cope with their body and the pain. Subsequently, they maintain a hopeful attitude and are ready to fight.

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In general terms, death is a taboo subject; few people say they have discussed the subject with their family. In one specific case, however, during a grief counselling session, one of the women told the group and its leader that: “her husband had surprised her because she had always been the rock, the strong one in the family, with her husband the one who was more likely to suffer from depression, and she said that the way in which he had talked to her about his diagnosis, his illness and about death had taught her a life lesson because she had not expected it of her husband and hadn’t seen that side of him before. It’s very rare for people to say they have talked about death before; and then there they talk about death more openly(...)”. (Pilar.) In palliative care the staff usually make sure that patients and their relatives are made aware of a diagnosis. If the patient is not aware, they are duly informed, except in certain exceptional cases. The prognosis tends to come later and is occasionally never given. Not all patients are aware of their diagnosis for various reasons; therefore, their degree of awareness corresponds to how much they know about their diagnosis and the severity of their illness. In relation to whether or not a cancer patient should be informed of a diagnosis, I refer to the theory developed by Glaser and Strauss, who established the concept of awareness contexts. The context of awareness relates to the level of information family members possess with regard to a relative’s illness, the degree of severity and the possibility of death is verified based on the interaction between people and groups and what is said or not said, what is known. These contexts of awareness are classified into: closed awareness, suspected awareness, mutual pretence awareness and open awareness (Glaser and Strauss, 1979: 11). The case of the former, closed awareness, is reflected in a story told by a PC patient related to the cancer illness of his now dead uncle: His wife really wanted us all to be there but was keen that we did not discuss the subject, she was protecting him. (Lules.)

Fading away. Reflections on death

Everyone knew what was happening apart from the patient himself. With this protective approach, the wife was preventing her husband from finding out about his diagnosis. It is common for relatives to make the decision to withhold relevant information from their family members. The dialogue between the patient and their relatives is interrupted. Suspected awareness is demonstrated in the account of Ms Fina: And my husband said to me: nobody has said anything about anything being seriously wrong with you. And I came to see Dr F. and said: So, is it bad? And he said: no, we removed it as a precaution (...) He said: so, not bad, good. And then they sent me here to the hospital to have chemo. So, why, if it wasn’t bad? He said, no, we just like to catch things before they get worse. (Fina.) She is unconvinced and makes two attempts to confirm her suspicions but later she drops the issue and accepts the initial version as credible. In one clinical visit, a patient started out as a case of closed awareness and then subsequently moved into a state of suspected awareness. Mutual pretence awareness, the experiences of two patients: [After the operation, what did they tell you?] After my operation, they told me that it was in the stomach, but that it wasn’t anything, nothing at all, and then, my god, they almost had to take everything out. (Jero.) And the account of a different patient: I'm not going to recover from this and I prefer not to say anything to my family, I’m keeping it to myself so that they don’t suffer any more. This is clearly a context in which everyone knows and is pretending otherwise. This situation isolates the interlocutors. Open awareness occurs when the two parties are fully informed and speak openly about the subject; it promotes dialogue between all parties and the patient is given the opportunity to make decisions. This is not a common sce-

nario, although Palliative Care Service has seen several such cases, characterised by elements such as patients discussing their experiences in relation to their disease with medical staff and relatives; these patients benefitted from greater decision making capacity in terms of their family and personal affairs and, when the time came, they took the opportunity to say goodbye to their loved ones (Getino, 2012). Patients tend to be better informed with regard to the diagnosis than the prognosis. In diagnosis they are presented with the expectation of living which promotes the will to fight the illness, while once the prognosis is given they have already been on a journey and lost the battle and failed to achieve the desired result: being cured. Some prefer not to know, others are at the point of exhaustion and do not have the strength to keep fighting. Euthanasia as an alternative In etymological terms, the word 'euthanasia' equates to good death and was first used by Francis Bacon in the seventeenth century. From different theoretical approaches, the definition of euthanasia would have to include the following characteristics: “The clear will of the patient to end their life, irreversibility of their illness, with a consequent lack of alternatives, and unbearable suffering, psychological or physical (or both at the same time)” (Sádaba, 2015: 238). The wish and consent of the person concerned must always be considered in the decision to perform euthanasia.

The term euthanasia currently refers to an act carried out by third parties at the express and repeated request of a patient who is experiencing physical or psychological suffering, which they consider to be intolerable and undignified, as a result of an incurable disease, in order to bring about a rapid, efficient and painless death. These are actions that are carried out at the request of the person and according to their will – an indispensable requirement to distinguish euthanasia from homicide – in order to put an end to or prevent unbearable suffering. In euthanasia a direct and immediate causal link exists between the action carried out and the death of the patient (Catalan Bioethics Advisory Committee, CCBC, 2006: 92). The

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objective is to terminate life for the benefit of the patient, using a method that is socially controlled, with medical assistance and applied according to health regulations. It must be safe, fast, not increase suffering and be documented. There is an increasing call for euthanasia in western societies, as medical and technological advances are progressively increasing the biological longevity of individuals until situations are encountered where the person loses the will to go on living. People find themselves in an irreversible situation, wishing to die and avoid the deterioration of their mental and physical faculties. Euthanasia may present an answer to ending their suffering and decision to die. The issue of fulfilling the wishes of an individual, and even family members, to prevent prolonged suffering is still off the table for most politicians and, as a result, legislation does not currently provide for the practice of euthanasia (Getino, 2012). In terms of the hospitalised patients included in this study, no evidence was collected with regard to open requests being made for euthanasia, although one case was recorded of an outpatient requesting that the PC team help with euthanasia. The individual concerned came to the unit one morning accompanied by a friend and was seen by a doctor, going on to explain his situation and expressing his wish to be euthanised; the doctor told him that the PC service was not allowed to carry out that practice. In conversations with patients, most of them agreed that they should not have to suffer, but they rarely decided to put their wishes in writing. Some said that their relatives or friends would decide for them when the time came. Some family members plan to respect the patient’s decisions as that is their wish. Although, they say that when a patient asks that their life be ended, their request is usually ignored: [And what happens at the end?] Well, nothing, you just have to accept it. (...) he has told the doctors that he doesn’t want to go on living this way, asked them to give him something so that he can die. (…). (Reme.) [The doctor's response. And what did the

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doctor tell him?] He’s burning out like a candle. I know. He says: We will try to make his death as peaceful as possible, and that given the condition he is in, which is very weak, (...) we hope to be able to manage things so that he has a dignified death. (…). (Reme.) Medical professionals choose not to intervene in the natural process of the patient’s dying moments and death and thus support the patient and relatives during the final process of dying. At present, euthanasia is not legal in Spain. A small step has been made with the advance healthcare directive but, even so, it does not go far enough. Final stage In PC, some patients say that, rather than being scared of death, they are scared of suffering at the end, which is why they prefer to die in hospital. The thing that scares them the most is the physical discomfort and they worry for their family, which is very important to them; The thought of having to leave loved ones behind is very distressing, as is that of the emotional loss they will experience as a result of their death. In physical terms, pain is the factor that distresses them most and brings them closer to death.

The concept of the loneliness of dying refers to the potential of dying alone, even in situations where their loved ones are with them. This is becoming ever more frequent, because, it is currently more common to die in a hospital environment than at home. When asked, the staff who work in PC units feel that patients do die alone, withdrawn from their families, even when they are in PC: [Do you think many sick people die alone or are alone?] I think so. I think so. Yes. And, strangely, many of them are surrounded by a lot of people. Yes; absolutely, they usually die alone. [Even in palliative care units?] Even in palliative care units. In the unit, yes. It’s true. And it is something that, for example, I’ve really become aware of now through the grief counselling groups. (Pilar.)

Fading away. Reflections on death

The process of saying farewell is an important part of the final stage but due to the private nature of that point in time, it is difficult to discover what motivates a dying person to say goodbye to loved ones or not. The opportunity to say goodbye only occurs if the patient is aware of their imminent death. Palliative care staff view this moment of farewell as being vital, particularly as they have experienced cases in which relatives have not been able to say goodbye and this has had a significant emotional impact on them and become something of an obsession: [Did he say goodbye?] No. And it’s something that his wife asks me over and over (...) do you think he knew he was going to die? I say: Well, I suppose he would have thought about it. She says: So why didn’t he say goodbye? And when he was in the chapel of rest, with everyone there, she kept repeating. You didn’t say goodbye to me, you never said goodbye! (...) (Nita.) The final stage of the disease corresponds to the time of impending death. At this point, the patient is frequently in a semi-comatose state, coming to in response to a light touch or whisper but then sinking back into darkness. The therapeutic team take over in these situations to provide emotional support to the patient and relatives. The final death throes represent the most distressing moment for relatives and is usually very upsetting (Getino, 2012). In the PCS, once a patient has died and their death has been confirmed and certified by the doctor, family members and friends have time to say goodbye before the washing and transfer of the body. In general, the patients, relatives and professionals maintain a respectful and silent demeanour when faced with the painful and practical procedures associated with death in the palliative care setting. Grief in the various societies is considered a normal and healthy response to the loss of a loved one and calls for the need for a relevant process to be implemented. In the PCS unit where my research was carried out, when a patient dies the family is offered a follow-up programme of sessions to help support them through the grief process. These sessions fulfil

a dual function: providing an opportunity to express their feelings and share experiences with peers to attain some closure with regard to their loss (Getino, 2012). Based on the above, I have formulated a series of conclusions that I think may be useful with regard to conducting further research into the practice of palliative care. Conclusions –– In practice, the vast majority of patients are informed with regard to their diagnosis although few are aware of the prognosis. According to the team, it is common for patients to express their wish not to be informed of when the end is coming. –– Relatives tend to have all the information regarding the diagnosis and prognosis from the outset but the large majority of patients demonstrate closed or mutual pretence awareness, although occasionally the patient may change and make the transition to suspected or open awareness. –– In terms of professional staff, those who belong to the healthcare sector are generally more reluctant to inform their patients, resulting in a context of closed or suspected awareness; conversely, PC staff usually advocate informing patients, barring the occasional exception, and giving them all the relevant information according to the patient's wishes. –– When the patients talk about their own death, they express anxiety in relation to aspects of dying, such as suffering and their relatives’ sadness over their loss, rather than the fact of dying itself. –– Physical and psycho-emotional suffering is a permanent feature within PC, which affects the patient, relatives and staff members. Those are the times at which the realisation that death is near becomes ever-more apparent. –– There is a growing call for euthanasia in western societies, prompted by situations in which individuals decide they no longer want to go on in the face of limited quality of life and an irreversible disease. n

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

Alonso, J. P. (February 2008). Cuerpo, dolor e incertidumbre. Experiencias de la enfermedad y formas de interpelar el cuerpo en pacientes de cuidados paliativos. (Con)textos, 36-50. Buenos Aires: Gino Germani Research Institute (University of Buenos Aires)-National Scientific and Technical Research Council Ariès, Ph. (1977). La muerte en occidente. Barcelona: Argos Vergara. Barley, N. (2000). Bailando sobre la tumba. Barcelona: Anagrama. Blanco, J. F. (2005). La muerte dormida. Cultura funeraria en la España tradicional. Valladolid: University of Valladolid. Bourdieu, P. (1997). Notas provisionales sobre la percepción social del cuerpo. In F. Álvarez-Uría and J. Varela (Eds.): Materiales de sociología crítica, p. 183-194. Madrid: La Piqueta. Catalan Bioethics Advisory Committee. (2006). Informe sobre la eutanasia y la ayuda al suicidio. Barcelona: Ministry of Health, Government of Catalonia. Fernández, M. (2007). Antropología de la muerte. Madrid: Síntesis. Fisher, E. (1986). Development & structure of the body image. Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum.

Getino, M. (2012). La espera. Construcción social de la muerte en el mundo de los cuidados paliativos. Barcelona: Laertes. Glaser, B. and Strauss, A. (1979, orig. 1965). Awareness of Dying. New York: Aldine Godelier, M. (2018). La mort et ses au-delà. Paris: CNRS Éditions. Good, B. (2003). Medicina, racionalidad y experiencia. Barcelona: Bellaterra. Helman, C. G. (1994, orig. 1990). Cultura, saúde e doença. Rio Grande do Sul: Artes Médicas. Le Breton, D. (2002, orig. 1990). Antropología del cuerpo y modernidad. Buenos Aires: Nueva Visión. Mateo, L. (1994). La Historiografía de la muerte: Trayectoria de nuevos horizontes. Manuscrits, revista d’història moderna, 12, 321-356. Menéndez, E. (1991). Definiciones, indefiniciones y pequeños saberes. Itztapalapa: Alteridades. Moreras, J. and Solé, A. (2014). Espais de mort i diversitat religiosa. La presencia de l’islam als cementiris i tanatoris catalans. Estudis sobre el patrimoni etnològic de Catalunya, 5. Barcelona: Ministry of Culture, Government of Catalonia. Rodríguez Becerra, S. (2015). Antropología y rituales de muerte a comienzos del siglo xx en Anda-

lucía. Etnicex: revista de estudios etnográficos, 7, 191-206. Sádaba, J. (2015). Eutanasia y ética, Barcelona. Revista de Bioética y Derecho, extra issue, special compilation, 237-246. Retrieved from: http://www.redalyc.org/articulo. oa?id=78343122025. (Consulted on 3 August 2018). Saunders, C. (1980). Cuidados de la enfermedad maligna terminal. Barcelona: Salvat. Solé, A. (December 2012). Rituals funeraris transnacionals entre Catalunya i el Senegal. Revista Catalana de Sociologia, 28, 61-69. Solé, A. (June 2014). Ritos funerarios islámicos transnacionales entre Catalunya y Kolda (Senegal). La construcción de la transnacionalidad desde la práctica religiosa y ritual. REIM. Revista de Estudios Internacionales Mediterráneos, 1-16. Sudnow, D. (1971, orig. 1967). La organización social de la muerte. Buenos Aires: Tiempo Contemporáneo. Thomas, L.-V. (1993, orig. 1975). Antropología de la muerte. Mexico. Fondo de Cultura Económica.

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Catalonian Journal of Ethnology

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No. 43

Mireia Campanera Reig

Rebeca Izquierdo González

Maite Gamarra Rodríguez

ROVIRA I VIRGILI UNIVERSITY

UNIVERSITY COLLEGE LONDON

COMPLUTENSE UNIVERSITY OF MADRID

Associate lecturer and postdoctoral researcher at Rovira i Virgili University since 2017. Ms Campanera Reig holds a diploma in Social Education from the University of Lleida (2000), as well as an undergraduate degree and PhD in Social Anthropology from the University of Barcelona (2003 and 2016, respectively).

Ms Izquierdo González holds a diploma in Primary Education from the Autonomous University of Madrid (2002), an undergraduate degree in Psychopedagogy from the University of Granada (2007) and a master’s degree in Education and International Development from University College London (2016).

Ms Gamarra Rodríguez holds an undergraduate degree in Political Science (2005), a master’s degree in Evaluation of Programmes and Public Policies (2010) and a PhD in Sociology (2016), all three from the Complutense University of Madrid. She is also jointly founded Qiteira-Applied Social Research in 2011.

“Children aren’t allowed at funeral homes” A study on grief in childhood and adolescence1

ow do children experience the death of a family member? That was the question that, in 2016, prompted a funeral services company to commission an applied social research group to carry out a study on grief in childhood and adolescence.2 The aim was to look into children’s experiences in relation to the death of a loved one in the family and social context, a context in which, according to our findings, death represents a taboo subject and a tendency exists to try to distance children and adolescents from this social and biological phenomenon, although that distance does not prevent them from feeling, experiencing, projecting, being inquisitive and imagining. Every society develops specific meanings, processes and practices around biological death (Ariès, 2000). Therefore, any study concerning death implies the understanding of how this is experienced, interpreted and organised according to the social and historical context, beyond the subjective experience. In this study, we focused on the family environment as a fundamental frame of reference for the children.

munication. According to the study’s findings, there is a general perception that sharing or talking about suffering acts to aggravate rather than alleviate its intensity; therefore, we avoid entering into conversations about anything that upsets us in order to avoid feeling the pain. In addition to linking communication with pain, the fundamental idea that this assertion conceals in relation to children and adolescents is that of associating childhood with play, innocence and vitality and attempting to isolate it from other facets of life and learning, such as pain, loss or sadness (Kübler-Ross, 1999; Poch, 2000; Serra i Llanas, 2014).

The taboo culture around death manifests itself in specific behaviours, in interpersonal com-

In recent decades, a process of institutionalisation has been developed around death. Today,

Up until the end of the twentieth century, it was common for anyone who was ill to die at home, surrounded by their closest relatives and friends, who conducted a vigil in the same house in order to say goodbye, with other relatives, friends and neighbours of all ages coming to pay their respects. This constituted an accompaniment and farewell ritual held within the domestic environment that ended with a funeral ceremony (mainly Catholic), culminating with the public act of the burial of the deceased.

When her grandfather died, elevenyear-old Noemí’s mother told her that “children aren’t allowed at funeral homes”.

The funeral services company is Albia Servicios Funerarios (albia. es) and the research team formed part of the Qiteria Investigación Social Aplicada social research group (qiteria.net). The study was carried out between July 2016 and February 2017.

Paraules clau: Dol, infància, adolescència, gestió emocional, participació. Palabras clave: Duelo, infancia, adolescencia, gestión emocional, participación. Keywords: Grief, childhood, adolescence, emotional management, participation.

Fading away. Reflections on death

people typically die in hospitals. As such, the surroundings are no longer domestic nor family-focused, and it is the healthcare personnel that take charge of managing the process, which indirectly affects family and childhood experiences in relation to the processes surrounding illness and death and results in the creation of physical and emotional distance. The results of the study revealed a very low rate of child participation with regard to hospital and funeral home visits or funeral attendance.3 Methodology The study's theoretical and methodological approach was developed from a socio-cultural, psychoaffective and child rights perspective, implementing an interdisciplinary project to address the challenge of conducting a qualitative

Com viuen les nenes i els nens la mort d’un familiar? Per intentar respondre aquesta pregunta es va fer una investigació sobre el dol infantil i adolescent el 2016. El propòsit era investigar les experiències infantils i juvenils al voltant de la mort d’un ésser estimat, situant-los en el marc familiar i social, un context en el qual podíem evidenciar que la mort es viu com un tabú i en què es tendeix a apartar les nenes, els nens i els adolescents d’aquest fenomen social i biològic. Ha estat un estudi qualitatiu pioner en l’anàlisi dels sentiments i les experiències infantils i adolescents sobre el dol des d’una perspectiva social, psicoafectiva i de drets. Els resultats de l’estudi apunten que la tendència comunicativa i de gestió emocional de cada família determina la quantitat i la qualitat dels diàlegs entre adults i nenes, nens i adolescents sobre la mort, l’acompanyament emocional adult en l’expressió de les emocions infantils i adolescents, i el grau de participació en l’acompanyament del familiar passat. De fet, com menys comunicació i gestió emocional hi ha, menys participació en els actes de comiat i record. En canvi, a les llars on hi ha més comunicació, també hi ha més gestió emocional i participació en els rituals funeraris. D’aquí que concloguem que el dol en la infantesa i en l’adolescència està determinat tant pel tabú social al voltant de la mort, com per la tendència comunicativa i de gestió emocional familiar.

study involving children on a socially and emotionally complex subject such as grief. There is no doubt that this represents a unique approach to childhood grief, as the fields of psychology and education are responsible for producing the greatest body of work in this subject area. A total of 14 families and 20 children and adolescents living in urban areas in the provinces of Barcelona, Madrid and Cádiz participated in the study to share their personal and family experiences. Each family selected had experienced the death of a loved one within a period of six months to a year prior to their participation in the study. The relationship to the child or teenager had to be a first or second-degree blood relative, being extended to third degree in exceptional cases.

¿Cómo viven las niñas y los niños la muerte de un familiar? Tratando de responder a esta pregunta se realizó una investigación sobre el duelo infantil y adolescente en 2016. El propósito era indagar en las experiencias infantiles y juveniles entorno a la muerte de un ser querido, ubicándolas en el marco familiar y social, un contexto en el que pudimos evidenciar que la muerte es vivida como un tabú y en el que se tiende a apartar a las niñas, niños y adolescentes de este fenómeno social y biológico. Ha sido un estudio cualitativo pionero en analizar los sentimientos y experiencias infantiles y adolescentes sobre el duelo desde una perspectiva social, psicoafectiva y de derechos. Los resultados del estudio apuntan que la tendencia comunicativa y de gestión emocional de cada familia determina la cantidad y la calidad de los diálogos entre adultos y niñas, niños y adolescentes sobre la muerte, el acompañamiento emocional adulto a la expresión de las emociones infantiles y adolescentes, y el nivel de participación en la despedida del familiar fallecido. De hecho, a menor comunicación y gestión emocional, menor participación en actos de despedida y/o recuerdo. Por otro lado, en los hogares donde hay mayor comunicación, también hay mayor gestión emocional y participación en los rituales funerarios. De ahí que concluyamos que el duelo infantil y adolescente está determinado tanto por el tabú social entorno a la muerte, como por la tendencia comunicativa y de gestión emocional familiar.

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No official national data is available on children and adolescent attendance at funerals and funeral homes. However, as a result of our conversations with the funeral services company, Albia, we have learned that children are very rarely present during funeral home ceremonies, with a few more in terms of the teenage population. This was also confirmed by the interviews conducted with the families and experts participating in this research project.

How do children experience the death of a family member? Trying to answer this question, in 2016 we conducted an investigation on grief amongst children and teenagers. The purpose was to investigate the experiences of children and teenagers around the death of a loved one within the family and social context. According to our findings, death is experienced as a taboo and families and society tend to separate children and adolescents from this social and biological phenomenon. Our research was a pioneering qualitative study analysing the feelings and experiences of children and adolescents about grief from a social, psychoaffective and rights perspective. The results of the study suggest that the way each family manages communication and emotions determines the quantity and quality of the dialogues between adults and children and adolescents about death, the emotional support children and adolescents receive from adults in expressing their emotions, and their level of participation in saying goodbye to the deceased relative. In fact, the less the communication and emotional management, the less the participation in farewell and / or remembrance acts. Furthermore, in households where there is greater communication, there is also greater emotional management and participation in funeral rituals. Hence, we conclude that childhood and adolescent grief is determined both by the social taboo surrounding death, and by the communicative and emotional management of the family.

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Interviews on the subject were also conducted with six experts, an element which was considered important in order to provide a more in-depth understanding of the phenomenon and equip the research team with specific knowledge and tools to help them address such a sensitive research subject with children. A total of 35 questionnaires were completed4 (child-adolescent and family members) and 12 interviews conducted with adolescents and parents in order to collect information on the feelings and experiences of children aged between 6 and 16 years old. The decision was made to use a research tool called SMAT, which was considered the most appropriate tool for working with children in an environment that, despite its artificiality, was non-threatening and friendly. This research tool, developed by Marta Martínez Muñoz, follows the ‘SWOT Analysis’ model5 and adapts it to children. The ‘SMAT’ acronym corresponds to the following core concepts: dreams, fears, joys and sorrows. As its developer (Liebel and Martínez, 2009) explains, this is a device that acts as a research technique but also as a space of intervention and liberation for both the children and adolescents and their families. An illustrated story6 was read as part of the workshop which summarised the experiences of children and

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adolescents in relation to the death of a family member. In total, four SMAT workshops were organised, involving the participation of 16 children and teenagers. One of the greatest difficulties the research team faced in terms of fieldwork was related to locating families that were willing to participate in a study that involved talking about death with their children. There are two main issues to highlight here. Firstly, the specialist company7 hired to make initial contact with potential participants had difficulty finding families that were willing take part, thus providing an illustration of how difficult people find it to talk openly about death and childhood bereavement. Secondly, the vast majority of the adults that participated were women,8 a fact that demonstrates the way in which the social construction with regard to gender in our society associates women who are mothers with the role of emotional management in the family nucleus. From overprotection to emotional support During one of the collective interviews held with the adults, we talked about their experiences of family bereavement. As one woman wept, another told her that she should not cry

The questionnaires were used as a tool for collecting qualitative and quantitative information about each child, including the socio-demographic, family and personal context associated with grief.

The SWOT matrix is an analysis tool that can be applied to any situation, individual, product, company, etc. being studied at a specific point in time. SWOT analysis paints a picture of the current state of the object of study, thereby providing an initial diagnosis that allows decisions to be made in accordance with the objectives and policies formulated. It evaluates four elements: strengths, weaknesses, opportunities and threats. This technique is thought to have been originally developed by Albert S. Humphrey in the United States in the 1960s for a research project conducted at the Stanford Research Institute that sought to explore the reasons for corporate planning failure.

The story, entitled El tío Juan (Uncle John) was an adaptation of the book El Joan ha mort (John Has Passed Away), by Itziar Fernández Hurtado (2013). The book’s author, who is also a psychologist, was one of the experts we interviewed.

During the SMAT workshop for children. Madrid (2016) MAITE GAMARRA

Fading away. Reflections on death

and needed to be strong for her son and that it was selfish to be upset. She said it in a conciliatory way, trying make her feel better: “The best way to be a good mother is to be strong for your son.” With these words she manifested another key element of our society’s culture surrounding grief: the obligation to be (or at least appear to be) okay, and the difficulty we have in allowing and accepting public displays of sadness. The fact that families, schools and hospitals tend to avoid talking about death does not mean that it does not exist in other spaces. We are shown death on a daily basis on the news, in films and in television series. This social contradiction was highlighted by the experts consulted in the study, commenting that death is something that is shown, but not explained or normalised. In the same vein, nurse and anthropologist Xusa Serra notes: “How is it that they can watch people being chopped up into pieces over dinner but can’t go to see their grandfather who has died? It’s quite incredible.” What do we do with suffering? Hide it, keep it under wraps. Thus, death, illness and suffering in general have been turned into issues that are socially concealed.9 The taboo surrounding death in our society makes it difficult to discuss it openly and clearly and impedes the management of the emotions

involved in the grief process resulting from the loss of a loved one. This affects adults and, in particular, children and adolescents, who do not possess the decision-making power of the former (Kübler-Ross, 1999; Serra i Llanas, 2014). It is also a subject that professionals working in healthcare and education find intimidating and, unless they possess specific training, they struggle to provide support for bereaved families. A comment made by Blanca following the sudden death of her partner and father of two teenage daughters highlights this: “This society does not prepare you for death.” The interviews, questionnaires and workshops provided evidence of the fact that our society promotes an emotional culture of containment of sadness which is expressed in a paradigmatic manner concerning death. As an example, we have developed common phrases, such as: crying is a sign of weakness, crying should be done in private, men don’t cry and, above all, you need to be strong. In short, death is an uncomfortable reality within modern society. Two key concepts were identified from the conversations conducted with our group of experts (specialising in psychology, bereavement support, nursing and anthropology), which served in the analysis of the stories pro-

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The company that specialises in recruiting specific groups to take part in qualitative studies initially contacted more than 3,000 people (via email or telephone) with a very low success rate (only one family – a father and his teenage daughter), following up with a second call (via social media) to which more than half a dozen families responded.

Among the participating families, 13 mothers and two fathers were interviewed. All the experts were women. It should be noted that the study did not set out to collect data of this type, as there was no gender bias in relation to the recruitment of either the experts or members of the families willing to participate.

However, one indication that a process of change is underway in terms of overprotective attitudes is the number of books that have been published in the last decade dealing with childhood grief in the form of an adult practical guide, frequently of a psychological nature, or in the form of children's stories, featuring advice for supporting grieving children.

During the SMAT workshop for children. Madrid (2016) MAITE GAMARRA

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vided by the families in relation to bereavement processes: communication and emotional management. Thus, we encountered families that were inclined to discuss and support the emotional experiences of individual family members, sharing and managing their emotions, respecting each other's feelings and trying to accept and express their pain. While, conversely, there were other families that followed the approach of discussing their experiences as little as possible and avoiding shared emotional expressions, believing that if each person dealt with their grief in private, that is, if they avoided dialogue, the suffering could be lessened (overprotection). The emotional support we are discussing here is based on not withholding information, on promoting open dialogue tailored to each age that expresses, recognises and manages the emotions caused by the pain associated with the death of a loved one, just as any other human experience. This also includes providing children and adolescents with the opportunity to make their own decisions with regard to attending and participating in acts of mourning, visiting someone who is sick (in other words, suffering from an illness and/or dying) and being part of rituals or ceremonies associated with saying goodbye. Based on the results of our research we have classified the participating families according to a spectrum spanning two trends: from overprotection to support.10 When we talk about overprotection, it is understood as the wish to prevent the suffering of children and adolescents, a family tendency which favours revealing little or no information (or doing it in a 'gentle or fantastical' way), keeping discussions regarding emotions and painful events to a minimum, or even not telling children about a relevant event such as an important illness or death at all. According to psychologists, this type of approach restricts the growth and emotional development of children and teenagers. The taboo of death and the emotional containment of sadness that characterise our society induce families (and society as a whole) to overprotect children and adolescents. An example of this tendency is demonstrated in the words of eleven-year-old Noemí: “Children

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who are less than five or six shouldn’t be told that someone close to them has died because it would make them so sad they would want to throw themselves off the balcony.” In this case, Noemí's mother had told her that children weren’t allowed to go to funeral homes because they were too young and also admitted to us that she stopped herself from crying in front of her daughter. Child and adolescent grief is determined by the educational and relational tendency that is expressed in the family (of support or overprotection). If the child or adolescent perceives crying as something negative, they will avoid doing it in front of their relatives and will, in turn, want to avoid seeing them cry. According to the experts, if nobody talks about a grandparent’s illness at home, they will learn not to do so in order to avoid introducing distress into the environment, a behaviour that we also indirectly picked up on from the families we spoke to. That does not mean to say that their concerns are allayed, however. In fact, during the SMAT workshops, Joana (aged 8), Darío (10) and Adrián (14) talked about the importance of being kept informed and asking questions about the death of a loved one. Nieves (11) did not find out about the death of her grandfather until a week later and did not understand why her mother had been so sad over the course of that period. A number of experts highlight the fact that children and teenagers have a tendency to apply their imaginative capacity to things that they have not seen, in reference to the practice of preventing them from viewing the body of the deceased or attending funerals, for example. Another expert commented that withholding information that a child or adolescent later becomes aware of makes them feel excluded from the family, that they have been ignored. During the data collection stage, the written, oral or drawn interventions produced by the children emphasised their desire for a greater degree of communication and participation concerning the death of their family member; they did not want to feel excluded and wanted to know what was happening. They also highlighted the fact that the way each family manages communication and emotions

Of the 14 participating families, seven exhibited overprotective tendencies and seven supportive. As stated, this does not constitute a representative sample given the bias that agreeing to participate in this study represents in itself. Therefore, we believe that an overrepresentation exists with regard to the ‘supportive’ families group.

Fading away. Reflections on death

determines the quantity and quality of dialogue about death between adults and children and adolescents, the emotional support children and adolescents receive from adults in expressing their emotions, and the level of participation children and adolescents have in saying goodbye to their deceased relative. Our data attests to the fact that the less communication and emotional management that exists, the lower rate of child participation in funeral and/ or memorial events for the deceased. Notably, none of the children from the seven families that exhibited a tendency towards overprotection attended the acts held to say goodbye to their relatives. Conversely, we found that in households where there was greater communication, the levels of emotional management and participation were also greater. Of the nine children and adolescents (less than half) who did participate in acts to mark someoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s passing or to say goodbye to someone suffering from an illness,11 eight were from families in which death and everyday adversities were openly discussed, seven expressed their emotions, and only four came from families in which emotions were managed collectively. Another interesting find-

ing concerned the behaviours and emotions that the children and adolescents exhibited on finding out about the death of their family member: sadness (84%), crying (53%), silence (32%) and anger (26%). Participate, share, feel Only five of the twenty child and adolescent participants surveyed (25%), none of which were under the age of eight, attended the funeral ceremonies. An impetus among the minors was identified in relation to expression, involvement and the desire for child participation. Those who showed this interest/need had to convince their parents and later viewed it as having been a positive experience. Indeed, the children and adolescents that wanted to participate all came from families exhibiting a tendency towards communicative and emotional support. We should point out that two of them attended the burial and wished to keep certain objects belonging to the deceased person, and two others who did not attend the funeral wrote a poem and a story for their deceased grandparents. As such, it is possible to observe that when a child is informed, when their wishes, ideas and decisions are taken into account, and when they feel supported and

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During the SMAT workshop for children. Madrid (2016) MAITE GAMARRA

Understanding participation as visiting the hospital, attending funeral acts and memorial services, and writing poems or letters in memory of the deceased.

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valued by their families, they tend to want to participate and view it as a positive experience. In terms of the way in which the grieving process is managed within the family, most said that it had been an individual and private experience. For the most part, parents do not share these processes with their children. “We haven’t cried together”, Blanca told us, in reference to her teenage daughters. From a psychoaffective perspective, our findings have demonstrated that most families do not possess sufficient knowledge about the particularities of child and adolescent grief and their associated needs. As such, the tendency towards overprotection in evidence makes it difficult for parents to promote a ‘healthy’ grieving process for their children. In fact, the management of personal grief by adults potentially limits their capacity to provide support to grieving children. If adults do not have the tools to manage their own emotions, it makes it difficult for them to support their children. In terms of the role played by schools as a stakeholder in children’s grieving processes, we believe that, as a result of the taboos that exist within society concerning death and the lack of training provided to professionals in the education sector, to a large extent, schools tend to obstruct, rather than facilitate the management of the grieving process in children and adolescents. In fact, one of Blanca’s daughters was bullied at school and suffered from panic attacks while she was grieving over the loss of her father, which resulted in her having to change school.

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We discovered that, sometimes, the grieving process not only manifests itself on an emotional level, but also through physical and psychological illnesses, mainly in adolescents. On another level, we can assert that children and adolescents, even if they are kept away from the ritual of saying goodbye and have been denied information, generate resources for themselves in order to cope with their personal process of grieving. This includes retaining keepsakes belonging to the deceased family member and participating as far as they are permitted in the funeral or subsequent memorial acts. As a result of our findings we discovered that, particularly in the case of the teenage girls, the sadness they felt over the loss of their family member had served in their personal growth and development by causing them to value life in a different way and put other painful situations into perspective. Finally, the children and adolescents that participated in the study were asked to make recommendations that may help other children experiencing grief. Among the advice they gave, they stressed the importance of providing encouragement and support through love and words of comfort, creating times to do something fun to combat the sadness and even accepting what had happened and moving on with life. They also advised children to go to the adults around them with any questions they may have. Conversely, their message to the adults, in addition to providing support and love, was to be natural, express their feelings and answer the questions asked by children and adolescents about death. n

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Ariès, P. (2000). Historia de la muerte en Occidente. Desde la Edad Media hasta nuestros días. Barcelona: Acantilado. Fernández Hurtado, I. (2013). El Joan ha mort. Conte i guia per acompanyar els nens i els adolescents en el dol i la comprensió de la mort. Lleida: Pagès. Kübler-Ross, E. (1999 [1983]). Los niños y la muerte. Barcelona: Luciérnaga.

Liebel, M. and Martínez, M. (2009). Between protection and participation. In Liebel-M. Martínez (Coord.). Infancia y Derechos Humanos. Hacia una ciudadanía participante y protagónica. Lima: IFEJANT. Poch, C. (2000). De la vida y de la muerte: reflexiones y propuestas para educadores y padres. Barcelona: Claret.

Serra i Llanas, X. (2014). I jo, també em moriré? Com es pot ajudar els infants i els joves a conviure amb la pèrdua i la mort de qui estimem. Barcelona: Columna.

SPACES FOR DEATH and RELIGIOUS DIVERSITY

Dying away from home, far from loved ones, is a scenario that we would all prefer to avoid. We are accompanied at birth and we also want to die surrounded by our nearest and dearest. The unexpected nature of death seems to be intensified when the deceased is someone who has emigrated from their home country. Their death questions, for the last time, their membership within the original and host society. At the same time, the bonds of community are activated and mobilised in response to the loss of one of its members. Performing the last offices for the deceased to ensure that they die a ‘good death’, becomes a community obligation. This study explores the community management of death among Muslim groups in Catalonia, as well

as highlighting the adjustments they have had make in order to maintain their funerary specificities. Religious pluralism presents new challenges for the public regulation of diversity. As such, this project focuses on the Muslim community, which exemplifies the situations that arise as a result of religious and cultural plurality within our society in terms of death management, in which cemeteries and funeral homes both play a part. The book is the result of a scholarship research project carried out in 2010 by the Centre for the Promotion of Popular and Traditional Catalan Culture (CPCPTC), which forms part of the Government of Catalonia’s Ministry of Culture.

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Lilyane Rachédi

Mouloud Idir

Javorka Sarenac

UNIVERSITY OF QUEBEC

CENTRE FOR JUSTICE AND FAITH, MONTREAL

UNIVERSITY OF QUEBEC

Professor of Intercultural Intervention and researcher at the University of Quebec in Montreal. A qualified social worker, her research interests lie in immigration and its implications regarding death in diversity and migrant contexts.

Coordinator of the ‘Vivre ensemble’ section of the Center Justice et Foi (‘Living Together’ section of the Centre for Justice and Faith in Montreal), his interests centre on issues associated with immigration, the protection of refugees and other general subjects related to plurality.

A qualified social worker, she is currently a researcher and course director at the University of Sherbrooke and a PhD student in Social Work at the University of Quebec in Montreal. Her fields of interest revolve around issues concerning immigration, as well as end-of-life support for migrants and migrant families in situations of bereavement, and intervention corresponding to elderly adult migrants.

“Go die someplace else!”

Muslim death in Quebec: an unwanted death Introduction

tudies on the intersection between death and migrations are experiencing an upsurge and new levels of visibility, particularly since the escalation in the number of deaths occurring at European borders. These projects are of particular interest in relation to asylum seekers, in terms of the strategies developed to travel across countries, as well as the fate of the corpses left scattered across both land and water. Other studies aim to document the issue of death in migration more extensively by focusing on the legal, institutional, symbolic, moral and emotional dimensions of the latter, as is the case of our Death in Migration (MECMI) research team, comprised of an international network of researchers from Quebec (L. Rachédi, C. Montgomery and J. Le Gall), France (C. Kobelinsky, G. Delaplace, J. Cleuziou and F. Lestage) and Spain (J. Moreras and A. Solé Arraràs). The project is funded in Quebec by the Quebec Research Fund. Society and Culture (FRQSC) and in France by the National Research Agency (ANR). Based on a cross-cutting perspective encompassing a range of different disciplines, fields of

practice and cultural spaces associated with this issue, our programme is structured into three core areas: (1) management of death; (2) perceptions of death; and (3) support for the dying and bereaved. In each case and for each thematic pillar, it is essential to place the emphasis on one particular dimension in terms of migrants’ relationship with death, either their own or that of their relatives, and which occurs in their host society (here, in the land of immigrants) or elsewhere (in other places around the world or in the place they emigrated from). Finally, it is about highlighting the particularities and differences between the national contexts. The researcher from each country conducts their own surveys and adapts them to their own ends. The specific contexts do not allow for identical comparative studies. On the other hand, the ongoing and periodic reflections feed into the three core thematic areas. In Quebec we are conducting a total of three studies. The first two are already underway and relate to the issues of the perception and management of death (Areas I and II). The first deals with the reconstruction and analysis of the trajectories of the deceased in order to better understand the place of death in the migration route. Meanwhile,

Paraules clau: morts, enterraments, musulmans, migracions, ciutadania. Palabras clave: Muertos, entierros, musulmanes, migraciones, ciudadanía. Keywords: the deceased, burials, Muslims, migrations, citizenship.

This title is inspired by the title of Isabelle Marin’s book (2004) Allez donc mourir ailleurs! Un médecin, l’hôpital et la mort. Paris: Editorial Buchet-Chastel.

Fading away. Reflections on death

the second focuses on representations and perceptions of death at borders. Finally, a third project will be developed to complete the programme. This last one will address the issue of palliative care and support for family members (Area III: Support for the dying and bereaved.) The project presented here, although it forms part of the overall work being carried out by the MECMI team and, more specifically, relates to the initial two core areas, has been funded by the Quebec Ministry of Immigration, Diversity and Inclusion (MIDI). The title of the project is Death in Migration: Requirements and Practices Regarding the Allocation and Management of Muslim Burial Sites in Quebec. The study was commissioned following the Quebec mosque attack in January 2017 (Potvin, 2017), an attack which killed six and injured eight members of the Muslim community, highlighting outrageous hatred towards Muslims and Islamophobia, as well as the lack of Muslim cemeteries in Quebec. We will return to that later. In this article, we will start by outlining some of the contextual elements in order to provide an understanding, firstly, of the framework in which the needs of the Muslim community or those attributed to others are articulated on the subject of burial sites. In addition, for the purposes of understanding the management of the latter and chart the requests that have been lodged by the Muslim people, a historical detour or even an understanding of the context is required. We will begin with an Aquest text forma part del treball de recerca «Morts en migració» (MECMI) i presenta l’anàlisi d’un estudi encarregat pel Departament d’Immigració, Diversitat i Inclusió del Govern de Québec. Els resultats mostren la urgència de considerar molt seriosament el sentiment d’islamofòbia viscuda pels musulmans del Quebec i tractar el tema de les seves demandes d’inhumació dins d’un marc de ciutadania igualitària, democràtica i comuna. Establir obstacles als seus ritus funeraris es percep com una forma d’islamofòbia mortem i post mortem.

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introduction of the context in Quebec, which is not immune to the global trend of Islamophobia (Wilkins-Laflamme, 2018; Helly, 2009), influenced by external and internal factors, including the tragedy of 11 September induced by the events that occurred that day. We will also see that calls for Muslim burial sites have additionally become part of political elections and media scandals that have been particularly influential in Quebec. We will go on to briefly explain the methodology used and outline the main results of our study. The third and final section will provide a comprehensive analysis that goes beyond the limits dictated by the federal and provincial administrative regulations and the simple zoning rules governing whether or not to authorise a burial site for the Muslims of Quebec, who, it is important to stress, would like the right to choose between dying here or dying elsewhere. Acts and discourses regarding Muslims: a cold front in Quebec In Quebec, as elsewhere, following the events of 11 September 2001, the general rise in Islamophobia has had direct repercussions on the levels of stigmatisation and discrimination experienced by people from the Arab and Muslim world (Pietrantonio et al., 2002; Daher, 2001). We also know that the media have played a decisive role in the construction of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ immigrants. A number of authors have denounced the insistence of those who systematically associate Muslims with anti-democratic movements and the exclu-

Este texto forma parte de la investigación« Muertes en migración» (MECMI) i presenta el análisis de un estudio encargado por el Departamento de Inmigración, Diversidad e Inclusión del Gobierno de Quebec. Los resultados muestran la urgencia de considerar muy seriamente el sentimiento de islamofobia vivida por los musulmanes de Quebec i tratar el tema de sus demandas de inhumación dentro de un marco de ciudadanía igualitaria, democrática y común. Establecer obstáculos a sus ritos funerarios es percibido como una forma de islamofobia mortem i post mortem.

This text is part of the Death in Migration (MECMI) research project and presents the findings of a study commissioned by the Department of Immigration, Diversity and Inclusion of the Government of Québec. The results show the urgency of seriously considering the feeling of Islamophobia experienced by Québec Muslims and addressing their demands for burial within a framework of egalitarian, democratic and common citizenship. Establishing obstacles to funeral rites is perceived as a form of mortem and post-mortem Islamophobia.

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sivity of an intransigent practice of faith, or even incompatibility with the West (Bendriss, 2012; Helly, 2009; Kymlicka, 2006; Huntington, 1997). Intercultural relations have become definitively strained. Here, as in other countries, a series of political developments introduced in Quebec since 2008 (Bouchard-Taylor Commission, Charter of Values and Secularity project, Bill 60, etc.) have positioned cultural and religious diversity and the notion of secularity as central issues for the province. Widely reported, these events have undermined social peace and coexistence (Potvin, 2017). The definitive date in all this, however, was the act of hatred and slaughter that was carried out in the Quebec mosque in 2017, identified as the biggest news story of that year by Influence Communication.2 Alexandre Bissonnette, who carried out the shooting, was sentenced to 150 years in prison. According to Maryse Potvin (2017), the attack marked a turning point, with fewer incidences of openly racist and uninhibited statements recorded in Quebec prior to that event and only rare or isolated incidents of racially-motivated violence. We are currently witnessing a normalisation of wantonly racist discourses that have gained a foothold, among others, in the discourses and programmes of some of Quebec’s political parties. Radical right-wing groups, such as the Fédération des Québécois de souche and La Meute, are emerging from marginality and have even acquired a new legitimacy. The study carried out in 2017 by the Ministry of Immigration, Diversity and Inclusion falls into the context of anxiety and intersects the issue of death and Muslims in Quebec. It addresses the concrete issue of the management of death in the context of pluralism. In terms of the socio-demographic picture, according to the national survey of households conducted in 2011, Muslims represent around 3% of the total Canadian population. In Quebec, the percentage is approximately the same, and about 1.5% of Muslims live outside of Montreal.3 Most originate from African countries, followed by Asian and European,

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and hold a university degree. Although very difficult to chart through official statistics, it seems that the majority of the Muslims who die in Quebec choose to be repatriated (Boucher, 2017). The reasons for this appear to be diverse but are little documented. For those who choose to be buried in Quebec, there are currently a total of six Muslim cemeteries (one cemetery and six Muslim burial areas), to which a further two sites are to be added where the green light has been given for establishing a Muslim cemetery and burial area respectively. Most are located on the outskirts, even, of the Greater Montreal Area. In recent years, (as of late 2017), a number of association leaders in Sherbrooke have also set up a funeral cooperative for people of Muslim faith in the south-eastern region of Quebec. The latter has joined forces with the already established funeral cooperative, Estrie, and a Muslim burial area is to be designated within the confessional cemetery. Finally, the most recent developed is the announcement that a piece of land has been sold in Sainte-Foy, Quebec, near Notre-Damede-Belmont Cemetery for the purpose of establishing a Muslim cemetery. This brief summary is important to gain an understanding of the extent of the needs expressed in terms of Muslim burial sites. Similarly, it is important to mention that the processes related to the granting of a permit to obtain a site in Quebec falls under the remit of two levels of government: a municipal level (district council corresponding to the site in question) and a provincial level (Quebec Ministry of Sustainable Development, Environment, and Fight Against Climate Change and the Ministry of Health and Social Services). Therefore, one must start by asking about the status of the ministry responsible for our study (MIDI), despite the fact that its competencies correspond to the two ministries mentioned above. An alienation of our fellow Muslim citizens can be seen to be taking hold within Quebec society, as they are primarily being viewed on the basis of their differences rather than as an intrinsic part of Quebec.

Influence communication. Annual report. [Online] https://bilan. influencecommunication.com/ lannee-en-un-clin-doeil/top-10-desnouvelles/.

http://www.sciencepresse. qc.ca/actualite/detecteur-rumeurs/2017/04/19/7-mythes-musulmans-quebec

Fading away. Reflections on death

Now we can move on to look at the study and to outline the principal results, identifying the requirements and practices associated with Muslim burial sites in Quebec. Understanding the needs and practices concerning Muslim burial sites: methodological benchmarks and guidelines The study was carried out within a sensitive context, one that was made even more so by the Saint-Apollinaire referendum held in 2017, in addition to the tragic events that took place at the Quebec mosque. One month after the shooting, local residents in Saint-Apollinaire decided to hold a referendum corresponding to a request lodged by members of the Islamic Cultural Centre of Quebec (CCIQ) to purchase an area of land to establish a cemetery on which, according to municipal zoning regulations, only ashes could be buried and not caskets. This triggered a public consultation and referendum was called, as a sufficient number of signatures was required to allow the site to be used for this purpose. Of the total of 49 people eligible to vote in the Saint-Apollinaire referendum, an event that received extensive media coverage and attracted a 73% turnout rate, 19 voted against the change of zoning, 16 in favour and one vote was declared void. As a result, the possibility of establishing a

Muslim confessional cemetery was ruled out, as the change of zoning was necessary to permit the burial of caskets. The study commissioned by MIDI is structured around the objective of documenting Muslim funeral requirements and practices associated with the management of burial sites in Montreal, its nearby suburbs and some cities outside of Montreal. To achieve this goal, a series of individual and collective interviews were conducted between February and December 2017 in Montreal and the surrounding region: a total of 49 adults were interviewed. The individuals consulted were selected from among the networks and organisations located in the region, participating on a voluntary basis and employing a principle of self-identification. We opted to produce a list of open questions and respected the basic ethical principles (prior to carrying out the interviews, our obligation and commitment was to preserve the anonymity and confidentiality of the participantsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; identity and opinions). These ethical principles are fundamental in a small area such as Quebec, where people can easily be identified. With the agreement and relevant consent of the participants in place, the interviews were recorded in order to collect qualitative data. All of the above was carried out from a the-

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Muslim section of the Magnus Poirier cemetery, Laval (outskirts of Montreal). MARTIN ROBERT, 2017

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matic analysis perspective. These recordings were systematically destroyed. As representatives of the academic and research community, our interest in conducting an investigation involving Muslim communities, particularly with regard to the subject of their burial sites, posed some important ethical questions. The most important thing we needed to keep in mind was: how should the study explain the strategies, actors and language games Muslims employ in order to avoid the pitfalls they face due to operating within a context of stigmatisation and extreme contempt? A very important question needs to be addressed in terms of methodology: conveying what is said in the accounts provided while also conducting a critical analysis of the discourses collected. As such, the accounts provided by the actors highlight the language games that induce consideration of the weight of the suspicion placed on the Muslim discourse and the unreasoned judgement that prevails against them. In other words, attempting to understand the trajectories of people’s lives or the narrative they provide involves, among other things, thinking about the positions that the individuals occupy in society. A society that is transforming and mutating and that cannot be reduced to events that occur independently and which would not be influenced by any kind of contingency. We have tried to partially illustrate the situation in the previous section. This is what Pierre Bourdieu (1986) was referring to when he stressed how important it is not to lose sight of the fact that an individual’s trajectory and biographical narrative is “defined as a series of placements and displacements within a social space; that is to say, more precisely, in the different successive states of distribution structure corresponding to the different types of capital in play within the field being considered” (Bourdieu, 1986: 71). Specifically for us, this means gaining a better understanding of the context in which the ‘Muslim discourse’ (as it has been

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labelled) in general is formulated (here, concerning the problem of graves), the limits of their social acceptability in terms of ‘taking the floor’ and the social capital of the actors calling for it and that, by doing so, position themselves and advance in the same social world with regard to this issue. It is within such a climate that this interdisciplinary analysis was carried out. Discussion of the results: what does the issue of Muslim burial sites reveal with regard to immigrants, Muslim alterity and the secularist regime? The interviews carried out highlighted the fact that the general needs of the people surveyed are centred on two fundamental aspects: the burden of the negative representation of Muslims in Quebec and the necessity of having the right to choose between different options, these being burial in a Muslim cemetery or section, or repatriation. As previously stated, the number of Muslim burial sites in Quebec is limited. In terms of the adjudication and management practices of the Muslim burial sites in Quebec, we have charted the progress of several unsuccessful projects (for example, application and rejection of request to establish cemeteries in Chicoutimi in 2011, a Muslim burial area in Huntingdon in 2013, a Muslim cemetery in Saguenay and Sherbrooke in 2016, in Saint-Apollinaire in 2017, etc.). Our participants mentioned three main obstacles. The first relates to the stages and process of obtaining confessional land. The second affects, above all, the social context in which the call for Muslim confessional sites are addressed. Finally, the third obstacle derives from internal disagreements within the Muslim community itself. The strategies considered as the best course of action by some actors prioritise the provision of financial resources and experience. Contact with the media, being open to commitments and gaining the support of political actors were the other strategies outlined by the participants; in other words, according to the interviewees, conveying messages that do not raise eyebrows.

Fading away. Reflections on death

A study such as this on the subject of Muslim burial sites, in a context subsequent to the massacre, inevitably highlights major challenges in terms of the representations of Islam and Muslims. These lead to reflections which intersect the fields of sociology, political economy and ethics. In general, the major problem concerning burial sites must be considered in relation to a set of elements that propagate the general conviction that certain groups of citizens or future citizens lack the social and political skills that would allow them to fully exercise their function, be it from the perspective of civil rights, secularism or even democracy. So many those elements that find mitigating circumstances in discrimination, racism and, more broadly, prevail by capillarity to establish a form of exceptional regime. Rejection of ethnic confinement As mentioned earlier, the attacks on the Quebec City Mosque in January 2017 highlighted a problem of Islamophobia and the lack of burial sites available to the Muslims of Quebec. The Saint-Apollinaire referendum crystallised the tensions surrounding the membership or non-membership of the Muslim community in Quebec society; in short, its integration or its ghettoisation, with all the burden of approximation associated with these highly ideological concepts. In this sense, most of the Muslims we have met through this study (both first and second generation) do not wish to be classified as immigrants, but as fully-fledged Quebec citizens (Rachédi and Idir, 2018). Additionally, those interviewed expressed a significant distrust of the media, a body that has the potential to contribute to a negative representation of Muslims. Some have decided to distance themselves from the spheres of media and politics. Such is the case of this key interviewee: “Projects such as a cemetery need to be carried out or implemented free of manipulation, whether by the media or politicians, in the sense that it is a right and it’s important to know how to manage it. You can’t have cemeteries everywhere, that’s not the goal. That’s not the case and accepting it or not is like saying, ‘Welcome,

we accept them from beginning to end’.” Key interviewee, associations sector, region. The allocation of Muslim burial sites to facilitate the granting of funeral licenses is a subject that results in a sense of frustration and a genuine need for objectivity. This interviewee from the region exemplifies just that, calling for reflection that seeks solutions and renders the regulatory and financial mechanisms audible and visible: “Thank you [to the interviewer] for coming, because you have decided to include us in your study and this research structure, which I trust will not be negatively exploited, mainly by our friends, the media, because a scientific and empirical study such as this, based on field work, is not being done to further contribute to the isolation of this community. As such, I hope to help overcome the difficulties faced and find a way to move past them and establish procedures to facilitate that.” Key interviewee, association sector, region. Therefore, we must reposition this debate on the burials (and more broadly, the public debates on Muslim alterity) within a political field, which appears to hold more promise. This requires moving (both on a national and civil society level) to forms of coexistence that rule out exclusion. This will only occur if, rather than an issue that corresponds to beliefs, it becomes one that corresponds to collective interests. So that, both on a practical and an effective level, the interests, which are impossible to reduce to ‘identities’, regardless of their origins, either ideological or metaphysical, increase, not against beliefs, but alongside them. The need to deconstruct the interaction of immigration as ‘a privilege’ and dispense with the utilitarian perspective According to Piché (2013), all the migratory policies of the twentieth century are based on a postulate considered immutable: immigration is a privilege and not a right (Piché, 2013: 169). Daniel (2003) also confirms that, for the government, immigration continues to be a privilege and not a right; a privilege granted, or not, by the

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government, according to their own economic and social interests and, in particular, to the country’s ‘absorption capacity’. This term enabled the government to manage the flows that it considered appropriate and sums up the Canadian position on immigration perfectly: the government allows the entry of immigrants in sufficient numbers to satisfy the demand for labour, but limited so as not to disrupt the labour market (Daniel, 2003: 36). The participants we spoke to said that they are often reminded of their ‘privileged’ position of being in Quebec, particularly in the context of their daily contact with Quebec citizens (referred to as ‘d’origine’ or native). Obviously, they are informed of their responsibilities and obligations. In the process of integration, they are also aware of their rights. One of the important rights in Quebec society and, at the same time, one that is quite widespread in the different spheres of social life, is the right to choose. Thus, in relation to the issue of the Muslim burial sites of Quebec, the participants emphasised this freedom they should have to choose: “It is a person’s right to be able to choose: to be buried here, in a Muslim cemetery, in a multi-faith cemetery or to be sent to their country of origin. Therefore, having a Muslim cemetery in Quebec is a right, not a privilege. It’s our right and we have to respect it. As soon as we arrive here, we respect the laws of Quebec, we don’t have privileges, but we also know our rights. We are fully-fledged citizens”. (Group, Sherbrooke). Finally, with a migration model focused on mobility and utilitarianism, we can ask the question: Where does death fit into all this? Why did not we anticipate this need for burial sites? Clearly, the handling of this problem reflects a true lack of perspective with regard to community integration and balance. As with our migratory policies, increasingly infused with the paradigm of mobility and circularity, we must ask ourselves (as a hypothesis) whether the highly utilitarian vision that governs the migratory options of our provinces should not

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be considered in an analysis on the reasons why the authorities have failed to foresee or anticipate this need. A reminder of the fact that our migration regime places too much emphasis on a person’s role as a ‘migrant worker’. We forget the importance of thinking in a balanced way about their needs. By overstating and exclusively focusing on their function as ‘workers’, we induce a devaluation of people’s social and civic contribution. Death is, therefore, notably absent in this respect. From the figure of the eternal migrant to that of a citizen: necessary adaptations to the funerary legislative framework The most significant results of this microstudy on Muslim burial sites in Quebec echo those of other research projects conducted elsewhere in the world. In fact, if we look at international literature, there is an overrepresentation of the projects that demonstrate the difficulties that crystallise around the construction of Muslim burial sites or the acquisition of Islamic cemeteries.

In terms of funeral site management and burial policies in host countries, in Europe as well, studies have mainly focused on the difficulties faced by immigrants and Muslims: in France (Aggoun, 2006; Chaïb, 2000; El Alaoui, 2012; Duguet and Duchier, 2015), in Spain (Moreras and Tarrés, 2012), in Switzerland (Matthey, Felli and Mager, 2013), in the United Kingdom (Hunter and Ammann, 2016; Afiouni, 2012, 2014) and in the Netherlands (De Graaf, 2016). These same studies also highlight the legislation corresponding to the customs, body preparation practices and post-mortem destiny of bodies not considered within the other religions in the host societies that describe themselves as secular, but which are founded on historical principals based on post-Christian perceptions of life and death. Notably here the secularity of the State is transposed to the level of society. As if citizens should attain a kind of religious neutrality, even within the public sphere. In this socio-legal context, there are two main trends emerging: on the one hand,

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Muslim funeral centre SaintLaurent (Montreal). LILYANE RACHÉDI, 2018.

we are seeing a degree of commitment, adaptation, concession and adjustment to the practices of Muslims in the context of migration, both in terms of burial and ritual practices (Rachédi and Halsouet, 2017, Rachedi et al., 2016; Fall and Dimé, 2011). This strategy forms part, in particular, of a pillar of intercultural dialogue. This is especially true in the case of Muslim sites. The second trend requires a review of the benchmarks of the majority society in order to accept the integration of other religious traditions. In this rationale of acceptance, the other no longer has the role of the eternal migrant, but of a true full-fledged citizen. This seemingly more ‘critical’ strategy would fit with the pillar that promotes the right to have rights (as advocated by Han-

nah Arendt), from an egalitarian perspective that challenges the basis of the funerary legislative framework. It invites a process of consultation and (re)negotiation with ‘minority groups’, in the sociological sense of the term. Finally, a third alternative route may also be emerging: the development of a private and ‘ethnic’ funerary market that meets the specific requirements of Quebec’s Muslim community. In this segment, repatriation could also form part of the funeral services provided. However, and regardless of the scenario, we believe it is important to reiterate the fact that the government needs to first start considering Muslims as citizens of Quebec and not be complicit in this singularity of

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which they are constantly being reminded. On a final note, let us remember that, to paraphrase Barou (2015), the decision to be buried here symbolises the importance granted to those who come after us over those who have lived before. This sends a strong message of belonging to Quebec. On this point, the responsibility for Muslim burial sites should not be the exclusive mandate of a single Ministry (MIDI), but also of all the ministries mobilised in the processing of requests for burial sites, regardless of the faith. In short, it seems incongruous to relate the issues corresponding to the Muslim community with the subject of immigration, when many were actually born here, although that is the message constantly being fed back to the Muslim community. The Muslim Quebec citizen is perceived as a foreign body by Quebec society, to put it bluntly, an excrescence. Conclusion: towards an institutionalisation of Quebec’s Islamic community and a secular laicist regime This study reveals a dynamic image with regard to the Muslims of Quebec, in contrast to a passive and closed community subject to rules and dogmas. This dynamism should not dismiss the extent of the discrimination in play in relation to Muslim burial sites, it should not hide the vulnerability and suffering experience by this community on a daily basis. Our meetings have given us the opportunity to see the way in which a peaceful climate that is less marked by Islamophobia could promote a harmonious synthesis of multiple identities that would represent a propitious future.

Something similar to a removal of what appears to be an institutionalisation of Quebec’s Islam community emerges through the issue of burial places. What’s more, what emerges and prevents us from thinking clearly is the identification of a large part of Muslim people with the society of Quebec. The Quebec-Islam antinomy could be put to the test here.

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However, many of the people we have interviewed, even believers and religious leaders, do not view being Muslim and wishing to be a citizen of Quebec as incompatible. In other words, the idea of belonging to a society that does not possess Muslim origins does not represent an issue. These discussions about burial sites force us to denaturalise the mutual relationship between identity, belonging and citizenship. They force us to reconstruct social relationships and ‘natural factors’ such as state, nation and memory. Therefore, this debate raises new questions for people who are no longer able to understand their relationship with Quebec within the provisional rationale (Sayad, 2006). This forces them to think about the relationship between descent and place of bereavement. A Quebec Islam is being inculturated and invented. This should encourage us to review our vision of these people. This whole debate reveals the current contradictions that the citizenry is experiencing as a result of different mechanisms that stand in the way of successfully attaining effective equality for our principal population groups. On a final note, it is important to remember that the report on burial sites also needs to be considered in relation to Quebec’s secular regime, a factor that was highlighted during the interviews conducted. In some degree, the Quebec model of secularism can be understood as a form of historical commitment between the Church and the State. And, as such, the issues concerning the burial of people of Muslim tradition help us to understand that other parts of society have played no part in this pact. In that sense, it is evident that the issue of burial and all that is associated with the subject of cemeteries is expanding, as a result of the historical reality of Quebec, of the Church, as demonstrated by a series of legislative texts: the Catholic Cemeteries Act and Religious Societies Act (Rachédi et al., 2016). n

Fading away. Reflections on death

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Aggoun, A. (2006). Les musulmans face à la mort en France. Paris: Editorial Vuibert. Afiouni, N. (2012). “Les carrés musulmans à Southampton et au Havre: témoignages des politiques française et britannique de la gestion de la pluralité”, Observatoire de la société britannique, no. 13, p. 83-100. Retrieved from: http:// osb.revues.org/1434. Afiouni, N. (2014). “Le marché funéraire en Grande-Bretagne: entre individualisme, multiculturalisme et syncrétisme”. In M. Prum (Dir.) Questions ethniques dans l’aire anglophone, p. 71-86, Paris: Editorial L’Harmattan. Barou, J. (2015). “Représentations de la mort et projets funéraires chez les immigrés âgés”, Revue Hommes et migrations (1), 137-145. Retrieved from: https://www.cairn.info/ revue-hommes-et-migrations2015-1-page-137.htm. [Consulted on 7 July 2018]. Bendriss, N. (2012). “En marge de la société: les arabes et les musulmans”, Vivre ensemble, vol. 19, no. 64. Hiver. Boucher, Y. (2017). “Apprendre à ‘mourir ensemble’”, Le Devoir. 10 July. http://www.ledevoir. com/societe/ethique-et-religion/ 503053/cimetiere-musulmanapprendre-a-mourir-ensemble. [Consulted on 7 August 2017]. Bourdieu, P. (1986). “L’illusion biographique”, Actes de la Recherche en Sciences Sociales, no. 62-63, p. 69-72. Retrieved from: http://www.persee.fr/ doc/arss_0335-5322_1986_ num_62_1_2317. [Consulted on 7 February 2017] Chaïb, Y. (2000). L’émigré et la mort. Aix-en-Provence: Edisud. Daher, A. (2001). “Les événements du 11 septembre et les Québécois de religion islamique”, Vivre ensemble, vol. 10, no. 34, autumn 2001. Retrieved from: http://www. cjf.qc.ca/ ve/archives/themes/sp/ spdaher_34.htm. [Consulted on 16 March 2008].

Daniel, D. (2003). “Une autre nation d’immigrants. La politique d’immigration du Canada au 20e siècle”, Vingtième Siècle. Revue d’histoire 2003/1 (77), 33-46. De Graaf, F. (2016). “End-of-life care and beyond”, Journal of Intercultural Studies, 37, 133-146. Duguet, A.-M. and Duchier, J. (2015). “Respect du corps et des souhaits de sépulture des Maghrébins âgés”, Hommes & Migrations, 1309, 147-152. El Alaoui, S. (2012). “L’espace funéraire de Bobigny: du cimetière aux carrés musulmans (19342006)”, Revue européenne des migrations internationales, vol. 28, no. 3 (2012). http://journals. openedition.org/remi/6006. [Consulted on 5 May 2016]. Fall, K. and Dimé, N. M. (Coords.). (2011). La mort musulmane en contexte d’immigration et d’islam minoritaire. Enjeux religieux, culturels, identitaires et espaces de négociations, Quebec: PUL. Helly, D. (2009). “La légitimité en panne ?”, Cultures & Conflits, 74 | summer 2009. Retrieved from: http://conflits.revues.org/17270. [Consulted on 8 August 2018].

mans en Espagne: des lieux de l’altérité”, Revue Européenne des Migrations Internationales, 28 (3), 13-26. http://remi.revues. org/5993. [Consulted on 3 August 2017]. Piché, V. (2013). “Les théories migratoires contemporaines au prisme des textes fondateurs”, Population 2013/1, 68, 153-178. DOI 10.3917/popu.1301.0153. Pietrantonio, L., Bourgeault, G. and Renaud, J. (Coords.). (2002). Les relations ethniques en question: Ce qui a changé depuis le 11 septembre 2001, Montreal: Presses de l’Université de Montréal. Potvin, M. (2017). Plus jamais. Synthesis Conference by G. Boucher, Y. Boucher and D. Meintel, University of Montreal’s Centre for Ethnic Studies (CEETUM). May. Retrieved from: http://www. ceetum.umontre...9-janvier-plus-jamais.pdf Rachedi, L., Halsouet, B., Vatz-Laaroussi, M. and Cheron Leboeuf, L. (2016). “Immigrer, mourir et vivre un deuil au Canada: contexte légal, stratégies et réseaux transnationaux”, Revista IdeAs, 6, 1-17. DOI: 10.4000/ ideas.1158.

Hunter, A. and Ammann, E. S. (2016). “End-of-life care and rituals in contexts of post-migration diversity in Europe. An introduction”. Journal of intercultural studies, 37, 95-102.

Rachedi, L. and Halsouet, B. (Coords.). (2017). Quand la mort frappe l’immigrant. Défis et adaptations. Montreal: Presses de l’Université de Montréal.

Huntington, S. (1997). Le choc des civilisations, Paris: Odile Jacob.

Rachedi, L. and Idir, M. (2018). “L’enracinement d’une islamité québécoise: le cas des sépultures musulmanes”, Revue Relations (794), 31-32.

Kymlicka, L. (2006). Tester les limites du multiculturalisme libéral ? Vancouver: Annual Trudeau Foundation Conference, from 16 to 18 November. Matthey, L., Felli R. and Mager, C. (2013). “We do have space in Lausanne. We have a large cemetery: the non-controversy of a non-existent Muslim burial ground”, Social & Cultural Geography, 14, 428-445. Moreras, J. and Tarrés, S. (2012). “Les cimetières musul-

Sayad, A. (2006). L’immigration ou les paradoxes de l’altérité: l’illusion du provisoire. Paris: Raisons d’agir. Wilkins-Laflamme, S. (2018). “Toward the elimination of Islamophobia in Canada”, Policy options politiques. Retrieved from: http://policyoptions. irpp.org/magazines/march-2018/ toward-the-elimination-of-islamo phobia-in-canada/

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Jordi Moreras

Ariadna Solé Arraràs

ROVIRA I VIRGILI UNIVERSITY (URV)

OPEN UNIVERSITY OF CATALONIA (UOC)

Professor at Rovira i Virgili University’s Department of Anthropology, Philosophy and Social Work, his specialist research area relates to the Muslim communities in Catalonia, a subject on which he has written a number of monographs, most recently that of Identidades a la intemperie. Una mirada antropológica a la radicalización en Europa (Identities out in the cold. An anthropological look at radicalisation in Europe; Bellaterra, 2018). Notable among his contributions within the field of the anthropology of death are, Espais de mort i diversitat religiosa. La presència de l’islam als cementiris i tanatoris catalans (Spaces of death and religious diversity. The Islam presence in Catalan cemeteries and funeral homes) (2014), with Ariadna Solé Arraràs, and Socio-antropología de la muerte. Nuevos enfoques en el estudio de la muerte (Socio-anthropology of death. New approaches to the study of death; edition), edited by Publicacions de la URV in 2018.

Ariadna Solé holds a PhD in Social Anthropology from the University of Barcelona (2015), based on her thesis entitled Rituals funeraris islàmics transnacionals. La repatriació de difunts entre Catalunya i Kolda (Senegal) (Transnational Islamic funerary rituals. The repatriation of the deceased between Catalonia and Kolda [Senegal]).Alongside Jordi Moreras, she is the co-author of the book Espais de mort i diversitat religiosa. La presència de l’islam als cementiris i tanatoris catalans (Spaces of death and religious diversity. The presence of Islam in Catalan cemeteries and funeral homes; 2014). In addition to funeral rituals, her research has been primarily focused on the study of Islamic rituals in Catalonia, particularly those practised among the Senegalese community and, more recently, on the study of discourses and practices related to gender Islamophobia. She currently works as a course instructor at the Open University of Catalonia.

Bodies without rest

An analysis proposal for post-mortem mobility

or some decades now, social sciences have attempted to divulge the cultural rationales that are called into play around the end of life. The historical and ethnographic corpus is so diverse and changing at the same time that it casts doubt on whether it is possible to synthesise a universal sense of that which is understood by a ‘good death’ (Kaufman-Morgan, 2005; Green, 2008). The classic literature regarding studies of death2 has only ventured to emphasise the obligation of caring for the deceased and of those that make up their inner circle as a general trait, through the deployment of rituals of celebration, of mourning and of remembrance, and in which the treatment of the body and its final destination take on a central dimension. From Durkheim and Hertz, we know that the death of someone close (through consanguinity, affiliation or belonging) imposes obligations on the living and represents a test of the highest order in measuring the strength of the internal bonds within the groups that suffer the loss of one of its members. Hertz asserted that “when a man dies, society loses in him much more than a unit; it

is stricken in the very principle of its life, in the faith it has in itself” (Hertz, 1990: 90). As Louis-Vincent Thomas (1989: 11) pointed out, ritualisation around death becomes a desperate attempt on the part of social groups to thereby integrate the wrench that death represents. The rituality, through its cadences and liminalities, serves to reintegrate the social order that has been temporarily disrupted by the physical loss of one of the members of the collective. Death, then, becomes a matter of the living, since, as John Berger said in his Twelve Theses on the Economy of the Dead (Berger, 1994), thanks to them, the living are able to complete our lives. This represents a classic analytical framework although we believe that it remains relevant despite certain nuances that we will propose here. Each funerary culture is based on a canonical definition of what is understood by a ‘good death’, which represents an ideal that is not always attainable. While biological finitude imperceptibly marks our life span, we continue to recreate the way in which we position our own and other people’s death in our lives. The transition between life and death is understood to require completion

Paraules clau: rituals funeraris, repatriació, deathscapes, migracions, mobilitat. Palabras clave: rituales funerarios, repatriación, deathscapes, migraciones, mobilidad. Key words: funerary rituals, repatriation, deathscapes, migration, mobility.

This article is part of the Death in a Migratory Context (MECMI) research project, an international network coordinated by Carolina Kobelinsky (CNRS, France) and Lilyane Rachédi (University of Québec, Montréal), funded by Fonds de recherche du Québec (FRQSC, Canada) and the Agence Nationale de Recherche (ANR, France).

Without being exhaustive, the works of Ariès (1999), Bloch-Parry (1982), Catedra (1988), Di Nola (2007), Gorer (1965), Huntington-Metcalf (1979), Lomnitz (2008) and Thomas (1983) can all be cited.

Fading away. Reflections on death

and not be eternally extended. Many cultural traditions have developed complex argumentations and ritual practices in order to usher the soul, spirit or consciousness of the deceased in the correct direction and prevent them from returning to disturb the living. The return of the dead, apart from having become an integral part of our popular culture (we only have to look at the success of novels, movies and television series related to vampires and zombies), continues to evoke classic forms of fear (Fernández Juárez-Pedrosa, 2008). What we would like to look at here, however, is not the dead returning to life, but the absence caused by the mobility of the deceased.3 In the perceptions associated with that which is understood by a ‘good death’ a key aspect is often the place, either the place of death or the final resting place of the deceased (Saraiva and Mapril, 2012). The ritualised transition between life and death ends once the deceased body is permanently deposited in a suitable place, as dictated by the group to which it belonged. That is not always the situation, however, demonstrating that, sometimes, bodies do not stop moving after death: in the classic study by Jessica Mitford on the American funeral industry in the 1960s (Mitford, 2008), there were already an estimated one hundred and fifty bodies being transported by air from one place to another on a daily

Aquest text planteja una aproximació bibliogràfica a les manifestacions de la mobilitat post mortem. Al llarg de la història es troben diferents exemples que han volgut respondre al fet que suposa trobar la mort “lluny de casa”, i que proposen les accions necessàries per corregir aquesta absència dels difunts en les ritualitats funeràries i procurar que els seus cossos puguin reposar prop dels seus familiars. Es crea un deure solidari entre els membres dels col·lectius als quals aquells pertanyien, que suposa la reapropiació dels cossos dels difunts en termes de pertinença. El text analitza aquests processos i suggereix futurs terrenys de recerca dins l’àmbit de l’antropologia de la mort.

basis in the United States. Based on a review of the way in which this issue has been dealt with in anthropology, this article aims to reflect on post-mortem mobility which, contrary to what one might think, is far from rare. (Rowles-Comeaux, 1987; Schmitz, 1999; Jassal, 2015; Grenet, 2017). Deceased bodies have their own ‘social life’ (Favole, 2003) and the issue opens up new areas of research within the field of anthropology of death. Post-mortem mobility: an interpretive essay A popular saying suggests that until the body of a deceased person is at rest in the ground, the hearts of those who have mourned their death cannot be comforted. The definitive rest represents the final phase to which all the funerary rituals and procedures associated with caring for and preparing the corpse aspire. As stated previously, places of death are clearly delimited in each society (Urbain, 1978; Ragon, 1981; Baudry, 1999) and, therefore, it is inconceivable that deceased bodies could be in any other space. In fact, the only mobility after death provided for within the different regulations defined by the mortuary hygiene department (which is responsible for the “surveillance and control of cadavers and cadaveric remains”, as defined by the Catalan Public Health Agency),4 relates to transporting a body from the place of death to their home (or,

Este texto plantea una aproximación bibliográfica a las manifestaciones de la movilidad post mortem. A lo largo de la historia se encuentran diferentes ejemplos que han querido responder a lo que supone encontrar la muerte “lejos de casa”, y que proponen las acciones necesarias para corregir esta ausencia de los difuntos en las ritualidades funerarias, y procurar que sus cuerpos pudieran reposar cerca de sus familiares. Se crea un deber solidario entre los miembros de los colectivos a los que aquellos pertenecían, lo que supone la reapropiación de los cuerpos de los difuntos en términos de pertenencia. El texto analiza estos procesos y sugiere futuros terrenos de investigación dentro del ámbito de la antropología de la muerte.

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In the seminar entitled ‘The Wandering Dead. Displacement and the Critical Movement of Dead Bodies’, held in Paris on 15 and 16 June 2017 within the framework of the MECMI project, it was possible to identify that, in modern times, the wandering dead acquire new forms and expressions.

The relevant current legislation in Catalonia can be consulted via the following link:http://salutpublica. gencat.cat/ca/ambits/proteccio_ salut/policia_sanitaria_mortuoria/

This text presents a bibliographic approach to manifestations of post-mortem mobility. Throughout history there have been many examples of responses to meeting death “away from home”, proposing the necessary actions to correct the absence of the deceased in their funerary rituals, and ensure that their bodies could rest near their relatives. A sense of solidarity is created among the members of the groups to which they belonged, which represents the reappropriation of the deceased bodies in terms of belonging. The text analyses these processes and suggests future areas of research within the field of anthropology of death.

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nowadays, to the funeral home), to the religious space where, if applicable, the obsequies will be performed, to finally arrive at the cemetery in the case of burial, or the crematorium, if it is decided that the body should be cremated. The funerary services regulation determines exactly how to proceed at all times and the time frame in which it must be carried out. But, as suggested by Maurice Bloch (2017), this ideal definition of the journey that the organic element (the body) takes to be deposited in an inorganic container (be it a tomb or, in the case of cremation, the urn into which the ashes will be deposited), is not a guarantee that the corpse will definitively come to a halt. Indeed, Bloch himself (Bloch, 1971) studied the Famadihana funerary tradition in Madagascar, a ceremony in which the bodies of dead ancestors are exhumed to participate in a dance and rewrapped in fresh cloths before being returned to their crypt. Closer to home, when ashes are given to the relatives of the deceased, no kind of indication is established which requires them to determine exactly where the final destination of these human remains will be, nor any kind of instruction given.5 The final resting place of the ashes is entirely uncertain, because they may be deposited at a relative’s house, or distributed in different portions among several relatives, or even – in a practice that has become quite commonplace – deposited in some kind of natural setting, whether at sea, in rivers or in the mountains. Some funeral businesses, appealing to the dimension of preserving the memory of the deceased, offer the possibility of depositing ashes in columbaria or family tombs, thus representing the return of the body to the cemetery space. All this uncertainty regarding the final destination of the ashes is the source of some debate from which proposals have been made with regard to the development of controls for their traceability or of regulations to prevent ashes being freely deposited (Hanus, 2007; Clavandier, 2009: 190; Esquerre, 2011). Despite all this, the most interesting aspect that remains relates to the new ties that are established between the living and the dead, given the transformation undergone by the distance traditionally established between

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the two when depositing the body in the cemetery (Mathijssen, 2017, 2018). Death, ever unpredictable, is made even more tragic when it occurs outside of a context that is considered as ‘belonging’ to the deceased. ‘Dying away from home’ is the expression that summarises the social anxiety generated when someone dies away from the warmth of relatives, friends and acquaintances. If, furthermore, in addition to the distance, the body of the deceased is also absent, the weight of the tragedy is multiplied as a result of being deprived the opportunity to witness the transition or dispose of the body as part of a funeral ceremony. The obsequies performed in the absence of a corpse have formed part of the daily life of many maritime communities that, when faced with the loss of entire crews, have been obliged to hold ceremonies to bid their loved ones farewell in the absence of any evidence, proof or certainty of their death. Conversely, however, we are also aware of the existence of bodies that are unable to be identified, such as those washed up on the shores of Southern Europe of those who, fleeing war and poverty, hoped to reach the European continent (Brian, 2013; Edkins, 2016; Perl, 2016; Zagaria, 2015).6 The shocking testimony of cemeteries such as those in Algeciras and Nador, in which bodies are buried that have not been identified, is further aggravated by the general indifference of Europe’s political institutions.7 There is no worse context for having to come to terms with death than when the deceased is absent. This is an issue raised by L. V. Thomas, who provides numerous historical and ethnographic examples of the desire to redress the untimely and transgressive death that occurs ‘away from home’. Even the Bible provides specific accounts which demonstrate the will to restore the deceased (in this case, only the bones) from the place where they are found dead to the land where they were born: “David took the bones of Saul and those of his son Jonathan. And they gathered the bones of those who had been executed. And they buried the bones of Saul and his son in the land of Benjamin at Zela,

On the contrary: aware of how easy it is to transport the remains of a relative to a specific destination, funeral companies usually issue a certificate that states that the content of the urns correspond to the ashes of the deceased person. Being in possession of this certificate undoubtedly avoids encountering access control problems in the case of transporting ashes by plane.

The estimated number of people who have met their end in the Mediterranean is quite difficult to establish and represents the tragic testimony of the symbiotic relationship between the illegal trafficking of people and the administrative and securitarian closure of the European borders (see Kobelinsky-Le Courant, 2017).

With reference to said cemeteries, it is worth mentioning the work of photographer Sebastián Conejo, ‘Desconocidos’ (Unknown), an exhibition organised at the Huelva Museum in 2011 (see Conejo, 2018) that provided a stark portrayal of the anonymous headstones found in the cemetery in Algeciras. In the case of Nador, the excellent article by journalist Cristina Mas deserves to be cited: ‘Morts a les portes d’Espanya i enterrats sense nom al Marroc’ (Deceased on the shores of Spain and buried without name in Morocco), Ara, 23 September 2018. Retrieved from: https:// www.ara.cat/internacional/ Morts-nom-comiat-portes-Espanya_0_2094390590.html [consulted on 23 September 2018].

Fading away. Reflections on death

in the tomb of Kish his father”. (2 Samuel 21.12-14). Another example of historical post-mortem mobility is the movement of so-called relics, which correspond to human remains belonging to people who had aroused the popular devotion of the faithful of different religious traditions (Manseau, 2010). However, many of the historical examples of body transfers correspond to deaths that have occurred in the context of wars. In Medieval times, the movement of the bones of nobles and dignitaries transported during military campaigns, particularly during the Crusades, was subject to a ban on the part of Pope Boniface VIII, who argued that the body of a Christian had to be buried whole (Brown, 1981). Also, during the conquests of the early ages of Islam, the Mediterranean became the sea of the “martyrs of the battlefields”, and their sacrifice of death while fulfilling a religious duty was interpreted by the Muslim jurists of the time as a reason to be granted the “reward of two martyrs” during the memorial ceremonies held for the deceased (Picard, 2012: 18). The memory of those who died “in foreign lands” has been able to be maintained and honoured through the cenotaphs, or funerary monuments that, despite not containing any tombs, served as a memorial for a person or a group of people. Nowadays, it is common to see cenotaphs in cemeteries, in memory of the victims of air accidents or natural disasters that influenced public feeling. Each country also honours its soldiers who died away from their homeland, by erecting funerary monuments, even though the repatriation of the bodies of dead combatants has now become ordinary practice, with each armed force equipped with an organisational unit responsible for the management of this task,8 and the return of the coffins wrapped in the relevant national flag has become a ceremony exalting patriotism (Zins, 2005; De Clerck, 2014). Thus, the bodies of specific figures become powerful symbols of a political nature and, therefore, great efforts are made to move them to a specific burial place (Rader, 2006).

The location of these tombs is the object of debate to the extent that it stimulates bonding processes with those spaces as a place to position the memory or desire to forget. There are countless historical examples of this: from the transfer of the body of Alexander the Great from Babylon to Egypt (and not to Olympia, as was the wish of his mother) in the fourth century BC, to the transfer of Napoleon’s corpse to France, not to mention the remains of General Francisco Franco and his exhumation from the Valle de los Caídos. For several years now, an intense debate has also been raging with regard to the restitution of human remains removed during archaeological excavations carried out during the colonial period, which went on to become part of the collections exhibited by museums and other cultural institutions. The call from indigenous communities for the recovery of ancestral remains is expressed in terms of respecting their human dignity (Brothwell, 2004; Payne, 2004; Price, 2004; Smith, 2004; Hole, 2007; Conaty, 2008; Jenkins, 2008; Kakaliouras, 2012; Nash, 2018). One such case in Catalonia concerned the dissected remains of the San individual preserved at the Darder Museum in Banyoles. The current Spanish National Museum of Anthropology (MNA) also contains a section that preserves unusual human remains (such as the skeleton known as the ‘Giant of Extremadura’, originally from Puebla de Alcocer, Badajoz). Another high profile example corresponds to the campaign organised in 1999 for the repatriation of the remains of Ishi – undoubtedly one of the most famous indigenous individuals in ethnological literature as a result of his close collaboration with Alfred L. Kroeber – which sparked an intense debate on the exercise of moral reparation required in the field of anthropology in order to recognise its implication in the invisible genocide suffered by the indigenous peoples of the Americas (Scheper-Hugues, 2001; Kenny-Killian, 2002). The obligation to restore the deceased body, in order to establish its appropriate resting place

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According to the Handbook on International Rules Governing Military Operations by the International Committee of the Red Cross (September 2016), the conditions under which the evacuation of those who have died as the result of conflicts are clearly established, as well as the treatment and handling of mortal remains for the purposes of repatriation.

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and correct the untimeliness of the death, is at the root of most of the processes that activate the post-mortem mobility of the dead. The reasons that explain this correction represent and respond to specific rationales. In short, however, they represent the expression of a collective desire to correct a double absence, and a test, as the groups that have suffered the loss of one of their members put the strength of their feelings of belonging to the test. The etymological meaning of the term â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;repatriationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; (return, restore someone to their homeland) itself is sufficiently revealing of the intention behind the efforts to prevent the spatial absence of the deceased from resulting in their social oblivion.

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The following sections aim to further explore this moral obligation convened in order to reappropriate deceased bodies within those contexts and situations that death has attempted to subvert. Our objective is to thereby suggest new areas of interest for future research. To whom do the dead belong? Death tests the affiliations connecting the deceased with those closest to them. Among the main obligations that correspond to the living to which Hertz referred, perhaps one of the key ones is the assertion of ties with the dead. No society expects family members to deny or disown their dead; neither

Coffin waiting to be transported to Morocco. Barcelona Airport (5 June 2015). JORDI MORERAS

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does the scenario of unclaimed corpses enter into the collective imagination. And yet, it is a frequent occurrence: in the case of the former, the bureaucratic rationale corresponding to cemetery spaces that prevails within our society forces the remains of the deceased to move for the last time (which corresponds to the reduction and subsequent destruction of the remains), if the concession of the burial ground is not extended. The passage of generations leads to ancestral relatives being forgotten. In the latter, anonymous death not only relates to the study of the mass graves of those murdered during the Spanish Civil War (Ferrandiz, 2006, 2013), or with the deaths of those who have drowned trying to cross the Mediterranean.9 A database of Missing Persons and Unidentified Human Remains (PDIRH) was established in Spain in 1968, to which all police forces have access, and which currently (as of March 2018) lists a total of 3,580 unidentified human bodies or remains.10 An unidentified body needs to be identified and it is the states that have the ultimate responsibility when it comes to the management of human remains and “assigning them a specific location” (Esquerre-Truc, 2011: 10), in the relevant socially determined spaces. The anonymous graves of the Algeciras and Tarifa cemeteries wait in the hope that they will one day be identified and, as a result, be transferred to an as yet unknown destination. But, for the moment, the mortal remains are correctly placed within this cemetery space, as the dead are mourned by their loved ones and their bodies are managed by the states in relation to how they are viewed according to what they represent for the living (Verdery, 1999; Posel-Gupta, 2009). The dead participate in the (re)construction of a specific national identity and, therefore, become subjects reclaimed on a basis that asserts their belonging to the group. In the case of former Yugoslavia, Elisabeth Claverie (2011) demonstrates how the recovery of bodies that had been victims of ethnic cleansing in Bosnia had become a matter that went beyond identifying them and ensuring a dignified burial, to becoming a political controversy, in which the identification of the bodies was transformed into “a process

that makes it possible to go from ‘missing’ to ‘victim’, then from ‘victim’ to legal evidence” (p. 14). Sometimes it is the relatives themselves that are required to correct that which constituted an ‘incorrect burial’, as in the case of the inhabitants of northern Uganda, after almost twenty-two years of civil war and the total abandonment of the victims by the State (Meinert-White, 2016). Also, the return of the deceased (and ill) to their country, after having contracted HIV/AIDS, not only became a morally conditioned act (which led to the stigmatisation of the sick/ deceased), but also a matter which involved state intervention based on a rationale of public health protection (Pourette, 2002; Whyte, 2005; Welaga et al. 2009; NuñezWheeler, 2012). But if there is one area in which the states are increasingly insistent in asserting their ownership of the corpses, it is with respect to the circularity of the deceased which is established with regard to the border areas that separate north from south (such as the border between Mexico and the United States, or that of the Mediterranean). Paradoxically, death facilitates mobility that is denied in life and contributes to the establishment of a real “industry of repatriation”, as highlighted by the authors who have studied these processes (in the case of the former, Lestage, 2008, 2012; Félix, 2011; and in the latter, Chaïb, 2000; Petit, 2002, 2005). The confluence of interests produced by this movement of deceased individuals is explained in terms of “an economy of bodies in which the term of exchange is national identity” (Chaïb, 2000: 131). Adrián Félix (2011) analyses the initiatives employed by the Mexican state which makes the repatriation of their dead compatriots into an opportunity to “canonise the repatriated dead as if they were fallen soldiers within a fantastical national imaginary” (p. 177). The Mexican case is not an isolated one: the website for Moroccan nationals living abroad features a specific section specifically outlining the administrative procedures in the event of deceased repatriation, headed by a statement which praises the commitment of King Mohamed VI to his subjects abroad and covers “the

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The Guardian newspaper’s initiative to publish the list of 34,361 documented people who had died crossing the Mediterranean up until June 2018 (see https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/jun/20/ the-list-europe-migrant-bodycount, consulted on 25 September 2018) is unable to conceal the existence of many other deaths that will never be able to be identified despite the efforts of NGOs, such as United for Intercultural Action: http://www. unitedagainstracism.org.

2018 Missing Persons Report Ministry of the Interior. Retrieved from: http://www.lamoncloa.gob.es/ serviciosdeprensa/notasprensa/ Documents/060318INFORME_ PERSONASDESAPARECIDAS. pdf [consulted on 26 September 2018].

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repatriation costs of the remains of Moroccans in need who have died abroad from their host country to the address of their families in Morocco”, and offers “condolences to the families of the deceased on behalf of the minister and all the department officials at the time of their burial”.11 At no point in the required documentation is the full Moroccan nationality of the deceased questioned; regardless of whether the individual has been able to adopt the citizenship of the country in which they resided, the Moroccan code of nationality does not provide for the renunciation of the national link. Osman Balkan (2015) explores the different dimensions of ethnic identity corresponding to the death of Turkish nationals in Germany, whether they are Turks, Kurds or Alevis, and the ways in which they sought alternatives to the action carried out by the Turkish government through Diyanet, or the delegation of the Ministry of Religious Affairs of Ankara, which works to impose an official model of national and religious identity.12 Besim Can Zirh (2012), in turn, explains the strategies developed by the members of the Alevi minority group in order to facilitate the return of the deceased to their region of origin and avoid the assimilationist interference of the Turkish powers, which represents the expression of a “ritualised and spatial practice of (transnational) community-making beyond national categories and cartographies”(p. 1769). When the emigrant – that anonymous figure that represents a collective yearning to achieve the opportunities that their own land has denied them – is renamed an exiled compatriot for whom a posthumous homage is desired, is when the interest of the states is manifested for reclaiming the deceased as their own and sealing their commitment with a national affiliation that never went away, regardless of the ties and sense of belonging they constructed with their host society in life. This symbolic appropriation of the bodies-subjects acts to restore the essential anomaly that emigration represents (in the words of Abdelmalek Sayad), interfering with the genealogical will to restore the deceased to the land of their ancestors.

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When the deceased becomes an object of collective appropriation, the issue that remains to be resolved is whether, at some point, it is possible to discuss their social agency in order to decide on their final place of rest. The convergence of deathscapes and funerary cultures The concept of deathscapes, or funerary landscapes, has been used in geography to refer to those spaces where death-related practices are conducted, which can have an obvious impact on the landscape (such as the case of cemeteries) or create a much more discrete impact (as in the case of spaces where the ashes of the dead are deposited, without having been formally established as such). Also considered as part of these landscapes are the social spaces that have been designated as places of remembrance and memory (Teather, 2001; Maddrell-Sidaway, 2010). Alistair Hunter (2016) proposes the recovery of the notion of deathscapes by incorporating the notion of diaspora and other relevant funerary practices that correspond to cultural and religious groups. Based on the analysis of two specific cases (the creation of a Muslim cemetery near Glasgow and the call for the provision of open-air Hindu funeral pyres in Newcastle), Hunter asks to what extent the development of these practices represents a reformulation of the notions that these migrant groups develop with respect to their society of origin, and pave the way towards the negotiation of their membership of the (British) society in which they find themselves.

What Hunter suggests is at the heart of the discussion that has led other authors to consider how cultural practices and ritual forms (which include funerary ones) developed by immigrant groups serve to maintain links with their relevant references of origin, or otherwise connect them with the society of which they now form part. Hunter suggests that these links with place of origin will eventually be replaced by an increasingly strong affinity with their current society. In contrast, Mathieu Grenet (2017) argues that it is necessary to rethink the dialectic between ‘land of origin’ and ‘host society’,

See “Rapatriement de dépouillesMinistère chargé des Marocains Résidant à l’Étranger et des Affaires de la Migration” (Repatriation of Remains - Ministry in Charge of Moroccans Living Abroad and Migration Affairs). Retrieved from: http://www.marocainsdumonde. gov.ma/fr/social/rapatriement-des-d%C3%A9pouilles [consulted on 26 September 2018].

Bruce (2018) presents an interesting comparison of the attempts made by the Moroccan and Turkish governments to monitor the construction of specific national and religious identities and intervene in all the everyday aspects related to these groups, one of which is the issue of repatriation of the deceased to their regions of origin.

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to overcome the binary opposition between ‘here’ and ‘there’ and find alternatives that correspond to the way in which death is positioned in the lives of migrant people. To that end, he proposes three areas of reflection. First of all, the distant death does not become an indifferent death, since a kind of “transnationalisation of attachments” is established, which means that, through social media networks, the trial of bereavement is not circumscribed to the family context or the immediate friendships of the deceased, but is an experience that can be shared by other people who are thousands of kilometres away. Secondly, considering the numerous initiatives that end up forming a true “repatriation industry”, a different relationship is established between ‘here/there’ that is not exempt from processes for the reconversion of emigrants/ immigrants into nationals – as discussed above – and that causes the issue of death to be reinstated within the context of global negotiation of the role of borders between states. Finally, for Grenet, death in a migratory context becomes a source of ritual recreation, in which numerous practices exist that attempt to correct the impossibility of returning the deceased body by means of their symbolic substitution through their belongings (Petit, 2005) or repatriating only part of their body (Hassoun, 1993). Regardless of the sense that surrounds this duality conditioning the method by which the deceased individual is returned, Western societies have decided to incorporate this sense of diversity into funerary practices and spaces and facilitate a plural ceremonial perspective with regard to death. However, whether due to the inherent difficulties associated with this progressive adjustment or the development of a genealogical principle that favours the return of the deceased to a country of origin (Chaïb, 2000; Moreras-Solé, 2018), it may be that this idea of deathscapes needs to be understood in far broader terms. We would like to suggest that all the practices associated with the process of repatriation of a deceased body facilitate the exemplifica-

tion of a point at which a variety of funerary cultures come into contact, which, in principle, would not normally coincide. The delivery and receipt of a corpse cannot be understood solely as the ordinary transportation of an object, in accordance with international legal regulations that dictate the conditions under which this transport must be carried out. It also results in the convergence of different ways of considering, handling, protecting and caring for mortal remains with a specific identity and which the relatives of the deceased and those close to them have decided to send to their region of origin in order to be buried near their family members. This set of practices related to the return of the deceased to their homes cannot be interpreted solely from a bureaucratic perspective, as it incorporates new scenarios and situations where contact can be demonstrated between societies and cultures that understand death differently, and that, up to that point, have not had to make any kind of attempt to connect or complement each other. International post-mortem mobility thus generates an unexpected intercultural convergence and paves the way for thinking about repatriation as a link, and not as the simple transfer of a commodity. The eternal migratory return Austrian sociologist Alfred Schutz, in his well-known essay on the stranger (originally published in 1944), affirmed that, “from the point of view of the approached group, he is a man without a history” (Schutz, 1974: 76, emphasis by the author). He is only expected to prove his new loyalty to the host society, in the present and in the future. His past and his memory (“Tombs and memories cannot be transferred or conquered”) hold no significance for the host society. The also Franco-Algerian sociologist Abdelmalek Sayad understood that the return was a constituent element of the immigrant condition, which facilitated an end to the chronic provisionalisation of their spatial and referential detachment: “there is no presence anywhere that is not paid for by an absence somewhere else” (Sayad, 1998: 15).

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Migrant belonging has always been subject to controversy, both during life and in death.13 Arguments have been proposed that state that an individual’s desire to want to be buried in their adopted land represents conclusive proof of the definitive establishment of the migrant. Their tomb, regardless of the funeral rituals deployed during the farewell ceremony, would represent the testimony of a willingness to remain, and perhaps the last stage of a mobility that began long before. What was permanently questioned during their lifetime – their integration – seemed to be settled, paradoxically, at the time of their death. It is above all this set of assumptions which supports a public belief, which relates the singularities corresponding to immigrant groups with the progressive pluralisation of the societies that host these communities. This is an oversimplified conclusion, based on the idea that time leads to a progressive accommodation of those singularities and fails to appreciate that they may alter that process. Thus, a series of recommendations have been proposed in the funerary area whereby the actors involved (both from the public sphere, such as city councils, and from the private sector, funeral service companies) are able to provide for the plurality of rituals and ways of understanding the process of death, as well as the treatment and final destination of the corpse, as long as they meet current health regulations. For example, one recommendation relates to the allocation of specific areas within local cemeteries in order to bury the dead affiliated with those traditions in which a specific type of funeral is required. All these actions are focused on achieving the continuity of these expressions and their progressive incorporation within this specific area. However, the fact that there are collectives that, in the main, prefer to repatriate their deceased for burial in the region from which they originated, as another element of the transnational circularity that interconnects different territories and social spaces, attests to this projection of assumptions of continuities and accommodations in which the return to place of

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origin was not a variable that was anticipated at any point. The post-mortem return has ceased to be seen as a marginal fact in understanding specific migratory cycles to address previously unforeseen issues (such as the ageing of the immigrant population), or to review the previous approaches with regard to notions such as return, transnational relationships and the construction of belonging (Tarrés-Solé-Jàvega-Moreras, 2012; Lestage-Grenet, 2018). The anxiety surrounding return, explicitly expressed by those who communicated their wish to be buried in the region where they were born,14 or even turned into a kind of collective duty in relation to the deceased and their family, becomes an inescapable dimension when this population ages. Prior to this demographic evolution taking place, however, the fact that the duty of care for the deceased would fall to the collectives was already a given. Even when mobility was not as accessible as it is now, people sought the necessary resources to repatriate the deceased to their country of origin. During the 1970s, Italian, Spanish and Portuguese migrants who had died as a result of illness or accidents at work were repatriated from France15 using the services of funeral companies that soon caught on to the interest that prevailed within these groups for returning their deceased to their homelands. António Branquinho Pequeno (1983) explains how “the last return” of Portuguese workers from France was turned into a community obligation, in which everyone was called on to make a donation for whatever they could to cover the costs of the transfer (around 11,000-14,000 French francs, the equivalent of three months’ salary of one of these workers). The preference was for the bodies to be transported by vehicle to the region of origin and was organised by the first Portuguese insurance agencies that had begun to be introduced in France. According to this author, most Portuguese deaths were repatriated, especially when they still had relatives at home, who often petitioned for the body of the deceased to be returned. In his account, Branquinho Pequeno points out some of the issues associated with this

It is also important to remember the fact that processes associated with returning to the place of origin also correspond to cases of rural-urban migration, often in relation to the rural ancestral home from which they are believed to have originated (Mueggler, 2018; Smith, 2018).

In his work Au Pays (A Palace in the Old Village; Gallimard, 2010; translated into Spanish by Alianza Editorial under the title El retorno), Franco-Moroccan writer Tahar Ben Jelloun recounts the anguish of its protagonist, an emigrant who is approaching old age and fears dying far from home: “The fear of dying far from his homeland never left him, he imagined himself in the morgue, his body covered by a white sheet, abandoned there for several days until the administrative arrangements were made; then, in his coffin, repatriated with other commodities. He imagined his colleagues organising a collection to help his family with the expenses [...] No, I will not go back in a box. No. I will anticipate death and I will wait for it among my people” (p. 94, own translation).

The dangerous working conditions to which these workers were subjected is evidenced by the significant number who suffered accidents either at work or travelling to work. The same situation also occurred in the case of the Moroccans in Catalonia in the 1970s, as ascertained by looking at the data from the Moroccan Consulate in Barcelona (Moreras, 2004).

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return, which could not be separated from the situation that had caused initial emigration (an “original hardship”, an observation also expressed by Abdelmalek Sayad), and he saw in the return of the deceased to their homeland the expression of a last wish to be reconciled with the community and the family nucleus left behind years earlier. The actual return of the body activated a whole series of symbolic references, which served to articulate a kind of “posthumous catharsis” of the wish to want to be buried near their ancestors. Repatriation is clearly facilitated according to whether immigrant groups develop more concrete organisational structures capable of making decisions for the common good of their members, such as establishing solidarity funds (common in the case of Afri-

can collectives; see Solé Arraràs, 2015) or negotiating with insurance companies a type of policy that provides coverage for the repatriation of the deceased. The role of consular representations, which, according to international regulation, is required to play a fundamental role in terms of the administrative management of repatriation, is usually discussed, either due to the fact that they act with a certain indifference or that no attempt is made to hide the fact that (see Félix, 2011 and Balkan, 2015) a deceased individual’s desire to return is viewed as a test of their sense of national identity. Returning to the case of the Portuguese migrants in France, Yacine Chaïb (2000) cites the comment of Maurizio Catani (1988) on the demands by the Portuguese associative network for the state to cover the expenses of these transfers, based on the principle of

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Anonymous tomb Lleida Cemetery (2008). ARIADNA SOLÉ ARRARÀS

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the common good and the link maintained by these collectives with their nation of origin. A lukewarm institutional response is a widespread phenomenon and is observed as a constant in numerous cases, both past and present. One of these is exemplified through a personal story regarding Spanish emigrants who emigrated to Switzerland during the 1960s in an account researched and written by Víctor Canicio (1974: 48), which recalls the conversation between a group of Spanish emigrants and the relevant Spanish official representative: “–We’ve come to claim the subsidy to transport a compatriot’s corpse home. He does not have anyone here but has a lot of family in his homeland. –And why would they want so much expense and so many remains?” In short, we are witnesses to a series of reappropriation processes corresponding to the deceased and their bodies, which symbolically become subjects of a struggle to determine their final destination. The agency of the deceased is suspended, especially in cases where the individual was unable to convey their last wishes while they were still alive. In becoming a body, it becomes an element that tests the solidity of the group (and its capacity for solidarity) and activates a genealogy that unites all its members and connects them with a specific origin. According to Nur Yasemin Ural (2012: 65), it is important for members of the Turkish community in Germany to “join together hand in hand when one of them separates from the ‘body’ of their collective, as a response to the intense threat to the community”. Caring for the body not only seeks to ensure it is treated with all the necessary care and attention but also to convert it into a testimony of the collective will to remain faithful to a specific genealogy. And if the most appropriate course of action is for the body to be returned to the place the individual came from, this appeals more to a dimension of returning to a familiar and known space, than to following a religious prescription, such as in the case of Muslims. Family genealogy prevails over religious duty (Chaïb, 2000; More-

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ras-Solé, 2012, 2018; Balkan, 2015). This poses new questions that need to be analysed in detail: how is the context of reception of the body of the deceased articulated? In what way is the arrival/return of someone who has been absent for years conceptualised? Is the type of relationship-bond that the deceased maintained with their homeland/family nucleus taken into consideration? What kind of contact did the deceased maintain with the context to which they are now being returned? What status does the returning individual have? (Trans, 2014).16 There is one last question that we believe also needs to be formulated: in spite of the predominance of the return as a constant, we should also be alert to the suggestion made by Grenet (2017: 18; see the previous section), about that which represents the idea of recreating the rituals and the symbolic forms that funerary practices adopt in an immigration context. Contrary to ruminations by Mohamed H. Benkheira (1998) and Nathal Dessing (2001) – both corresponding to cases of Muslim communities in Europe – the loss of ritual substance or the erosion of rituals does not necessarily lead to their normalisation or dissolution, but rather it is our belief that we may be on the brink of new syncretic forms of ritual expression, which have managed to overcome the assimilationist footprint of hegemonic cultural models and which have opened the door to new ways of expressing shared identities. Valérie Cuzol’s work (2017) on the French situation contrasts the prevalence of repatriation (80% of Muslim deaths are repatriated) and the expression of forms of individualisation in the selection burial methods. The constant that sets one option apart from another seems to be strongly correlated to the family ties that remain, which seems to hold far more weight when it comes to making the decision to repatriate than the religious norm. This does not prevent religiosity from playing a significant part in the celebration of these rituals, or affect the preference to be buried in a Muslim cemetery in France in the event that the decision is made not to repatriate. The fact that one wishes to uphold religious convictions does not mean,

A parallel can be established between these questions and what is represented by the return of those migrants, who return let down by their migratory experience. In his classic study, Gilkey (1967) analyses the manner in which the return of Italians who emigrated to the United States of America was conceptualised and how, on returning to the region they had left, they were ignored by the social context into which they were reincorporated, due to a stigma placed on them for coming back without having made their fortune. Are those who return to be buried considered victorious or only worthy of respect because they wanted to maintain a genealogy that linked them to their place of departure?

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however, that expressions associated with the rituality of funerary practices do not adopt parameters related to individualisation. For example: during a visit to the Schaerbeek multiconfessional cemetery (Brussels) in January 2011, we observed significant diversity in the graves located in the section designated for Islamic burials, ranging from the simplest without any type of headstone, to those that included a photograph of the deceased, as well as others that reflected the kinds of activities the deceased had enjoyed during their life. One even featured a fullsize model of a motorcycle, reflecting the deceased individual’s love of speed on two wheels (a passion, however, that would lead to their death). The company responsible for the management of the municipal cemetery did not impose any guidelines defining the form to which headstones or graves should conform, as long as they remained within the limits of the allotted space. Individuality was respected, within the framework of a cemetery that recognised the duty of people to be buried according to their convictions. Deferred grief All cultural or religious traditions make provision for the possibility of being required to perform some form of obsequies in the absence of the body of the deceased. This absence is somewhat mitigated by the inclusion of some kind of symbolic element. Agathe Petit analyses the practice of the “mortuary suitcase” of the Manjak people that replaces the body of the deceased and includes some of their personal belongings (Petit, 2002, 2005), a practice similar to that documented among the Fulani of Senegal (Solé Arraràs, 2015). Sunni Islam includes what is known as the ‘prayer for the absent’, but the practice of funerals is not permitted without the body being present. We have already mentioned funerals held in maritime communities to honour sailors lost at sea and the fact that they often constitute expressions of intense collective grief, since the loss derived from the disappearance is intensified by the impossibility of contemplating the body. One specific example of this kind of practice is the proella tradition seen the maritime communities of Brittany

in France, a ceremony in which a wax cross represented the lost sailor. This cross was subsequently moved to the cemetery on the first of November, to be placed in a tomb under the collective name of ‘proella’ (Bacque, 2003).17 An important element to keep in mind in cases such as these is the fact that these ceremonies were not restricted to a strictly family dimension, but that it was the community as a whole that paid tribute to the deceased and joined the relatives in their loss. These ceremonies seek to limit the period of grieving, which cannot be prolonged permanently, and to enable the living to return to their ordinary life. The remembrance of the deceased, established in our festive calendar, serves as a brief substitution of the grief, which is situated in the closer familiar dimension. Other situations exist, however, in which absence is not synonymous with being missing, in which there is evidence that the death of that relative or loved one has occurred, albeit far from home. The series of events generated on hearing of a person’s death, the repatriation of the body from the place where they died to the region where they were born (or where their family resides), the organisation of the transfer and the administrative procedures, the wait experienced by relatives, the delivery of the body and its burial after performing any obsequies that are considered pertinent, prolongs this liminal period of social farewell for the deceased, as a result of which the mourning period is extended beyond that which is considered habitual. The forty-day periods that Mediterranean societies have applied to births and deaths (Baghdad, 2015) are irreparably altered and grieving no longer has a unique temporal dimension to be expressed at certain points: when the fatal news is delivered and on reception and the farewell/burial of the deceased at their final destination. It is a type of grief that could be called deferred and which proposes new adaptations of the funerary rituals that need to be analysed in detail. On receiving news of a death, the absence of the body redoubles the absence that accom-

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According to Guillandre (1921), who describes this funeral ceremony, the term proella “seems to mean to take home, repatriate, and therefore, repatriation. By virtue of the ritual of the fictitious burial, the lost body is found; he returns mysteriously to be buried on the land where he was born, and the soul that wandered in agony finally achieves eternal rest”. The common grave, is usually inscribed with the following: “Here we place the proella crosses, in memory of our sailors who die, far from their homeland, in wars, disease, shipwrecks” (p. 628-630).

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panies the death itself. As asserted by Thomas (1985: 146), without the presence of the body of the deceased, “the ritual becomes an entirely hollow piece of free theatre. Unless, of course, the centre of gravity is completely transferred to the anguish of the survivors”. Perhaps here we find one of the keys that explains the overriding need to repatriate the corpse, to be able to correctly position it in the ritualised transition between life and death or, if that is not possible, to create possible alternatives in order to offset the absence of the body. Thomas also includes a number of ethnographic examples to demonstrate how people turn to the placement of objects, belongings or photographs in the tombs of the absent deceased or return to the practice of double funerals (already studied by Robert Hertz) in order to perform obsequies subsequent to those organised in absentia of the deceased, in the event that some of their remains (or evidence of their death) are later recovered, or the socially established period of mourning has come to an end. Thomas emphasises the different

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funeral ceremonies held by the Dogon people on news of the death of Marcel Griaule in Paris, or the second obsequies performed in memory of the sailors and fishermen lost at sea in some maritime towns in Brittany during the All Saints’ festival. The cemeteries located in Alpine towns, such as Zermatt or Chamonix, could also be added to this, which contain the tombs of mountaineers lost on the Alpine glaciers, where years later, as the glaciers retreat, bodies that could not previously be recovered are revealed. Another example of a reverse situation would be the post-mortem photographs taken as testimony to the death of a relative, and sent to relatives living abroad. Here, we should cite the work of Galician photographer Virxilio Vieitez (1930-2008), who was commissioned to take photographs of deceased individuals which served as proof of their death: “commissioned as testimony and irrefutable evidence of the event, they embarked on a journey across the pond, thus transferring the custom of the funeral

Prayer for the deceased. Mosque of Reus (29 December 2017). JORDI MORERAS

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rite. [...] Photography, like parish records or funeral honours, becomes a notarial document of the death, attesting to the event and informing family members that were unable to travel” (Lichet, 2010). The feeling of emptiness that is experienced on finding out about a person’s death (even more so when it comes to a sudden and unexpected death as opposed to one occurring as a result of old age or illness), and the absence of the deceased body to be honoured posthumously could be partially mitigated by the fact that, as Grenet (2017: 16) describes it, a “transnationalisation of attachments” is activated. Social media networks have become mechanisms for the extension of grief among people who had family ties or knew the deceased, and who express condolences via messages sent over the internet. Vanessa Bravo (2017) analyses the impact of these messages on the experience of undocumented Latin American immigrants in the United States, who are unable to travel to attend the funerals of their relatives or acquaintances. Online funeral spaces or funerals broadcast through social media may seem like one of the many eccentricities associated with the online world but the truth is that, according to Falconer et al (2011) they play a very specific role in the modulation of the feelings of grief expressed by individuals that form part of groups displaced over a wide geographical area and that maintain their ties on a transnational basis. These and other ways of expressing grief are the proof that there are always people who mourn their dead as a way of asserting their sense of belonging. At a time in which the value of a human life seems to be based on the degree of indifference or consternation evoked, we need to remember the strategies and arguments that are activated by the different human groups that experience the death of their relatives and acquaintances from a distance and that, in the best case scenario, experience this in terms of a temporary absence until they are once again reunited with the body of the deceased, but, in others, are faced with the painful addition of their disappearance and the impossibility

of finding any evidence of their death. There is real resonance here with Judith Butler’s reflections on those lives that deserve to be mourned and remembered. It is as a result of their loss that we are able to “create a tenuous dimension of ‘we’” (Butler, 2006: 46), and perhaps that is why all the mechanisms of social bereavement are activated. And this deferred grief is extended for as long as necessary in order to complete the cycle in which the living bid farewell to the dead, as, for them, they are indeed important. Grief as an antidote to the indifference we have so often maintained throughout history, for example, for the tragically lost lives of those Moroccan workers who died in the construction of the Barcelona metropolitan area in work-related accidents during the 1970s and who were quietly and anonymously buried in charity tombs. Or, in the present day, with respect to those people, with names and surnames and a whole life beyond that who, fleeing death in their own country, have met a tragic end, drowning while trying to reach the coasts of a European continent that is increasingly closed off in terms of its prejudices and indifference to human life. In the face of all indifference, the grief of relatives and acquaintances becomes a mechanism of resistance to the oblivion and silence, in the conviction that “grievability is a presupposition for the life that matters” (Butler, 2010: 32). Conclusions In 2018, All Saints’ Day coincided with the thirtieth anniversary of the first photograph published in the media showing someone who had drowned in an attempt to cross the Strait of Gibraltar. It was published in the Diario de Cádiz newspaper and was taken by the photographer Ildefonso Sena.18 It is an image that very few would remember today despite possessing the same iconic significance that the image of Alan, the child who drowned on a Greek beach had when it was published. We do not know the identity or final destination of the corpse found in Tarifa. All we can hope is that he was perhaps able to be returned to the place he came from and only temporarily occupied a place in the morgue. It could be that somebody claimed

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‘Trenta anys de tragèdies a l’Estret’, (Thirty years of tragedies in the Strait), La Vanguardia, 2 November 2018.

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the body and was able to thereby mitigate the pain of this death in a distant location. We have been able to observe the way in which the constant of redressing that which is considered a ‘bad death’ has served to activate a whole series of actions that go to great lengths to ensure the body of the deceased is returned to the place to which it was affiliated. Yet another demonstration that the living do indeed care about their dead. In

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the hope of preparing the last migration of souls that is contemplated by many cultural and religious traditions, that which remains pending in the worldly dimension is the procurement of rest for the bodies. And, as we have seen, this desire to reappropriate corpses, to return them to their final destination, acts as an antidote to indifference. n

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Funerary heritage in Barcelona cemeteries

ementiris de Barcelona organises a range of different cultural activities throughout the year aimed at publicising the rich funerary heritage that exists in the city. Barcelona has nine cemeteries, two of which are considered particularly significant: Poblenou and Montjuïc. Cultural routes have been designed in these two cemeteries to allow residents to discover their funerary sculpture and architecture, as well as to journey back in time and explore the city’s history in order to gain an understanding of the evolution of its society. The Poblenou Cemetery, the first modern cemetery in the whole of Spain, was the

first to be opened to visitors. This 1.5-hourlong guided route, run on the first and third Sunday of each month, provides a reconstruction of more than one hundred years of history, beginning with the 1775 blessing of the cemetery by the Bishop of Barcelona, Josep Climent, making it the first of its kind located beyond city walls, and ending with the celebration of the 1888 Barcelona Universal Exhibition in a city fully immersed in modernity. The decision was subsequently made to devise something similar for the Montjuïc Cemetery and, due to its size, three different routes were designed: a historical route, an artistic route and a combined route. The latter runs on the second and fourth Sunday of each

Adrià Terol COMMUNICATION AND QUALITY. CEMENTIRIS DE BARCELONA S.A.

Communication and Quality Department specialist at Cementiris de Barcelona, S.A., he is the historian and manager responsible for the cultural management of Barcelona’s cemeteries, as well as the Funeral Carriage Collection.

Paraules clau: cementiris, Barcelona, serveis funeraris, patrimoni cultural, activitats educatives, exposicions Palabras clave: cementerios, Barcelona, servicios funerarios, patrimonio cultural, actividades educativas, exposiciones Keywords: cemeteries, Barcelona, funeral services, cultural heritage, educational activities, exhibitions

Funeral Carriage Collection. CEMENTIRIS DE BARCELONA.

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month, while the historical and artistic routes are marked for visitors to explore at leisure. The combined route consists of a two-hour walk that introduces visitors to the cemetery’s rich heritage and takes in some of the graves of Barcelona’s most illustrious past residents, and reviews the city’s history, reflecting on its evolution up until the Spanish Civil War and the Francoist repression, with a brief explanation of the Fossar de la Pedrera democratic memorial. A special two-hour guided route led by historical memory expert, Nick Lloyd, has also been developed for this area, which pays homage to the victims of Francoist repression. The monthly programme of visits is available on the website. In parallel to this, a funerary heritage collection unlike any other in Europe, the Funeral Carriage Collection, was created in 1970. Originally housed in the basement of the Sancho de Ávila funeral home, its significant cultural value ultimately led to the 2012 decision to move it to a new facility at the Montjuïc Cemetery, adding to it an updated museography and extensive photographic documentation in order to better illustrate the evolution of funeral customs in Barcelona over the centuries. Thus, in February 2013, the new exhibition space opened amid great anticipation. The Funeral Library, Spain’s most important collection of funerary works, was also transferred alongside the exhibition of funeral carriages. The library is a specialist reference source containing 2,000 books, all of which have been catalogued and included as part of the library networks of the Barcelona City Council and the Universities of Catalonia. This cultural facility is open to the L’empresa municipal que gestiona els cementiris de Barcelona desenvolupa tot un seguit d’activitats de tipus cultural i educatiu per transmetre el patrimoni funerari que mostren els principals cementiris històrics de la ciutat. Cementiris de Barcelona SA ofereix rutes culturals per conèixer aquest patrimoni artístic i arquitectònic de la ciutat, gestiona una biblioteca especialitzada en temes funeraris i disposa d’una exposició de carrosses fúnebres, única a tot l’estat espanyol.

public every weekend from 10:00 to 14:00, with guided tours conducted on Saturdays at 12:00.

Funeral library. CEMENTIRIS DE BARCELONA.

The night route stands out as a highlight of the Cementiris de Barcelona annual cultural programme, a highly anticipated event that always receives excellent reviews from those who participate. The twice-yearly event, which takes place at the beginning of spring in Montjuïc and on All Saints’ Day in the case of Poblenou, provides an opportunity for visitors to explore the cemeteries by night, with a guided tour featuring characters dressed in period costume to recreate the ambience of times past. The tour takes place by candlelight,

La empresa municipal que gestiona los cementerios de Barcelona desarrolla una serie de actividades de tipo cultural y educativo para transmitir el patrimonio funerario que muestran los principales cementerios históricos de la ciudad. Cementerios de Barcelona SA ofrece rutas culturales para conocer este patrimonio artístico y arquitectónico de la ciudad, gestiona una biblioteca especializada en temas funerarios y dispone de una exposición de carrozas fúnebres, única en todo el estado español.

The municipal company that manages Barcelona’s cemeteries runs a series of cultural and educational activities to transmit the funerary heritage of the city’s main historical cemeteries. Cementiris de Barcelona S.A. offers cultural routes so people can discover this part of the city’s artistic and architectural heritage, manages a library that specialises in funerary matters and has an exhibition of funeral hearses that is unique in Spain.

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with live music and lots of wonderful surprises along the way in the form of the prominent figures being depicted and the performances and activities organised. Exceptionally, this year’s night route was held at the Les Corts Cemetery to foster greater awareness of this historic site, with participants treated to a representation of the popular humourist, Joan Capri, and Spain’s first ever female film director, who went by the alias of Elena Jordi.

over this five-year period has been incredibly positive, with an increase seen in the number of visits overall and the activities attracting schools, not only from Barcelona and beyond, but also from other places around the world, such as France, the Netherlands and England. Two years ago, the programme was granted the Quality Seal from the Barcelona City Council in recognition of the content of the school activities organised in these spaces.

Given society’s growing interest in funerary heritage, the decision was also made to develop a variety of educational activities in these three spaces to provide students with an introduction to cemeteries and funerary culture. Since 2013, Cementiris de Barcelona has formed part of the Activities Programme for Schools initiative led by the Educational Innovation Council (CIP), thereby making all the activities, classified by year group, available to Barcelona’s teaching staff. The response

The goal at Cementiris de Barcelona is to open more and more of the city’s cemeteries to the general public and, to that end, the company is working on developing routes for the rest of the cemeteries in the city of Barcelona. So far, a new monthly route has been introduced for the Les Corts Cemetery, held on the first Saturday of every month at 11:00. A guide takes visitors on a two-hour tour of the cemetery, introducing them to its wealth of history, including such popular

Night route at Montjuïc Cemetery (2015). CEMENTIRIS DE BARCELONA.

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figures as humourist Joan Capri, footballer László Kubala, journalist Pere Català i Roca and sculptor Frederic Marès. Another route has also been developed for the Sant Gervasi Cemetery, with an innovative format that allows visitors to explore the site at leisure using a mobile app guide. A series of explanatory videos allow visitors to discover the cemetery, its most notable funeral heritage and the stories of the prominent figures buried there, such as the poet Joan Maragall; the Bosch brothers, founders of the well-known Anís del Mono liqueur company; the modernist sculptor Enric Clarasó; and the famous architect, Lluís Domènech i Montaner. The Sant Gervasi Cemetery route demonstrates Cementiris de Barcelona’s commitment to introducing new technologies within the cemeteries, opening them up for visitors to be able to freely explore the art and history they contain. The decision was also made to develop a mobile application for the Poblenou Cemetery to facilitate a geolocation tour with guides translated into three languages in order to make this knowledge available to the tourism sector. QR codes have also been introduced into the Poblenou, Montjuic and Les Corts cemeteries, providing information in four languages at the most important graves. The use of

QR codes in cemeteries forms part of an innovative nationwide commitment. Another key activity is the organisation of concerts which pay homage to all the deceased buried in the cemeteries of Barcelona. By far one of the most moving events of the year is the concert held in memory of and paying tribute to all those who have died and been buried in the cemeteries of Barcelona over the course of the previous year. The relatives of the deceased are personally invited, although the concert is also open to the general public, and a series of songs are performed, many of which hold huge significance for everyone. This annual event, which takes place in June, is held at the Fossar de la Pedrera in the Montjuïc Cemetery, chosen for its importance in relation to historical memory and its wonderful natural acoustics. The All Saints’ concert is another such event and is normally held every year at the Palau de la Música Catalana. This concert, entitled ‘A Soundtrack of Memories’, remembers the loved ones that are no longer with us through a series of well-known musical soundtracks and operatic pieces. In addition to the above, Cementiris de Barcelona also organises a programme of actives away from the funeral complexes, as well as taking part in high profile events around the Group visit to the Fossar de la Pedrera (2013). CEMENTIRIS DE BARCELONA..

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city to help promote the cemeteries to a wider audience. Cementiris de Barcelona regularly participates in Barcelona’s annual Museum Night, opening the doors of the Funeral Carriage Collection on the most important day for the cultural centres in and around the city. Guided tours, workshops and theatre performances attract more people each year with an interest in discovering unique cultural heritage assets that represent our ancestors. Another popular event is the Barcelona Modernista Fair, at which Cementiris de Barcelona presents the range of cultural activities it offers, as well as organising workshops for families to enjoy. The 24-hour open house provides another opportunity to highlight the architecture of the city’s cemeteries, specifically the recently restored Neoclassical buildings of the Poblenou Cemetery, such as La Capella (the Chapel), the former Sala de Juntes (Assembly Hall) and a number of significant pantheons in the ‘Second Department’ section. These are just three examples of Cementiris de Barcelona’s involvement in the city. It also collaborates in other events throughout the year, such as the Les Corts Sant Jordi Festival, Barcelona’s Tres Tombs festival and the Mercat d’Escapa-

das (Getaways Market). Other activities are also organised, such as the lecture series on the prominent figures buried in the cemeteries of Barcelona. For example, in collaboration with the Museum of the History of Catalonia and Sàpiens, a series of monthly conferences focus on famous figures, such as Montserrat Roig, Kubala and Lluís Companys. We should emphasise that all the activities organised by Cementiris de Barcelona are free of charge, with the aim of making them available to anyone with an interest in funerary culture. Detailed information on the routes and cultural events organised by Cementiris de Barcelona throughout the year is available on their website: www.cbsa.cat. For further information, you may contact Cementiris de Barcelona by calling +34 934 841 920 or by sending a message to the following email address: comunicacio @cbsa.cat n

Small tour group visiting the Poblenou Cemetery (2014). CEMENTIRIS DE BARCELONA.

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José A. Ortiz AUTONOMOUS UNIVERSITY OF BARCELONA

José A. Ortiz holds a PhD in Art History from the University of Barcelona, where he has also obtained a bachelor’s and master’s degree in Cultural Heritage Management. His field of research is the visual culture of death and illness between the sixteenth and nineteenth century. Currently, he works as an official tour guide for the Government of Catalonia, is a lecturer at the Autonomous University of Barcelona and serves as an art consultant.

Paraules clau: mort, art, patrimoni, cementiri, sepulcre. Palabras clave: muerte, arte, patrimonio, cementerio, sepulcro. Keywords: death, art, heritage, cemetery, sepulchre.

When art and death meet: funerary heritage in Catalonia

Roman sepulchral road, Barcelona. JOSÉ A. ORTIZ

Anthropological research has shown death to be a key area which has been approached in very diverse ways in different cultures and throughout the different eras (Thomas, 1983; Thomas, 2001; Vovelle, 1974; among others). The ephemeral human being in its material corruptibility has faced the different discourses that have attempted to respond to that which can be considered one of the great life issues. Funeral heritage includes those elements created to house death, preserve memory and provide a resting place, which enable us to chart the mentalities of each time and place. In this study, we cast our gaze over the artistic funerary heritage developed in the Catalan-speaking regions

from Roman to contemporary times, selecting some of the most outstanding examples and looking at those that represent activated heritage due to the granting of various levels of cultural asset protection, the organisation of guided tours, establishment of opening hours, recommended route guides or introduction of new technological features, such as QR code or online references.1 To start with, we need to outline our definition of funerary artistic heritage, which is not only limited to the consideration of cemeteries, despite the fact that they are the memorialisation of death spaces par excellence.2 The

If we start from the premise of the social construction of heritage as the selection of certain elements that we value, preserve and protect, then we are able to identify heritage activation from the precepts of values, symbols and ideas that Llorenç Prats describes as the basis of heritage conceptualisation (Prats, 1998: 63-76). These activations in relation to funerary areas respond to the discourses of the constituted powers, which represent the powers responsible for activating a heritage catalogue. Our contemporaneity reclaims these spaces of death as cultural spaces with historical, artistic, anthropological and religious references, among others.

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cemeteries, first introduced at the end of the eighteenth century and developed over the course of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, represent just part of funerary heritage as we understand it. Other earlier solutions also form part of this broader concept that we find in the theses of Philippe Ariès. If we examine the concept of ‘tamed death’ proposed by the author, in times past, dying was seen as an everyday, accepted and familiar fact that took place at home and was a world away from the hospitalised death of modern day (Ariès, 2011: 40).3 The spaces designated for burial of the dead were the churches, monasteries and cathedrals, infused with the symbolism of their prayers and surrounded by the holy relics of the saints, in the context of ad sanctos and apud ecclesiam. With the arrival of new hygienist theories, there was a move to establish new cemeteries away from the city centres. Funerary heritage, with its artistic elements, is therefore found inside both the religious establishments and their surrounding grounds.4 Spaces and forms continued to change over time to create a heritage source that enables us to chart the course of history. Funerary heritage up to the Middle Ages In Roman times, funerary monuments, such as mausoleums, cupae, grave altars, stelae and unmarked graves reflected social status and purchasing power. The position of an individual’s place of eternal rest in relation to the city was also dependent on their social class. NecropL’objectiu d’aquest article és oferir una panoràmica del patrimoni artístic relacionat amb la mort que trobem al territori català. Ens centrem en diferents tipologies funeràries per assumir que el patrimoni presenta un gran ventall de possibilitats artístiques. Des del període romà fins al món contemporani, aquest text presenta les diferències entre segles i estils. Passant del ritu medieval de la mort o el context funerari històric de l’església fins a les noves teories de sanejament que van crear cementiris lluny dels centres de la ciutat. El text analitza aquests elements patrimonials tant des del punt de vista artístic com des del punt de vista de la seva activació patrimonial.

olis like that of Plaça de la Villa de Madrid in Barcelona provides an example of a burial place for low-ranking members of the Roman Barcino colony, along a secondary access road to the walled enclosure (Figure 1). In Visigothic times, rituals also were a reflection of power, as shown in the architectural and archaeological remains found at the Bovalar site in Segrià. Anthropomorphic rock-cut graves represent the most commonly found form of burial at archaeological sites dating from the High Medieval Period. The Olèrdola necropolis is one such site, with remains preserved from the tenth and eleventh centuries alongside elements constructed in the twelfth century, as well as modifications corresponding to later centuries. The funeral rites of this time focused on the orientation of the body in relation to the cardinal points, and the remains were buried according to the established protocol, which ensured the shrouding of the corpse. Cists were another type of tomb, similar to the rock-cutgraves, created in the shape of a box or chest, which sometimes featured stone slabs inside each of the four walls. From these excavated funerary elements, we can move on to those built with an outer structure, of the type that prevailed in the Low Medieval Period, which paved the way for the great manifestations of funerary sculpture in Catalonia.

This is the subject of current study and some European initiatives, such as the routes proposed by the Association of Significant Cemeteries in Europe (ASCE) represent new ways of introducing the taboo of death to citizens in conjunction with the architectural studies on historical and contemporary cemeteries. In the cases of Catalonia and Spain, cultural initiatives have been implemented by organisations such as Mèmora Servicios Funerarios and Cementiris de Barcelona, which develop activities to promote this type of heritage, such as guided tours of cemeteries, exhibitions, children’s workshops, conferences and publications. These challenges, so emotive and loaded with symbolism, represent the starting points for working on bereavement and end-of-life fear from new perspectives.

“Death, so omnipresent in the past that it was familiar, would be effaced, would disappear. It would become shameful and forbidden” (Ariès, 2005: 83).

“(...) the entire floor of the Church is a compartmented cemetery: the faithful are always walking over tombs (...)” (Ariès, 2011: 61).

Gothic examples of funerary heritage often took the form of a sarcophagus mounted on the wall within an arcosolium, a representation

El objetivo de este artículo es ofrecer una panorámica del patrimonio artístico relacionado con la muerte que encontramos en territorio catalán. Nos centramos en diferentes tipologías funerarias para asumir que el patrimonio presenta un gran espectro de posibilidades artísticas. Desde el periodo romano hasta el mundo contemporáneo, este texto presenta las diferencias entre siglos y estilos. Pasando del rito medieval de la muerte o el contexto funerario histórico de la iglesia hasta las nuevas teorías de saneamiento que crearon cementerios lejos de los centros urbanos. El texto analiza estos elementos patrimoniales tanto desde el punto de vista artístico como desde el punto de vista de su activación patrimonial.

The purpose of this article is to offer an overview of the artistic heritage related to death found in Catalonia. We focus on different types of funeral rituals to assume that this heritage presents a great spectrum of artistic possibilities. From the Roman period to the contemporary world, this text presents the differences between centuries and styles. Moving from the medieval death rites or the historical context of the church in funerals to the new sanitation theories that created new cemeteries away from the city centres. The text analyzes these heritage elements both from an artistic perspective and from the point of view of their heritage activation.

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of the triumphal arch with different connotations, reflecting the exaltation of mourning and the funerary ritual through the sculptural reliefs that frequently adorned the structures. The type of free-standing tomb selected also depended on its placement within the architectural spaces of the church. The Medieval examples featuring idealised representations of the deceased respond to an expression of serene confidence in resurrection and transitional rest. The progressively individualised orientation offers us new ways of understanding religion and death from anthropocentric perspectives, generated through the increased use of portraiture, which is defined by the search for realism through the capture of facial features.5 From a historical perspective, death expressed in an intimate and private context is interlinked with its public and social dimension. As the relevant documentation studies and archaeological research reveal, death in Medieval times included a funeral rite that began with the pre-mortem sacraments of confession and last rites, and was accompanied by the post-mortem obsequies ceremony (Ariès, 2005: 107-109). This ceremony consisted of several parts: the dramatic expression of grief, the absolution or acquittal of sins, the procession and burial. Other more specific aspects of the Medieval funeral ceremony included the washing of the body and the purchase of the shroud or burial garments, the burial robes, which were specified in the wills, which covered the corpses for the three days that the relatives and friends kept vigil over the body (Riu, 1982: 29). When the body was moved to the grave site, the passing of the deceased was outwardly expressed with a collective display of mourning, including the tolling of bells and black robes for the processions of the deceased bodies among exaggerated cries and gestures over the death of the powerful figure (Sabaté, 2003). A dramatic expression that can be observed in the artistic creations dating from that time, for example, in the funeral cortege on the sepulchre of Bishop Ramon d’Escales (†1398), in the Cathedral of Barcelona (Figure 2). This piece, created by Antoni Canet (†1431) between 1409-1411, depicts the funerary procession on the casket of the sarcophagus, with the figures expressing the mourning rituals.

Another outstanding example of Medieval funerary art is the double-fronted sepulchre of Queen Elisenda de Montcada (1292-1364) in the Pedralbes Monastery in Barcelona. The two-sided tomb depicts, on the side which faces into the church, the deceased as a queen bearing the royal insignias, while on the other side, which faces the cloister of the convent for the order of Les Clarisses, founded by the deceased herself in 1326, she is depicted as a widow in a simple habit. The structure set beneath the arcosolium shows the queen lying on the sepulchre accompanied by two kneeling thurifer angels. A commendatio animae or elevatio animae on the wall shows two angels presenting the queen’s soul to God. On the pinnacles forming the structure of the arcosolium, the founding saints of the order, St

Sepulchre of Bishop Ramon d’Escales (1409-1411), Barcelona. ANTONI CANET (WIKIMEDIA COMMONS)

With regard to death in Medieval times we have studies that, from the most general to the most specific, offer us a diverse panorama: Binski, 1996; Piñol Alabart, 1998; De Pascale, 2009.

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Francis and St Clare, share the vertical space with the patron saint of the monarchs, St James and St Elizabeth.

stonemasonry employed in the creation of two remarkable sculptural creations built to house the deceased powers of the Gothic age.7

Elisenda was the fourth wife of James II the Just (1267-1327), whose tomb presides over the funerary monuments housed at the Monastery of Santes Creus, buried, alongside his first wife, Blanca de Anjou (1280-1310), in one of the most outstanding examples of medieval funerary architecture in the Catalan region. The monastic centres of Ripoll, Santes Creus and Poblet represent the three main burial centres of the region’s political powers. Ripoll is the memorial space of the house of the Counts of Barcelona, containing the sepulchres of Wilfred II (The Hairy) (c. 840-897), Ramon Berenguer III (1082-1131) and Ramon Berenguer IV (1113/1114-1162), among other prominent figures.6 Santes Creus was, on the other hand, the site selected by Peter III of Aragon (1239-1285) and James II, for their Gothic mausoleums built between the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Set on the transept of the church, in front of the altar, these two sarcophagi are covered with architectural structures. Made to look like temples with intricate

Peter IV of Aragon (The Ceremonious) was subsequently responsible for commissioning the Royal Pantheon for the Crown of Aragon in Poblet (Figure 3). Restored by Frederic Marés (1893-1991) in 1946, it marks the final resting place of eight monarchs, from Alfonso II of Aragon (The Chaste) to John II, and six queen consorts, as well as housing other sepulchres of royal infants on the arm of the transept.8 The funeral heritage of the Renaissance and the Baroque periods If we move on to look at the tombs linked to the Renaissance period, we see a revival of classical ideas, both in form and content, that bring new proposals to the Medieval funerary tradition. This is Panofsky’s perspective on the subject at hand: “(...) the funerary sculpture of the Renaissance gave way to classical influence and other modern tendencies (...) a complete posthumous recognition came to be considered as a reward not only for holiness or at least

The current sepulchres do not correspond to the original Medieval ones which were destroyed in the attacks that took place in Ripoll in the nineteenth century. The sepulchre of Wilfred II is a restoration by the architect Francesc Escudero i Ribot (1930-2012). From the seventeenth century, that of Ramon Berenguer III is preserved, with the renovation and addition of the relief of the figure on horseback, created by Josep Llimona in 1923. In the case of Ramon Berenguer IV, whose remains are not preserved, a cenotaph was created following the restoration of the monastic centre.

These mausoleums have received a good deal of media coverage as a result of the research and restoration works carried out in 2010 to mark the 850th anniversary.

With regard to the figures buried in Poblet and its restoration, we refer to the bibliography on the subject (Sobrequés and Calicó, 1983; Marès, 1998; Oliver, 2000). The removal of some of the original reliefs, works by the master Aloi, Jaume Cascalls and Jordi de

Inside view of the Poblet church. EDUARDO CAUBILLA

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for piety, but also for political, military, literary and artistic works, and even in some cases for mere beauty” (Panofsky, 1995: 86; author’s translation from French). Thus, the Renaissance tomb is a tomb associated with reputation, with eternity, which symbolically attests to the exaltation of the individual. The iconographic programmes of the period make particular reference to the virtues of the deceased and, in formal terms, the constructions respond to classical styles, many of which were made by Italian craftsmen and reveal the exchange of models and ideas among Mediterranean areas. The tomb is a metaphorical gateway to the other world, a site of passage between the living and the dead, a place to house human remains (Bialostocki, 1988: 14-41). The Gate to Hades as a threshold became a recurring classical motif, echoing the triumphal arch structures to a certain extent, both structures frequently used as a backdrop under which the sarcophagus was positioned and for the decorative elements associated with the deceased and their body. In the case of the Renaissance, there is a triumph over death that represents a departure from the Medieval imagery of the triumph of death associated with the ‘Dance of Death’ (Redondo Cantera, 1987; Czech, 1988; Marías, 1989; Morales Chacón, 1996). A selection of works brings us to the tombs of Ramon Berenguer I and Almodis in the Cathedral of Barcelona. Enrique Ferrandis created a pictorial decoration as a trompe l’oeil of illusionist architecture, architecttura picta, to commemorate the life of Count Ramon Berenguer I (c. 1023-1076) and his third wife, Almodis de la Marca (1020-1071), promoters of the Romanesque building consecrated in 1058. If we look closely at the formal aspects, we find a painted architectural structure featuring fluted pilasters and Corinthian columns resting on the respective podiums decorated with military reliefs. Classic elements have also been chosen for the tomb of the bishop Joan Despés, on the wall of the transept of the Cathedral of La Seu d’Urgell. Sculptor Jeroni Xanxo (doc. 1537 and 1575) opted for the pictorial version and

offers us, around 1576, a representation that we relate to the Barcelonan as a result of certain formal and iconographic elements. The marble effect pilasters frame the wooden casket decorated with the heraldry of bishop Joan Despés (†1530) and it is personalised with a red canopy held open by two winged figures. The pilasters also serve as a framework for the two grisaille figures depicting weeping and mourning on either side with shells underneath that create the appearance of a niche. The entablature holds the partially obscured inscription, ‘SPES MEA (DE)US’, on which the broken amphorae and putti are arranged with the inverted torches. This is the funerary iconographic election that we find in the work produced in Barcelona. The illusionist examples that favour painted decoration bring us on to the sixteenth century Italian-style stone creations of which there are a number of representative examples in the Catalan region9, starting with the tomb of Ramon Folc de Cardona, conserved in Bellpuig, Lleida (Figure 4). This construction was imported from Italy and was made in the Neapolitan workshop of Giovanni da Nola (1488-1558), paying tribute to the figure of the deceased through a complex iconographic system featuring a triumphal arch structure.10 The symbolic concept combines the allegorisation of virtues with military references and scenes of a religious nature (Yeguas, 2009). The tomb was commissioned by the Vicereine, Isabel de Requesens, allied to the noble lineage of Cardona through her husband and the policies of strategic marriages. In the same family, Ramon Folc de Cardona’s sister, Isabel de Cardona, was the wife of Admiral Bernat de Vilamarí (†1512-1516), whose tomb is preserved in Montserrat.11 The tomb of Bernat de Vilamarí, dated around 1516, predates other Renaissance funerary elements found in the Catalan area linked to aristocratic patronage (Yeguas, 2012). A third example can also be found in Montserrat. The tomb of John of Aragon provides us with more information in the study of death, understood in accordance with the parameters of the sixteenth century (Yeguas, 2012). In the

Déu, distributed among various heritage collections, the fragmentation of the original work and the subsequent mid-twentieth century restoration are some of the aspects that have been studied within Medieval historiography, given the importance of the royal patronage of this monastic centre (Manote, 2007).

As discussed by Garriga under the title of Tombes italianes per a la fama (Italian tombs made to be memorable), the relationship between various sculptural solutions that include the tomb of Jeroni Descoll, partially preserved in the Diocesan Museum of Barcelona; the mausoleum of Duke Ferran de Cardona and Enríquez, in the church of Sant Vicenç de Cardona; the sepulchre of the Marquesses of Aitona in the Museum of Lleida, or even the grotteschi of the Pantheon of James II and Blanca d’Anjou (Garriga, 1986: 116-117).

Ramon Folc de Cardona-Anglesola (1467-1522) served as the viceroy of Sicily (1505-1509) and Naples (1510-1522), and commander of the armies of the Holy League (1511-1513). His widow, Elisabet de Requesens i Enríquez, commissioned the mausoleum from the Neapolitan sculptor and organised for her husband’s remains and his sepulchre to be transferred to his birthplace of Bellpuig, in the convent of Sant Bartomeu de Bellpuig, which had been founded by the deceased. With the expropriations of the nineteenth century, the complex was moved to its current home in the parish church of San Nicolau.

Bernat de Vilamarí, son of Berenguer de Vilamarí i de Constança and relative of Bernat I de Vilamarí (†1463), was a nobleman and military man of the Vilamarí family line, admiral in the King of Aragon Royal Navy and the Navy of the Kingdom of Naples.

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case of John of Aragon (1457-1528), we are going back to an earlier time, circa 1508.12 The sarcophagus is set on columns under an arch, featuring a depiction of the deceased, kneeling in an attitude of prayer. The tympanum shows us a relief depicting the scene of the Epiphany that contrasts with the coat of arms of the Crown of Aragon with the Crown of Castile below which is held by two atlantes as sauvages. On each side we find angels praying in the corners of the space that houses the sepulchre. The epilogue to this section devoted to the synthetic corpus of Renaissance tombs in the Catalan sphere takes place inside the Cathedral of Tarragona, with the tomb of bishop Joan Terés and that of bishop Antoni Agustí. These two elements, linked to Pere Blai and Jaume Amigó and to the Renaissance in the Tarragona region, provide us with two examples of sobriety and classicism linked to the power of the Catalan mitre.

The Capella del Santíssim (Chapel of the Blessed) is the location chosen by the bishop Antoni Agustí i Albanell (1517-1586) for his tomb. Pere Blai (1553-1621), Jaume Amigó (1518-c.1590) and Bernat Cassany were responsible for the creation of the area within the chapel, modifying it with the addition of the dome and open lateral spaces along the walls in the form of niches, one of which housed the tomb of the archbishop, between the years 1582-1592 (Mata, 1992; Mata, 2003). His successor as the Archbishop ofTarragona, Joan Terés i Borrull (1538-1603), commissioned the two chapels, those of Sant Fructuós and Sant Joan, that today house the mausoleum on the wall that separates them. The architect Pere Blai was put in charge of both the architectural and sculptural project. The sepulchre is in the form of a temple, featuring a dome supported by columns that in turn support the sarcophagus and a series of allegorical figures on the entablature.

Sepulchre of Ramon Folc de Cardona (circa 1525), Sant Nicolau, Bellpuig parochial church. ENFO (WIKIMEDIA COMMONS)

John II of Ribagorça or John of Aragon accumulated a series of political positions and titles, notable among which were: knight of the order of St John of Jerusalem, Count of Ribagorça (1485-1512) and first Duke of Luna, Captain general and Lieutenant of Catalonia (1503-1506), Viceroy of Naples (1507-1509) and Lieutenant General of the Kingdom of Aragon (1513).

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The funerary art of Catalonia underwent a certain degree of simplification during the sixteenth century in terms of the ways in which physical references to the deceased are faded out in order to herald the virtues of the deceased, a factor commonly seen in the Tarragona humanist context of the archbishops’ commissions. Two specific points during the sixteenth century can be identified in which funerary sculpture exalts the individual triumphant over death, in contrast to the solutions of the end of the century that are reformulated with religious virtues. The new religious weight that originated in the Tarragona province transformed sepulchres into understated memorials of the dead directed towards the salvation of their soul in pious attitudes of sculptural simplicity. As we look at burial in the Baroque period, we will examine some of the most remarkable centres of funerary formulations of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries based on their artistic uniqueness or the representative image evoked. The enigma and the fear of death led to the creation of structures of narrative complexity throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, derived from the earlier Renaissance elements and adapted to the formal innovations of the Baroque and the introduction of the new neoclassical theses. Thus, the allegorical essence was maintained, but the decorative sculptural languages w ere modified. Similarly, a progressive increase in the inclusion of the moral element can be observed which is combined with the exaltation of individuality. The double commemorative and burial function is modified, to a certain extent, by a growing emphasis being placed on virtuous exaltation in life, no longer aiming to establish the reputation and the immortality representative of the Renaissance, but the meditatio mortisand preparatio mortis underlying the post-Tridentine mentality. The tombs needed to refer to the good deeds done in life in order to ensure a good death, following the ideas of the Ars moriendi. In the seventeenth century, the Monastery of Poblet became a centre of funerary art, with the Baroque creations that completed those already discussed in the previous periods. In this case, we are referring to the burial

chambers of Cardona-Sogorb and the tomb of Alphonse the Magnanimous, both linked to the Aragón-Cardona lineage, descendants of the Trastámara family line, the creation of which was spearheaded by Lluís d’Aragó (1608-1670) and Pere Antoni d’Aragó (16111690). This seventeenth century Cardona family pantheon was originally located under the arches of the Royal Pantheon, but the remains were moved to one of the side chapels during the restoration works carried out on the church. Sculptors Joan, Francesc and Josep Grau were commissioned with the building of the Cardona-Sogorb sepulchral chambers by Lluís Ramon Folch de Cardona in 1659 (Martinell, 1949; Bosch, 1990; Yeguas, 2005-2006). In spite of the fragmentation of the alabaster paraments, the decorations and figurative reliefs still represent one of Catalonia’s most outstanding examples of art at the service of memorialisation and death in the seventeenth century (Figure 5). Moving away from Poblet but remaining in the province of Tarragona, the Cathedral of Tarragona and the Grau stable of sculptors played a leading role in creating Baroque funerary heritage that synthesised popular ideas and illustrated the image of Baroque death in the Catalan-speaking territories. The sepulchre of Francisca and Godofredo Girón de Rebolledo and that of Diego Girón de Rebolledo in Tarragona Cathedral’s Chapel of the Conception, dating from 1678 and 1679, are the work of Francesc Grau (1638-1693) and Domènec Rovira II (†1689). The tombs were part of the project for the chapel commissioned by Fray Josep de la Concepció (1626-1690) and formed a new space dedicated to death in Tarragona, which contrasts the new Baroque ideas with the Renaissance examples mentioned earlier in this study. The sepulchre of Francisca and Godofredo Girón de Rebolledo represents an exaltation of military virtues. In spite of its dual occupancy, it is the male military past of Godofredo on which the selected iconography is based: the military glories of a life as vanitas reflecting on reputation in the face of death in the upper section. The sepulchre of Diego Girón de Rebolledo, unlike the previous one, offers an exaltation of religious virtues. In addition to the allegories, we find decorative motifs

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phytoromorphs and putti, which, in the case of the base, present the concept of Homo Bulla Est, the ephemeral life of the soap bubble as a paradigm for the brevity of human life. Reputation in life is offset by the virtues, theological and cardinal, and wisdom, represented by the liberal arts, as religious tools to ensure the resurrection of the soul and the true triumph over death (Bosch, 1990; TriadĂł, 1998). The sumptuousness of the creations housed in Poblet and the Cathedral of Tarragona represent an excursus of a funerary corpus marked by the simplicity of the proposals of the abbatial sepulchres or the institutional tombs found during this same chronological fork of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Travelling through the cloisters offers us a labyrinth of burial vessels, the tombstones of which tell us

about the deceased. The texts accompanied by visual symbols remind us of the people who formed part of the religious communities or the local guilds of the towns in which the religious institution stood as a nerve centre of the socialisation of the Old Regime. The monasteries of Vallbona de les Monges and Santes Creus, and the city churches, such as Barcelonaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Cathedral or its parish churches, are some of the spaces that we can still wander through today as we remember the lives of those that have gone before. The funerary heritage of the hygienist theories in the new conceptualisation of the contemporary cemetery The Royal Decrees of Charles III, in June and April 1786 and 1787, ordered the abolition

Detail showing the decoration of the burial chambers of Cardona-Sogorb, Poblet Monastery Museum. EDUARDO CAUBILLA

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of parish cemeteries and the construction of new funerary sites away from the cityIn its first article, the legislative text outlines the basic premise that deals with the eradication of the practice of apud ecclesiam tombs: “That the Canonical provisions should be observed for the restoration of the discipline of the Church in the use and construction of Cemeteries, as mandated in the Roman Ritual, and in Law 11. section. 13. part. 1. the ruling and exceptions of which, according to the wishes of His Majesty are hereafter to be followed; with the provision that persons of virtue or holiness, whose bodies may be buried in the Churches, according to said law, must be those by whose death the Ecclesiastical Ordinaries must form processes of virtues or miracles, or deposit their bodies according to Ecclesiastical decisions; and that those who may be buried as a result of having chosen tombs, must only be those already owned at the time of the issuing of this Decree”(Sánchez, 1803: 596). The hygienist measures corresponded with the urban needs of the cities, with expansion into new areas to tackle demographic growth and the development of new urban planning strategies. The parish cemeteries became a new public space for the cities at a time when the movement of camposanto burial areas away from urban centres generated a new reality of enlightened understanding associated with death.13 Within that context, in the case of Barcelona, as the result ofan initiative led by bishop Josep Climent, the city’s first cemetery was opened in 1775. This early funerary centre was established for the poor and was used an ossuary for the human remains exhumated from other cemeteries and for the burial of the poor who died at the Hospital de Sant Pau I la Santa Creu, as the large majority of the population still opted to maintain their connections with the parish funerary spaces and rituals. The conflicts of the early nineteenth century, the Peninsular War (1808-1814), put pay to this ground-breaking initiative, damaged by military actions as a result of its strategic position next to the beach of Mar Bella. The cemetery was later restored by the bishop Pau de Sitjar i Ruata (1808-1831), promoter of the construction of the Poblenou Cemetery by the architect Antonio Ginesi (1791-1824), who resurrected

the site that Bishop Climent had selected at the end of the eighteenth century and which still stands to this day (Lobato, 1988b). The episcopal or mitre cemetery, as it was known, was an initiative that marked a coming together between religion and the hygienist movements that would define the new interpretations of death in the last quarter of the eighteenth century and, above all, in the nineteenth century; the foundations of the contemporary perception of our relationship between the living and the dead. The Poblenou Cemetery would, years later, be added to with the construction of the Montjuïc Cemetery (1883).14 For Barcelona, these two spaces represent the new centres for the expression of grief and power through the artistic creations of the sepulchres, mausoleums and commemorative monuments that lead us to the conceptualisation of the style relating each period. These two cemeteries provided Barcelona sculpture with a showcase of modernity linked to art and family patronage in memory of the deceased.15 Across Catalonia, other cemeteries became spaces of artistic creation associated with death. The historical cemeteries of Sitges (Figure 6), Olot and Arenys de Mar (Figure 7) represent some of the most interesting examples, where family mausoleums and distinctive tombs stand in contrast to the rest of the sections in which niches and simple death prevail.16 In these, the talents of sculptors such as Josep Llimona (1864-1934) and Venanci Vallmitjana (1830-1919), and architects such as Enric Sagnier (1858-1931) and Cèsar Martinell (1888-1973) provide us with an outdoor gallery of nineteenth and twentieth century Catalan sculpture and architecture set within these places of eternal rest. The poet Salvador Espriu (1913-1985) immortalised the cemetery of Arenys de Mar in his collection of poems, Cementiri de Sinera. The name of the mythical site is an anagram of that of the town itself, a place of memory and remembrance, of reflection and of coming together in a context that exudes the sense of desolation in the wake of the Spanish Civil War:

Death and Enlightenment, was accompanied by the practices of the Barcelona Academy of Medical Practice, founded in 1770, home to hygienist thought and source of publications expounding ideas such as, for example: “(...) the poor ventilation in Barcelona, due to its narrow streets and tall houses and the corrupt gases emitted from the common sites, the sewers and the cemeteries, can all be condensed into one result, that is to say, the infection of the Atmosphere” (Lobato, 1988a: 381).

Montjuïc Cemetery was created as a result of the significant demographic expansion and economic boom experienced in the first half of the nineteenth century in Barcelona. The Poblenou cemetery was clearly insufficient and the fact that it was in an area of great urban development prevented its expansion. The Montjuïc Cemetery was opened on 17 March 1883 by the mayor of Barcelona, Rius i Taulet.

Cementiris de Barcelona offer tourist routes and guided visits for these two heritage sites. The programme of guided tours and range of educational services developed for students has, in terms of heritage, made significant strides to promote and raise awareness of cemeteries as a cultural spaces. The QR codes located at the entrance to the cemetery and at various points marking the cultural route provide a brief explanation of the history of each funeral monument, as well as information about the sculptor and the architectural style in four languages: Catalan, Spanish, English and French. In addition, a number of trilingual leaflets are available on the website that provide a guide to the masterpieces housed in the cemeteries: <https://www.cbsa. cat/wp-content/uploads/2016/10/ RUTA-MONTJU%C3%8FC_V.5_octubre-2016-1.pdf> i <https://www.cbsa.cat/wp-content/ uploads/2014/07/D%C3%ADptic-Poblenou.pdf> [Consulted on 10 July 2018].

For information on these historical cemeteries, we refer to the Government of Catalonia catalogue of architectural heritage: <http:// invarquit.cultura.gencat.cat/cerca> [Consulted on 10 July 2018].

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“What a tiny fatherland encircles the cemetery! This sea, Sinera, hills of pine forest and vineyards, riverbed dust. I love nothing else, except the drifting shadow of a cloud. The slow memory of days gone, never to return”. In conclusion, having briefly summarised some of the representative examples of Catalonia’s

funerary heritage, it is apparent that, even today, art at the service of death still forms a part of the challenges tackled by the creative community. In our contemporary context, architects such as Enric Miralles (1955-2000) and Carme Pinós (1954-) have set about poetising death through their works, such as the Igualada Cemetery (Cementiri Nou d’Igualada) (1985-1991).17 The simplicity of materials, rusting iron and the paths evoking memories of those that are no longer with us are some of the symbolic ideas

Sant Sebastià Cemetery, Sitges. PEDRO ALCARRIA

<http://invarquit.cultura.gencat. cat/Cerca/Fitxa?index=0&consulta=&codi=6720> [Consulted on 10 July 2018].

Arenys de Mar Cemetery. JOSÉ A. ORTIZ

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encompassed within this landmark twentieth century example of Catalan architecture and urbanism. In terms of the activation of these funerary heritage assets, they are not promoted by the monastic spaces and cathedrals that house them as primary reasons to visit and explore the relevant sites. If we return to those sites which contain royal sepulchres, such as Poblet and Santes Creus, these funerary elements are primarily catalogued as part of the Cistercian Route and Gothic architecture that define them, as illustrated by the list of associated search engine keywords included on Government of Catalonia cultural heritage website: ‘Architecture’, ‘Monument’, ‘Historic’, ‘Religious’ and ‘Royal Catalonia’ are those that we are offered in the case of Santes Creus.18 For Poblet, we have the addition of the ‘Renaissance’ as an artistic style.19 Both cases mention the presence of sepulchres and the burials, but these do not form key components in the promotional information provided for these sites.

This is in stark contrast to the initiatives implemented by the cemeteries in recent years, which have not only included forming collaborations with international associations and participation in conferences and seminars, but also the development of a series of communication systems for their resources via social media. Cementiris de Barcelona is a case in point. This municipal cemetery operator has developed a cultural agenda which includes the organisation of cultural routes for the cemeteries they manage every weekend. The architecture and sculpture contained in these spaces has been promoted through social media to raise awareness among a wider audience, for example, through the Instagram platform.20 With the use of the hashtag system, specifically #taldiacomavui (on this day), they commemorate the anniversaries of the death of the prominent figures buried at these funerary sites, serving to provide information on both the sculptures and memory and biography of their lives. Joining up with other international subscribers that do similar work, they highlight the range

<http://patrimoni.gencat.cat/ca/ coleccio/reial-monestir-de-santescreus> [Consulted on 29 August 2018].

<http://patrimoni.gencat.cat/ca/ coleccio/monestir-de-santa-maria-de-poblet> [Consulted on 29 August 2018].

< https://www.instagram.com/ cementirisbarcelona> [Consulted on 29 August 2018].

Private initiatives, such as blogs that provide information on the different heritage spaces related to death and enrich our knowledge of them through documentation are also of relevance here. <http:// www.patrimonifunerari.cat> [Consulted on 29 August 2018].

New Cemetery Park in Igualada. MCGINNLY (WIKIMEDIA COMMONS)

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of funerary heritage options available for contemporary society.21 These ideas lead us to believe that the death that preceded the modern systems of graves developed during the course of the nineteenth century has been superseded by the sites, monasteries, cathedrals or churches that house them. The sepulchres have been studied as individual elements, but within the architectural frameworks of which they form a part. With the introduction of cemeteries for the sole purpose of burial we experience greater clarity when it comes to conserving the assets managed there as funerary heritage. This is also clear in those archaeological spaces in which research has

been carried out with regard to funeral rites and tombs; with few examples of a cultural space attracting the general, with most remaining within the domain of specialist fields.22 Thus, the authorities have put the emphasis on the promotion of funerary heritage within contemporary cemeteries and ignored other assets that could also be of interest to illustrate historic systems associated with death. The possibilities are numerous, representing an opportunity for cultural management to tap into new mechanisms for raising awareness of funerary heritage within society. n

While this article was being written, a story was covered in the press regarding the discovery of Medieval tombs during the demolition of the old courts of Barcelona <https:// www.ara.cat/cultura/descobertanecropoli-medieval-paralitzaBarcelona_0_2062593910.html and http://ajuntament.barcelona.cat/ arqueologiabarcelona/una-necropolisaltmedieval-als-soterranis-dels-jutjats -de-la-ciutadella> [Consulted on 29 August 2018]. Other Barcelona examples had already been studied by the Barcelona Archaeology Service although they failed to receive any coverage. This first piece of press coverage suggests the future the remains will have going forward, possibly only for specialists.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Ariès, P. (2005). Historia de la muerte en occidente. Barcelona: El Acantilado. Ariès, P. (2011). El hombre ante la muerte. Madrid: Taurus. Bialostocki, J. (1988). The Message of Images. Studies in the History of Art. Vienna: Irsa. Binski, P. (1996). Medieval Death. New York: Cornwell University Press. Bosch, J. (1990). Els Tallers d’escultura al Bagès del segle xvii. Manresa: Caixa d’estalvis. Checa, F. (1988). Pintura y escultura del Renacimiento en España, 1450-1600. Madrid: Nerea. De Pascale, E. (2009). Death and Resurrection in Art. Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum. García Cárcel, R. (Ed.) (1985). La mort a l’antic règim. L’Avenç, 78, p. 48-75. Garriga, J. (1986). L’Època del Renaixement, s. xvi. In Història de l’Art Català, IV. Barcelona: Edicions 62. Lobato, I. and López, O. (1988a). L’espai dels morts: els cementiris i el pensament higienista il·lustrat. Pedralbes. Revista d’història moderna, 2, p. 379-385.

Lobato, I. and López, O. (1988b). L’espai dels morts: l’organització de l’espai als cementiris del segle xviii. El cementiri Vell de Barcelona. Pedralbes. Revista d’història moderna, 2, p. 371-377. Manote. M. R. (2007). La dispersió de les tombes reials de Poblet. In Bracons (Ed.) Història de l’Art Català, Art català al món, XI, (p. 104-107). Barcelona: Edicions 62. Marías, F. (1989). El largo siglo xvi. Madrid: Taurus. Martinell, C. (1949). La casa de Cardona y sus obras en Poblet. Estudios Históricos y Documentos de los Archivos de Protocolos, II, s/p. Mata, S. (1992). Isaac Alfred Vermei: el nebot escultor d’Isaac Hermes Verme. Quaderns d’Història Tarraconense, XI, p. 17-21. Mata, S. (2003). El sepulcre d’Antoni Agustí (1517-1586), bisbe de Lleida i arquebisbe de Tarragona. Seu Vella: anuari d’història i cultura, 4, p. 565-582. Morales Chacón, A. (1996). Escultura funeraria del Renacimiento en Sevilla. Seville: Publicaciones de la Diputación Provincial de Sevilla.

Oliver, J. (2000). Poblet. Espai i temps. Barcelona: Diputació de Barcelona. Panofsky, E. (1995). La Sculpture funéraire: De l’Égypte ancienne au Bernin. Paris: Flammarion. Piñol Alabart, D. (1998). A les portes de la mort. Religiositat i ritual funerari al Reus del segle xiv. Reus: Edicions del Centre de Lectura. Prats, L. (1998). El concepto de patrimonio cultural. Política y Sociedad, 27, p. 63-76. Redondo Cantera, M. J. (1987). El sepulcro en España en el siglo xvi: tipologia e iconografia. Madrid: Spanish Ministry of Culture. Riu, M. (1982). Alguns costums funeraris de l’edat mitjana a Catalunya. Acta historica et archaelogica mediaevalia, I, 29-57. Sabaté, F. (2003). Cerimònies fúnebres i poder municipal a la Catalunya Baixmedieval. Barcelona: Rafael Dalmau. Sánchez, S. (1803). Colección de pragmáticas, cedulas, provisiones, autos acordados, y otras providencias generales expedidas por el Consejo Real en el Reinado del Señor Don Carlos III. Madrid: Imprenta de la Viuda e Hijo de Marín.

Sobrequés i Callicó, J. (1983). Els reis catalans enterrats a Poblet. Poblet: Publicacions Abadia de Poblet. Thomas, L-V. (1983). Antropología de la muerte. Mexico: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Thomas, L-V. (2001). La muerte. Una lectura cultural. Barcelona: Editorial Paidós. Triadó, J. R. (1998). Escultura moderna. Art de Catalunya, Ars Cataloniae VII. Barcelona: L’Isard. Vovelle, M. (1974). Mourir Autrefois. Paris: Gallimard. Yeguas, J. (2005-2006). Els Grau i l’escultura del segle xvii a la Catalunya de Ponent. Locus Amoenus, 8, p. 147-163. Yeguas, J. (2009). El Mausoleu de Bellpuig: història i art del Renaixement entre Nàpols i Catalunya. Bellpuig: Saladrigues. Yeguas, J. (2012). La Glòria del marbre a Montserrat: els sepulcres renaixentistes de Joan d’Aragó, Bernat de Vilamarí i Benet de Tocco. Barcelona: Publicacions de l’Abadia de Montserrat.

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Dolors García-Torra UNIVERSITY OF BARCELONA

Dolors García-Torra holds a diploma in Nursing from Blanquerna Nursing School (Ramon Llull University, 1999), as well as an undergraduate degree in Social and Cultural Anthropology and a master's degree in Anthropology and Ethnography from the University of Barcelona (2007 and 2012, respectively). Her master's degree final project, titled "Morir de riure: la part del darrere dels rituals funeraris a un tanatori de l’Anoia" (Die laughing: a behind-the-scenes look at funeral rituals at a funeral home in L'Anoia), explores the nature and meaning of funeral rituals and the methods employed to prepare bodies for their subsequent arrangement and public display for the vigil.

“You are dust, and to dust you will return”

Burials at the New Cemetery Park in Igualada

Grave. Old Cemetery in Igualada (2016) GARCIA-TORRA

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he transition from life to death that every human being will undoubtedly face is given front and centre stage during the funeral ritual, whose complex, symbolic mechanisms allow death to enjoy its own time and place in society. For death to make its performance, it needs a stage – a viewing room, church and cemetery – and a cast that brings it to life by following a culturally regulated interactive process and a set of rules determined by tradition. Socialising and publicising the loss and involving the community are the main functions assigned to it by all cultures (Allué, 1998: 75). The final stage of the transition is marked by an intimate reunion of the deceased with the family members who have stayed to witness the burial or

És cert que un cop produït el traspàs, els morts canvien de domicili i van a parar a dominis invisibles o al no-res. Però també requereixen algun tipus de presència entre els mortals en el seu mateix mon físic. A la ciutat d’Igualada, actualment, aquesta necessitat és coberta per dos cementiris que representen dues modalitats ben diferents de cementiri urbà. D’una banda, té un interessant cementiri vuitcentista, d’estil neoclàssic –el Cementiri Vell– i, de l’altra, un cementiri contemporani –el Cementiri Nou–, projectat per dos arquitectes de renom internacional, Enric Miralles i Carme Pinós. Com que falta lloc al vell recinte funerari, no hi ha cap altra alternativa que inhumar al Cementiri Nou, cosa que no convenç un nombre important d’usuaris. Per a ells, portar a terme les pràctiques post mortem en un indret de disseny, com és la nova edificació funerària, els suposa estar utilitzant un cementiri projectat per uns arquitectes a partir d’un espai essencialment representat o concebut, aliè al seu entorn i les apropiacions que se suposa que ha de servir. Com que és un espai arquitectònic de nova generació, el cementiri no disposa dels codis de significat simbòlic forjats per la tradició que fan que sigui un espai reconegut i apte com a lloc de respòs etern. Per això, els seus usuaris duen a terme accions de revaloració contínua per tal de rehabilitar el valor d’ús de l’espai i la seva significació com a obra.

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the depositing of the ashes in an urn, both of which are aided by funeral companies. In the city of Igualada, the Cementiri Vell (Old Cemetery) is the fourth funeral space to provide a home to the mortal remains of those who have passed.1 It was built in a neoclassical style, following the criteria of a modern cemetery, which meant the exile of the deceased from the urban landscape. The Old Cemetery was part of a project contained in the new urban development plans of the time that would go on to shape the city into what it is today. It comprises buildings and enclosures of varying architectural styles, all of which is hidden within its high walls, as if it were an asylum, a modern-day prison, a hospice or a cemetery (Allué, 2004: 162). The eighteenth-century space, now boasting more than two

Ciertamente, una vez producido el traspaso, los muertos cambian de domicilio y terminan en dominios invisibles o en la nada. Pero también requieren algún tipo de presencia entre los mortales en su mismo mundo físico. Actualmente, en la ciudad de Igualada (Catalunya), esta necesidad está cubierta por dos cementerios que representan dos modalidades muy diferentes de cementerio urbano. Por un lado, cuenta con un interesante cementerio decimonónico, de estilo neoclásico –el Cementerio Viejo– y, por el otro, con un cementerio contemporáneo –el Cementerio Nuevo– proyectado por dos arquitectos de renombre internacional, Enric Miralles y Carme Pinós. A falta de lugar en el viejo recinto funerario, no hay otra alternativa que inhumar en el Cementerio Nuevo, lo que no convence a un número importante de usuarios. Para ellos, llevar a cabo las prácticas post mortem en un lugar de diseño, como es la nueva edificación funeraria, les supone estar utilizando un cementerio proyectado por unos arquitectos a partir de un espacio esencialmente representado o concebido, ajeno a su entorno y a las apropiaciones para las que se supone que debe servir. Al ser un espacio arquitectónico de nueva generación, el cementerio no cuenta con los códigos de significado simbólico forjados por la tradición que hacen que sea un espacio reconocido y apto como lugar de respondido eterno. Por ello, sus usuarios llevan acciones de continua revalorización para rehabilitar el valor de uso del espacio y su significación como obra.

Paraules clau: Pràctiques post mortem, cementiri paisatgístic, arquitectura “d’autor”, arquitecturització de l’espai, apropiació de l’espai. Palabras clave: Prácticas post mortem, cementerio paisajístico, arquitectura “de autor·”, arquitecturización del espacio, apropiación del espacio. Keywords: Post-mortem practices, landscape cemetery, signature architecture, architecturisation of space, appropriation of space.

The oldest information available regarding the history of funerary buildings in the city of Igualada dates back to the period between 1059 and 1087 when its first church

Obviously, after they pass away, the deceased change place and end up in some invisible domains or nothingness. But they also need some kind of presence among mortals in their own physical world. In Igualada, a city in Catalonia, this need is currently covered by two cemeteries that represent two very different types of urban cemetery. On the one hand, we have an interesting, neoclassical-style, nineteenth-century cemetery, known as the Old Cemetery. On the other hand, there is a contemporary cemetery (the New Cemetery) which was designed by two internationally renowned architects, Enric Miralles and Carme Pinós. Given the lack of unused space in the Old Cemetery, there is no alternative but to bury the deceased in the New Cemetery, even though it does not convince a significant number of users. In their view, carrying out post-mortem practices in a design place, such as the new funerary building, entails using a cemetery represented or conceived by architects, which is alien to their environment and the appropriations which it is supposed to serve. Being a new-generation architectural space, the cemetery does not have the codes of symbolic meaning forged by tradition that make it recognisable and suitable as a place for eternal rest. Consequently, its users keep trying to give it new value by means of different actions that give the work new meanings.

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Walls of niches. Old Cemetery in Igualada (2016) GARCIA-TORRA

hundred years of history, is rectangular and surrounded by cloisters of a Doric variety where the niches are located. A number of enclosures can also be found there, including the verandas, the chapel and the warehouse. A monumental door by Igualada-born sculptor Celdoni Guixa leads to a space that for many Igualada residents has long provided a place to stroll down quiet streets, observe graves and pantheons, and marvel at constructions and decorative features. Inside, over seven thousand niches and graves safeguard the remains of thousands of compatriots, whose lives would provide the most precise and com-

plete account of Igualada's history since the beginning of the nineteenth century, if such a feat were possible, that is. Once described as an "authentic, stable compilation of information about lives" (Cavallé, 2001: XVII), the Old Cemetery’s pleasant visits would undergo a change following the 1991 inauguration of a new cemetery in Igualada, designed by architects Enric Miralles and Carme Pinós.2 This was the result of shortages in funeral care, as the Old Cemetery was lacking unused space for new burials. Thus, the Cementiri Nou (New Cemetery), officially

was consecrated and assigned a surrounding piece of land known as a fossar (grave site) or cementiri primitiu (primitive cemetery). Then, in 1356, there was news of a new cemetery located north of the parish. Following the construction of the Temple of Santa Maria, this new site was relocated to the area just in front of the main door and later blessed by Doctor Josep Llorens on 25 January 1700. The remains of the old cemetery were moved there two years later. Following the proclamation of the new health ordinances, the Captain General of the Principality of Catalonia ordered the closure and definitive relocation of this provisional space beyond city walls. During the construction of the city's new ceme-

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known as the Cementiri Parc Municipal d’Igualada (Municipal Cemetery Park in Igualada), came to be, joining the range of twentieth-century European cemeteries that bore witness to the growing hybridisation of architecture and landscaping (Garcia, 2011). Based on traditional building techniques, the New Cemetery belongs to the range of works that brought Spanish architecture onto the international stage in the later part of 1980. For this reason, and given the recognition the Barcelona-based architects had attained, mention and images of this new funeral space appear in numerous magazines and books on architecture. Original architectural features, such as concrete structures, niches on slanting slopes, furrows, steep ascents and descents, and a colour scheme based on the surrounding land make it a 'signature' cemetery and a 'high-quality' public space. The cemetery reflects the full confidence put on the designers to come up with a

place that would delve into their capacity for innovation and creativity in producing a variety of forms that encapsulate the ways in which we understand life and death. The total lack of functional requirements favoured, as A. Blanco (2015: 189) would put it, a free and extravagant style of architecture; 'fantastical' architecture where anything goes and no limits are imposed upon the imagination of the creator. Be that as it may, visitors' strolls through the New Cemetery would not allow them to contemplate different types and locations of architecturally varying and exquisitely sculpted graves. Contrary to the Old Cemetery, the new space designed by Miralles and Pinós would be part of a new style of funeral architecture, where walking around the space "should be an experience that evokes collective human emotions, such as loss, sorrow, hope and joy, amongst its visitors" (Loosle, 1991: 26-39). In Igualada, building a cemetery inspired by land art

Grave plaza. New Cemetery in Igualada (2013) GARCIA-TORRA

tery (what would come to be known as the Old Cemetery in Igualada), burials were held in an area called Molí d'Alerta in Vilanova del Camí.

In 1983, Igualada City Council opened a public tender to commission the drafting of a project for a new municipal cemetery. It also initiated the acquisition of the land where the cemetery would be built. As indicated in the tender rules and regulations, the aim was to procure a preliminary draft that could serve as the basis for the final project. Amongst other conditions, special consideration was given to the proposal’s ability to integrate funeral buildings into the surrounding landscape and to the level to which it fulfilled the programme's intention to build a cemetery park. Two years after commissioning the preliminary draft and following a number of meetings with the jury, the tender was awarded to the proposal jointly submitted by architects Enric Miralles and Carme Pinós under the title Zementiri.

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techniques3 in situ would result in artistic topographies. The meticulous union of architecture and nature gives rise to artificial topography, whose concavities, static places, slopes, cracks, and other features reveal the function of any funeral site's own memory. It does not reveal the memory of our deceased loved ones, however, but rather "the place's lost memory â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the archaic interior â&#x20AC;&#x201C; sought after with giant excavators that tear away at the earth until reaching the parent rock" (Garcia, 2011:75). Ultimately, "the cemetery will once again be, in an archaic memory, subterranean: a single, reconquered grave overtaken by vegetation, thereby achieving its desired return to the earth" (Pizza, 2011: 120). Our reflection arises from the contrast between the respective architectural styles that define these two cemeteries. Cemeter-

ies are not simply places where bodies are confined as contaminants, dignified by the construction of aesthetic graves, pantheons and mausoleums, and surrounded by flourishing plant life and tall cypress trees. They are also proscenia for socialisation: between the living and the dead, amongst the living and between individuals and their inner selves. Certain forms of coexistence arise in them, especially on commemorative occasions on which they serve as meeting places, like every 1st of November. We might go as far as to say that cemeteries are not designed exclusively as cities for the dead, but also as an earthly place enlivened by those who maintain worldly ties with their dearest loved ones. Thus, we ask ourselves whether the new funeral space, so architecturally and symbolically different from the modern funerary construction to which Igualada residents are accustomed, is

Slanting niches. New Cemetery in Igualada (2013) GARCIA-TORRA

In 1980, Miralles was awarded a Fulbright Visiting Scholar grant to conduct research at Columbia University, which led him to move to New York along with Carme PinĂłs. A critical moment during their stay in New York was their discovery of land art, a contemporary art movement in which artists would make structures in the landscape using natural materials. The movement began in the desert landscapes of the American West at the end of the 1970s with striking works of art created using giant excavators. Artists such as Robert Smithson (1938-1973) and Richard Long (1945) are two good examples of this movement, and their work would greatly influence the cemetery construction process.

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capable of supporting the communication that has always flown between the community of the living and that of the dead. The design and art of Miralles and Pinós are highly revered by artists and architects alike, and were even awarded the 1991 FAD Architecture Award, but do they allow us to show our connection with, respect for and affection towards our deceased loved ones? Do commemoration, commiseration and gathering find the social substratum they require in this new cemetery? Incidentally, the fieldwork I carried out while writing my doctoral thesis (Garcia-Torra, 2018), which centred on social appropriations in the New Cemetery,4 confirmed that the experience felt by visitors as they strolled through the space did not match how they would otherwise perceive, make use of and experience a cemetery. Rather, the experience evoked a feeling

of walking through a cemetery designed by architects of the city of the dead in an overly represented or conceived space. The designer architecture, the prominent hills and clear skies, and the lack of explicit religious symbolism present death in a whole new light. In this place, the deceased present themselves on a stage that teaches the living about the nature and ultimate ends of human existence: “You are dust, and to dust you will return” (Genesis 3:19). In the New Cemetery, eighteenth-century rhetoric disappears, giving way to evocative and metaphorical motifs that define dead as something flexible and detached. Cemeteries will no longer consider practical or functional issues, placing design above the usefulness, sturdiness and safety of built structures. Other contemporary funeral constructions, such as the Fisterra Cemetery (2000) and

Gravestone. New Cemetery in Igualada (2013) GARCIA-TORRA

The on-the-ground research consisted of a series of stays during which participant and non-intrusive observation techniques were applied to explore how cemeteries are used by their visitors and in what ways they become the stage for certain social activities. This involved the application of classic ethnographic fieldwork techniques for public contexts (Goffman, E., 1974; Lofland et al., 2006; Lofland, L., 1996; Whyte, 2004; and Grosjean and Thibaud, 2001). It also involved defining the situations and interactions that would be the object of our observations in the field. We wanted accounts of certain social acts and this would allow us to refine our approaches to them. Meanwhile, we carried out open interviews with the family members of those buried in the cemetery. By doing so, we were able to learn about their perceptions of the cemetery and capture their narratives surrounding post-mortem practices in terms of visiting and using the space as a place for remembrance of the deceased.

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the funeral homes in LeĂłn (2011) and Terrassa (2018), are much like Igualada's New Cemetery, belonging to a generation of new transcendence that does not arise from funeral culture and tradition, with its concern for the salvation of souls, but rather from the emotive qualities of the nature and landscape in which the construction is embedded. One particularly striking fact is that the Barcelona-based architects who devised and designed the New Cemetery, in an attempt to create a space that would be free of symbols of distinction or hierarchy, created uniform gravestones made of weathering steel5 that did not allow for epitaphs, flowers or offerings. In light of this, most grave owners, unwilling to renounce their chance to communicate and exchange objects, signals and writings with their deceased loved ones, have taken it upon themselves to remove the original gravestones and replace them

with proper marble temples covered in flowers, ribbons, signs, figures, candles, images and other objects, and crowned with an epitaph that depicts the name of the space's inhabitant. The decision taken by these cemetery-goers shows that we are up against an architectural system that is obsessed with design and that rejects popular tastes, thereby hindering the cemeteryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ability to become a keeper of family values. To use the grave as a memento of the deceased's continued place in the everyday life of the bereaved, the latter had to take over the space, visiting it and giving it special care, and even replacing the original, impersonal gravestones with others that satisfied their own personal preferences. The eternal presence of sumptuous stone and marble graves for those who have gone away forever has no place in new funerary spaces. This time round, the use of concrete will create steady, eternal graves worthy

Weathering steel is a construction material that become popular in the 1970s. Its high levels of copper, chromium and nickel give it its characteristic orange colour, which in turn creates a rusty appearance.

Gravestone. New Cemetery in Igualada (2014) GARCIA-TORRA

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of safeguarding the memory of our lost loved ones. The unadorned architecture surrounding them does not abide by historic references and forms, instead drawing attention to the tree-filled landscapes and blue skies that envelop the built area. The intention was to represent a new, flowing concept of death, where graves are no longer considered a place of rest but rather a place of departure. In lieu of the typical phrase "here lies", something like "from here departs" would be more fitting (Massad and Guerrero, 2005: 1-2). It should also be noted that a great wall announcing our arrival to the New Cemetery, as was the case in the Old Cemetery, would make no sense at all. Rather than posting signage regarding the identity of the community (which is typical in commemorative cemeteries), landscape cemeteries like the one designed by Miralles and Pinรณs contain signs that refer to the identity of the landscape, which would contradict any physical delimitation of the area with walls and a monumental entryway. Data extracted from spontaneous conversations held with visitors to the cemetery show that the lack of a solid door, which would create the feeling that the home of our deceased loved ones is properly protected from the outside world, did not sit well with some residents of Igualada who visit the site. One visitor explained it like this: "I don't wish to discredit it [the cemetery], but having your son in a place with no door is painful".6 The building's architectural exuberance is also not the right choice for all, as evidenced by one visitor's comment: "The architect was so eager to be modern and avant-garde, like one of those clothing designers; it's real pretty, sure, but then you think, what the heck is this!"7 The press was already echoing the feeling of discomfort instigated by the New Cemetery in 2002 when it compared it to a landfill (Espadaler, 2002: 27). Examples like these, which depict the tension between the cemetery and its visitors, speak for themselves. The switch from city cemeteries to landscape cemeteries began to show its first symptoms of rejection by those in need of burial services during the second decade of the twenty-first century.

As Michel Vovelle (1991) notes, new funeral architecture based on feelings and emotions reflects today's mentality regarding death, which is characterised by an ever-present restrictive behavioural model surrounding the reality of dying. Vovelle observes that the deconstruction of religious preparatory traditions regarding death has led to a decreasing number of meetings with it, which directly affects funeral rituals and the space of death. The author believes that new necropolises lack charisma, and that the collective imagination and expressions of family belonging seen in classic cemeteries are amiss. Featuring no statues and scant epitaphs, the places where the deceased now reside represent the ultimate expression of the 'death-taboo'. This new model strays from the pure and simple exclusion of death; in other words, "behind this evolution we are witnessing the search for a new, different system of death" (Vouvelle, 1991: 1-10). Cemetery management has shown a total lack of interest in strengthening cult practices, such as grave visiting and the arrangements that help turn graves into more fitting, visitor-friendly places. Igualada is lucky, however, as visitors have decided to respond through practices of resistance that continuously give the cemetery new value. There is one especially pertinent example in this regard: a visitor whose son was one of the first bodies to be buried in the New Cemetery. Since his son's burial, the man has not only maintained that the managers of the New Cemetery have left the place completely abandoned, he has also pointed out that they do not take care to make sure festivities like All Saints' Day are celebrated, as has always been done in the Old Cemetery. On the day of celebration, the fact that the New Cemetery holds a traditional requiem mass is thanks to this Igualada resident, who has taken the necessary measures to ensure the celebration of this important festival for all Igualada residents to enjoy. Although the managers frown upon it, the man has successfully organised the All Saints' Day mass every year since the New Cemetery's inauguration. The ongoing doctoral thesis will ultimately allow for a full analysis and description of

Fieldwork, 1-XI-2017.

Fieldwork, 30-X-2018.

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how visitors to the New Cemetery, through their post-mortem cult practices, face a system of communication they did not previously understand: a contemporary cemetery that refuses to accept the opinion of the majority of its visitors and fails to represent for them what should be a funeral site, in both physical and symbolical terms. Far from believing that 'anything goes' when it comes to their deceased loved ones, visitors to the New Cemetery do not react indifferently to being in an 'architecturised' space, a work of art imbued with geometry and order that not only aims to achieve functionality, but also to impose upon its visitors a certain understanding and interpretation as a means of homogenising practices and bringing certain cognitive and semantic stimuli to bear. With this in mind, we must understand that the affliction people feel following the

loss of a loved one marks the beginning of a stage of transformation in terms of their relationship with the deceased. This relationship between the living and the dead will exist for as long as time, and the spaces, objects and feelings surrounding death, such as mourning, play an essential role, as they help the living accept death by bestowing an intimate meaning upon their loss. Nowadays, Miralles and Pinós's cemetery is being taken over by its visitors, who hope to turn it into a place worthy of death; an ideal symbolic setting where people can visit and mourn their deceased loved ones. It seems that the architects, overcome by their desire to uniquely and exclusively exhibit their creative capacity, have forgotten that a cemetery is meant to fulfil important social and communal functions. n

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Allué, M. (1998). La ritualización de la pérdida. Anuario de Psicología, 29(4), 75. Allué, M. (2004). Els cementiris i la mort. In M. Allué, R. Arnabat, F. Blanc, J. Castillo, T. Salvador, E. Tomàs, and J. Valls, El cementiri de Vilafranca del Penedès. Vilafranca del Penedès: Jordi Valls. Blanco, A. (2015). Flujo laminar. El Cementerio de Igualada y los procesos elásticos en la arquitectura de Enric Miralles y Carme Pinós. Higher Technical School of Architecture of Madrid. Universidad Politécnica de Madrid, 189. (PhD thesis) Espadaler, A. M. (November 2, 2002). Un cementerio mal cuidado. La Vanguardia, p. 22. Cavallé, N. (2001). Introduction. In J. Amades, La mort. Costums i creences. Biblioteca Tradicions Populars, 11, XVII. García, M. (2011). Espacio, Paisaje y Rito: Formas de sacralización del territorio en el cementerio europeo del siglo xx. ETSAM, UPM, Madrid. (PhD thesis)

García-Torra, D. (2018). Apropiacions socials d’un espai funerari arquitecturitzat: El Nou Cementiri d’Igualada. Faculty of Geography and History. Barcelona University. (PhD thesis) Loosle, R. (1991). La muerte entra en el estudio de diseño. In Una arquitectura para la muerte. Proceedings of the I International Meeting on Contemporary Cemeteries, Seville, June 4 and 7, 1991, Junta de Andalucia / Consejería de Obras Públicas y Transportes, Sevilla, (p. 26-39). Massad, F. and Guerrero, A. (2004) La inconclusa arquitectura del sentimiento. In Arquitextos, (p. 1-2). Pizza, A. Cementerio Municipal, Igualada (Barcelona) 1985-1991. In Enric Miralles, 1972-2000. Barcelona: Caja de Arquitectos Foundation, (Arquia Collection / themes, 33, p. 105124). Vovelle, M. (1991). La crisis de los rituales funerarios en el mundo contemporáneo y su repercusión en los cementerios. Una arquitec-

tura para la muerte. Proceedings of the I International Meeting on Contemporary Cemeteries, Seville, June 4 and 7, 1991, Junta de Andalucia / Consejería de Obras Públicas y Transportes, Sevilla, (p. 1-10).

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The Bear Festivals in L’Alt Vallespir CLAUDIE VOISENAT

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The main features of Moroccan gastronomy and its role in society IVONE PUIG ARTIGAS

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Heritage and participation: a comparative reflection via the recognition of the Pyrenean falles festivals as intangible cultural heritage JOSEP ROCA GUERRERO

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The Register of Good Safeguarding Practices for Intangible Cultural Heritage MARÍA ROYUELA-MALDONADO

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An exceptional ethnological rarity: the tradition of hydraulic exploitation in Banyoles GUERAU PALMADA AUGUET CARLES QUER FEO JOSEP MARIA REYES VIDAL

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Claudie Voisenat CROSS-BORDER COUNTRY OF ART AND HISTORY OF THE TECH AND TER CATALAN VALLEYS

Lead anthropologist in the drafting of the candidacy dossier to include the Bear Festivals of L’Alt Vallespir on the UNESCO list of intangible cultural heritage. Lecturer at École du Louvre and head of research for France’s Ministry of Culture, working alongside the French National Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS) at the Institut interdisciplinaire d’anthropologie du contemporain.

The Bear Festivals in L’Alt Vallespir

hree villages in L’Alt Vallespir, Arles2, Prats-de-Mollo-la-Preste and Saint-Laurent-de-Cerdans celebrate the Bear Festivals (or Bear Hunts/Days) every year in late winter. Lasting a few hours, the Festivals consist of young male villagers who dress and make themselves up as bears and, surrounded by a pack of Hunters, roam the streets scaring passers-by who run and hide or egg them on.

gated by theTech River and its tributaries. L’Alt Vallespir refers to the upper basin of this river, which begins in the Costabona foothills. It is a mid-mountain area associated, since 2012, with the French Grand Site of Canigou, which constitutes its southern side. With a population of around 5,200 inhabitants, the three rural municipalities together cover an area of over 220 km2, with predominantly woodland landscapes that open into deep stream pools and what were once high-altitude pasturelands.

Festivals of time-honoured tradition The territorial region known as Vallespir is the result of organisation amongst the former Catalan counties prior to theTreaty of the Pyrenees in 1659 and the subsequent establishment of the current French-Spanish border. This border territory, the southernmost of metropolitan France, comprises a number of valleys irri-

Given the area’s isolating geography, the Bear Festivals and the corresponding customs have primarily been passed down through oral tradition. As far as we know, festivals involving bears date back to a distant past. The ninth-century archbishop of Reims, Hincmar, condemned the turpia joca cum ursis (vile games with a bear), as well as other games of a despicable

This article was written in collaboration with Christelle Nau, head of the Bear Festivals’ UNESCO candidacy.

Arles-sur-Tech.

The Bears from the three Festivals gathered in Prats-deMollo-la-Preste (2013). JEAN DABAT

The Bear Festivals in L’Alt Vallespir

nature involving masquerades and obscene representations. El Llibre de les Solemnitats de Barcelona (The Book of Solemnities of Barcelona) of 1424 provides an account of a man dressed in black lambskin to give the appearance of a bear during the Corpus Christi procession (Duran and Sanabre, 1930: 12).3 Although their origin and prior evolution are something of a mystery, the Bear Festivals of L’Alt Vallespir have been the object of several ethnographic mentions, appearing as far back as the nineteenth century, which claim to have borne witness to the celebrations. One of the oldest known references to the Festivals dates back to 1835, when historian Dominique Henry4 spoke of them, although without specifying the geographical area: […] une mascarade de tradition que chaque année voit se renouveler. Un homme de la lie du peuple se déguise en ours ; ses camarades vêtus de haillons les plus sales, et barbouillés de la façon la plus ignoble, l’accompagnent et le font danser au bruit assourdissant de sifflets, entonnoirs, crécelles et de tambours […] un usage de grande antiquité.5 (Henry, 1835: CVI-CVII). A few years after Henry’s account, English folklorists Violet Alford and Basil Collier were able to provide a much more detailed description of the Festivals’ structure (Van Gennep, 1999: 771-775).6 The description was completed with ritualistic interpretations inspired by Sir James Frazer, which fed the local imagination

Les Festes de l’Os de l’Alt-Vallespir tenen lloc una tarda de final d’hivern. A tres pobles de la vall, homes joves vestits d’os recorren els carrers, jugant a espantar la gent. L’interès per aquestes manifestacions augmenta a partir dels anys vuitanta. Per petició dels habitants, que hi estan fortament lligats, són presents des del 2014 a l’inventari francès del patrimoni cultural immaterial i candidates a la inscripció de la llista representativa de la UNESCO. La seva valorització cultural s’acompanya d’una aproximació etnogràfica de la qual aquest article en dona compte.

and representations carried out by the media. After the first ethnographic research was conducted at the beginning of the 1970s, scholars and researchers would take a growing interest in the topic.7 The majority would choose to highlight the Festivals’ antiquity and their link to a highly rich legendary background. The Festivals’ start date, 2 February, coincides with two related religious celebrations: the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary and the Presentation of Our Lord Jesus (also known as Candlemas). According to some historians (Pastoureau, 2007: 149), the Catholic Church may have initiated these two cultural celebrations, which take place 40 days after the winter solstice, to hamper or replace ancient pagan devotion to the bear. This ancient devotion is evidenced by the Europe-wide belief that bears come out of hibernation on 2 February (or around that date), a belief which appears in numerous meteorological sayings, such as the following: Per la Candalera, l’ós surt de l’ossera, i, si troba que fa bo, se’n torna a fer un gaitó (On Candlemas, the bear leaves his den and, if he sees it’s a nice day, goes back to napping) (Amades, 1951: 967). Bears are plantigrade animals showing a likeness to humans in many ways; they are also the subject of numerous legends, of which the most widespread in the Pyrenees revolves around John the Bear, the son of a woman and a bear who, after many adventures, frees,

Las Fiestas del Oso del Alto Vallespir acontecen una tarde de finales de invierno. En tres pueblos del valle, jóvenes hombres disfrazados de oso recorren las calles, jugando a asustar a la gente. El interés por estas manifestaciones va en aumento a partir de los años ochenta. Por petición de los habitantes, fuertemente ligados a las fiestas, des de 2014 éstas forman parte del inventario francés del patrimonio cultural inmaterial así cómo son candidatas a la inscripción de la lista representativa de la UNESCO. Su valorización cultural se acompaña de una aproximación etnográfica de la que da cuentas este artículo.

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Paraules Clau: Festa de l’Os, Alt Vallespir, Arles, Prats de Molló, Sant Llorenç de Cerdans Palabras Clave: Fiesta del Oso, Alto Vallespir, Arles-sur-Tech, Prats-de-Mollo, Saint-Laurentde-Cerdans Keywords: Bear Festival, L'Alt Vallespir, Arles-sur-Tech, Pratsde-Mollo-la-Preste, SaintLaurent-de-Cerdans

“Os o onsso ab tot son compliment, e es de pells de anyins negres” (An excellently-represented bear, composed of black lambskin) (Duran and Sanabre 1930: 12).

Dominique Marie Joseph Henry (1778-1850), historian and curator at the Villa de Perpignan Library.

“A masquerade of a tradition repeated year after year. A man from the dregs of the village dresses up as a bear; his comrades, donning the dirtiest of rags and with their faces sullied in the most despicable way, accompany him and make him dance to the deafening sound of whistles, funnels, rattles and drums [...] a custom of great antiquity.”

p. 771-775. It delves into various previous works, including Alford, 2004 (1937); Collier, 1939; Amades, 1950; and other local scholars.

The Bear Festivals in Alt-Vallespir takes place on a late winter afternoon. In three villages of the valley, young men dressed up as bears go thought the streets, trying to scare people. The interest on these celebrations has increased since the eighties. For its inhabitant’s petition, who are highly involved on the feast, it was introduced in the inventory of the French intangible cultural heritage. It has also been a candidate to be registered to the UNESCO’s representative list. Its cultural value comes with its ethnographic approximation to which this article explains.

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alongside his companions, a group of princesses being held captive in the underworld. In Vallespir, various local versions of the legend exist in which a bear kidnaps a shepherdess, keeps her under lock and key in a cave and tries to mate with her. The girl is ultimately saved by hunters or forest dwellers who cunningly draw the bear away from the girl before taking it down. Another local version modified by the Christian Church was transcribed by writer Carles Bosch de la Trinxeria8 in 1891; in this case, the girl is shown praying or a hermit is said to appear (Bosch de la Trinxeria, 1997: 56). A wide range of other stories were also told du mythe au roman, de la légende au fait divers9 (Fabre, 1969) that would go on to inspire a number of plays at local theatres or fairs as well as collective, ritualistic or festive ceremonies. Also the result of this process are the Bear Festivals, whose scenes and figures are highly characteristic: the Bear, women being chased, Hunters and Trappers (Manaires in Catalan and Trappeurs10 in French), who would make their appearance as a way to evoke the bear hunters and exhibitors of old. Other surrounding municipalities, such as Pi, Vilafranca de Conflent, Cortsaví, La Manera, Ceret and Els Banys d’Arles, also organised Bear Festivals, although these would end up fading out by the end of the nineteenth century. The three remaining Bear Festivals in L’Alt Vallespir are therefore unique in that they are the only ones to have persevered with remarkable determination over the years. According to local memory, very rarely were they cancelled, except during the world wars and a few times in Arles during the 1950s. Such perpetuity is explained by the fact that the Festivals have never ceased to evolve and adapt to social change. The date of celebration is one good example. The Festivals were originally set on 2 February, Candlemas Day, which, in times gone by, marked the start of the Carnival season. Then, from the 1920s, they were moved to the Sunday falling closest to Candlemas. During the 1960s, the Festivals were scheduled during the schools’ winter break to make it easier for families to get together and celebrate. In some extreme cases, like in Arles, the Festivals have even taken place

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in summer to garner attention from visiting tourists. Today, the Festivals adhere to a more set schedule: the first Sunday in February in Arles, and the first and second Sunday of the Académie de Montpellier’s winter break in Prats-de-Mollo-la-Preste and Saint-Laurentde-Cerdans, respectively. Another important adaptation, a direct result of people’s change in mentality regarding the Festivals over the last few decades, involves the celebration of more child-friendly Bear Festivals. In all three villages, children are directly involved in the festivities: not only do they have a role in the Bear Festivals for adults, they have also become the leading actors in festivities organised specifically for them, which has given rise to an effective way of passing the Bear Festivals’ values and customs from one generation to the next. In Prats-de-Mollo-la-Preste, as children were already out ‘playing bear’ in the playground, the adults decided to create the Junior Bear Festival in 1986. Around 15 years ago, the children’s Festival in Saint-Laurentde-Cerdans used an old bear costume, hence the name Old Bear Festival. Finally, Arles put together the Little Bear Festival in 2014 as part of a participatory project aiming to get different generations involved. A single narrative for unique festivals Arriving from the outskirts of the villages, the Bears upset village order for a good two or three hours, running through the streets and stalking passers-by, all the while being chased by the Hunters, from whom they repeatedly escape. Short, comic plays are put on in each square, each following the same structure: aggression, capture, death and resurrection of the Bear, followed by a newly endeavoured flight down a nearby street. The action is accompanied by the crowd of spectators, who cheer to the rhythm of the Bear’s movements and yell “hou hou” at the beast to provoke and aggravate him, not to mention the Hunters’ shotgun blasts, the rallying Meneurs and the music of local folk bands.11 At the end of the festivities, the villages’ main squares are the scene of the unchanging and symbolic shaving of the Bears, during which they are stripped of their animal nature and accepted back into the community.

Such as Daniel Fabre and JeanDominique Lajoux. The scholar Robert Bosch mentions the main ones in his chapter “Les grands témoins de l’ours” (Bosch, 2003).

Carles Bosch de la Trinxeria, who was born in Prats-de-Mollo-laPreste, lived in La Jonquera and made a living by managing his lands. An avid traveller, he published numerous essays, some of which are tied to the Renaissance. In his story, the writer mentions the shepherdess of Mas de Cremadells (located in Saint-Laurent-de-Cerdans), and the plot takes place near the chapel of Nostra Senyora de les Salines, located not far from Maçanet de Cabrenys. There is also a Prats-de-Mollo-la-Preste version, which sets the story around the chapel of Nostra Senyora del Coral.

“From myth to novel, from legend to event”.

The characters included in the Bear Festivals are typically identified and named in the Roussillon-Vallespir Catalan dialect. When characters are identified in French, we have chosen to keep the terms in their original language. To learn more about the Trappeur, see the glossary at the end of the article.

The importance of the music played during the Bear Festivals has been studied by Oriol Lluís Gual (Lluís, 2017).

The Bear Festivals in L’Alt Vallespir

This baseline plot comes to a different end in each village. The Bear Festival in Arles The Arles Bear Festival presents a version of the festivities filled with dance and theatre. The morning of the Festival, its main figures – organisers and actors alike – meet for breakfast at the village banquet hall at 10:30 am before the festivities kick off; this is called the Appel du Trappeur12 or the Meeting of the Trappers. Here, the Trappeur calls out to the villagers and Hunters to encourage them to join the bear hunt taking place that afternoon. As he recites his speech in Catalan, his partner Roseta (a boy dressed as a girl) skips around him. This prelude to the Festival is peculiar to Arles.

Around 15 actors participate in the Festival. Apart from the Bear, the Trappeur and Roseta (the main characters), there is also a group of Hunters and other unique characters such as the Botes (Barrels) and theTortugues (Turtles), who interact with the Bear and aggravate him. Around 2:30 pm, at Fontaine des Buis, on the bank of the Tech and far from the villagers, the Bear is prepared. Once in full costume, he

goes off to hide in nearby thickets, before being quickly discovered by the Trappeur, Roseta and the Hunters who have gone out in search of him. The group traps the Bear, chains him up and leads him to the village, at which point he escapes down a street, with the other characters in pursuit. The route taken within the village is marked by stops in the squares where the same scene is repeated, varying slightly each time thanks to the actors’ improvisations. At the centre of a circle made by the Hunters, the Trappeur and the Bear face off; the nine Barrels, divided into groups of three, and the four Turtles make an attempt to distract the animal and slow him down. The Bear attacks the Barrels and tries to snag the patotes13 of the Turtles, who stick out and hide their heads like real turtles. Roseta, who is being used as bait, cowers behind the Barrels; when the Bear makes a grab for her, they roll around on the ground to stop him. The Trappeur steps in to separate them and finally traps the Bear, who is then chained up and held on the ground while the crowd cheers. At this point, the Trappeur recites a declaration, providing an account of the capture, reminding listeners of the dangers of the Bear, especially for women, and heralding the bravery shown by the Hunters

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“The call of the Trappeur”.

Roussillon term meaning “cloth dolls”. Today, the Turtles usually have stuffed animals tied at the end of sticks which they use to imitate a turtle’s movement as it sticks out and hides its head. The body is made of white sheets that cover their armour, which is constructed out of metal hoops.

The Bear from Arles with the Trappeur and Roseta (2010). FRANÇOIS GORRÉE

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as well as his very own talents as a trapper and his ability to show the beast how to dance the xinxirinxina. The actors dance all together in a circle to the song of the Bear; just then, the Bear escapes into the crowd and hastens towards the next square. The play is performed as many as seven times in different parts of the village. The balcony of Chez Bouzage is one of the strategic sites of the Festival. The Bear, the Trappeur and Roseta climb up to the balcony and look for one another as they move from one window to the next. They hold on to each other tightly, hug, play a quick game of hide-and-seek and then head back down to the street to continue their journey. The hunt comes to an end in the church square, where they enact the shaving scene, otherwise known as the Dansa del Barber (Dance of the Barber). For this scene, the Hunters form a large circle to keep the spectators out, and the Barrels and Turtles find their place to watch at the inside edges of the circle. Just then, the Bear makes his appearance in the square and the final play begins. The Bear brandishes the Trappeur’s long cane, waving it about and poking at the Barrels. Once he has wreaked enough havoc, the Bear grabs hold of a random girl in the crowd and attempts to drag her inside a cabin made of branches and leaves built in one corner of the square and meant to imitate a bear’s den. However, the young girl escapes his clutches, and, as he chases after her, the Bear is finally taken down by hunter Domingo, who fires a blank round into the air. The beast is then sat on a chair. Here, the Trappeur and Roseta begin to dance, skipping to and fro a few times, mocking and jeering at the Bear before he is shaved. At this time, a red bib is placed around the Bear’s neck, and the Trappeur, playing around with a plastic apple as if it were a shaving brush, eventually slides the blade of a wooden axe across the beast’s cheeks as if to shave his face. The Bear’s head is quickly removed and the crowd roars with glee. The three characters drink from a wine jar with a long thin spout while the band starts to play the Ball del Córrer (Running Dance), to which the entire village begins to dance. In Arles, the costumes for the Bear and the other main characters are kept by an association known as Alegria14, which makes use of them a

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few times throughout the year for the folk plays they put on and to perform the shaving scene. Amongst all of the costume pieces, the Bear’s head is by far the most important. It is a motorcycle helmet covered in goatskin and the eyes are glass spheres. The mouth is strikingly large, around 20 cm long; it is left slightly open, which allows spectators to witness the 26 frightening wooden teeth that have been painted red. There is evidence of the unique shape of the head dating as far back as a century, appearing in the work of Joan Amades (Amades, 1950: 676m vol. 1), an image which served to remake the head during the 1960s. The rest of the actor’s body is outfitted in a full-body suit made of a furry synthetic brown fabric blend. Of all the costumes, it is the Barrels’ which has changed the most over the years. During the first half of the twentieth century, the Barrels were played by four men wearing barrels of fired clay made by a local craftsman. Two faces with frightening eyes were painted on, a long nose made of wood was added and strings of garlic or pieces of hay were attached as hair. A belt with eight to ten cowbells and handbells put a final touch to the ensemble. The Bear would smash the large barrels of fired clay with a cane just before the final shaving scene. Following the death of the craftsman who made them, the barrels of fired clay were replaced with wooden ones, which, in turn, were replaced with plastic drums, as they were lighter and sturdier. Nowadays, they are painted a variety of colours and decorated with branches of broom. The most important feature of the Bear Festival in Arles is its theatrical and folkloric nature15, the result of tradition dating back to the 1950s. Unlike in the other two villages, where the Bear Festivals have been celebrated continuously since their beginning, in Arles the Festival was not held between 1953 and 1962. The Alegria association decided to relaunch it, although with little success. In order to boost attendance, the Festival was moved to the summer and held around 15 August. As a summer activity, the Bear Festival in Arles became a crucial element for the representation of traditional Catalan culture in Vallespir. At that time, the Bear hunt was much shorter, regarded as a simple pretext

A group dedicated to practising traditional dances that organises the Festival.

The theatrical and folkloric nature of the Festival led to its inclusion in the French folkloric repertoire, a unique characteristic of the Arles Festival.

The Bear Festivals in L’Alt Vallespir

for the final shaving scene, which was held in the Town Hall park and required paid entry. Thanks to proposals put forth by the villagers, in 1986 the Festival was moved back to winter and has been held ever since on the first Saturday or Sunday in February. It was also at that point when the Bear Festival was fully restored, with all the features that characterise the celebration today, with traditional characters given the spotlight in staged performances. This journey makes the Bear Festival in Arles the most suitable for discussing the nature, traditional or otherwise, and evolution of these celebrations. While there are those who advocate for a complete return to tradition and thus the disappearance of relatively new elements, such as the plastic apple or the wooden shaving axe, others plan to turn the Bear Festival into an even more attractive event. In Arles, however, new elements are likely to appear elsewhere: the Little Bear Festival, a celebration aimed specifically at children, could serve as a guinea pig for blending tradition and innovation. Here, certain previously forgotten elements relating

to the costumes, such as the cowbells on the Barrels’ belts, have made their reappearance. Likewise, other more radical changes have been put up for discussion, especially in terms of re-evaluating women’s role in the Festival. The Bear Festival in Prats-de-Mollola-Preste The Prats-de-Mollo-la-Preste Bear Festival, otherwise known as Bears Day, is distinguished by the presence of three groups of characters: the three Bears, the Hunters, who are played by young male villagers and the friends of those playing the Bears, and finally the Barbers, played by older men and sometimes referred to as the White Bears. All together, there are around 30 male participants of an array of ages. This generational blend represents, along with the mâchurage, one of the Festival’s defining features.

The Prats-de-Mollo-la-Preste Bear Festival marks the halfway point of the village’s Carnival festivities, which play out over four days. Always taking place on a Sunday, Bears Day

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The Bear from Arles faces off against the Turtles and Barrels (2015). MARIE ADAMSKI

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kicks off at breakfast. The Barbers take turns year after year inviting each other into their homes, while the Bears and the Hunters meet at village cafés. The Festival begins at around 11 am when the mayor of Arles-sur-Tech turns over the Bear Paw to the mayor of Prats-de-Mollo-laPreste.16 Shortly thereafter, the actors and male villagers start to dance a contrapàs (a popular Catalan dance) to the music of folk band La Principal de Girona, following which are the highly attended sardanas, the three or four concentric circles of which end up covering the entire square. At morning’s end, the Bears and their Hunters trek up to Fort Lagarde, a monument that sits atop the hill where the Old Town lies, where they have lunch together. Meanwhile, the Barbers ‘get ready’ in the village bars, waiting there for a few hours until the arrival of the Bears. Around 1:30 pm at Fort Lagarde, the Bears begin their public preparations. As they prepare themselves, about 15 musicians play traditional instruments. These same musicians will follow

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the Bears throughout the Festival and play the Melody of the Bear. Each Bear costume requires three sheepskins. On the day of the Festival, two skins are placed on either side of the actor’s body over a jute robe and stitched together around the shoulders and down the sides with a mattress needle and twine. The third sheepskin is used to create the headpiece. A few weeks before the Festival, an order is placed for approximately 25 sheepskins.17 They are cleaned and dried before being individually selected; then, a week before the Festival, they are tailored to fit the actors’ bodies. Each Bear also wields a self-made cane measuring around two metres in length. If necessary, they may change them out at some point during the day’s journey, as they often break under the forceful blows the Bears make against the ground as a sign of defiance. The first Bear in full costume starts to warm up, inviting one of the Hunters to dance with him by tossing him his cane. After a few tosses back and forth, the Bear throws the cane down and jumps on his adversary and tackles him to the ground. This is when the long-awaited moment of transformation begins: the Bears

The three villages kick off their respective Bear Festivals with a ceremony during which the mayors turn the Patte de l’Ours (Bear Paw) over to each other. This object is in fact a real bear paw originating from the Bear costume created in the 1990s in Saint-Laurent-deCerdans. Throughout the year, the Bear Paw is kept in Saint-Laurentde-Cerdans, whose mayor hands the Bear Paw over to the mayor of Arles on the Sunday of the Arles Bear Festival. The mayor of Arles then passes it along to the mayor of Prats-de-Mollo-la-Preste at the beginning of their Bear Festival. Finally, it is returned to the mayor of Saint-Laurent-de-Cerdans on the Friday that marks the start of their local festivities.

The skins are divided up as follows: nine skins for the three adult Bears and six for the three Junior Bears; the remaining ten skins are reserved for the substitutes.

The Bear from Prats-de-Mollola-Preste and his Hunters (2014). JAQUES MIOT

The Bear Festivals in L’Alt Vallespir

cover their canes, their instruments of defiance and power, with a mixture of oil and soot, before moving on to their arms and any other part of their body left uncovered, and completing the transformation by spreading the mixture on their faces. Onlookers accompany the entire operation by singing along to the Melody of the Bear. The tension between the actors and the spectators increases. To mark the end of their transformation into bears, the men let out a particular cry; a deep, guttural sound imitating a bear’s growl, at which the crowd cheers, creating a highly intense scene.

unsuspecting passers-by. The mâchurage can range anywhere from a quick smear on people’s faces to face paint after tackling them to the ground. In the latter case, the Bear grabs hold of his prey and falls backwards onto the ground with the person landing on his chest. Once on the ground, the Bear typically turns his victim over to keep him or her from moving; other times, they roll around together. At the same time, the Bear rubs his body, especially his arms and face, against the victim, leaving him or her as covered in the black mixture as possible.

Once fully transformed, the three Bears climb upon the Punta18 to show their domination over the village they are about to invade. The Bears let out threatening cries and wave their canes about, while the crowd of villagers gathered below responds to their defiance in song. Three shotgun blasts mark the start of the hunt. The Bears and Hunters run down different paths to surprise the people waiting below, grabbing and tossing aside anyone who might be able to “hunt”, before hastening downhill towards the village.

The honoured few to which the Bear wishes to give this special treatment will first be invited to a ‘dance’. He tosses them his cane, following which there ensues a half-danced exchange where predator and prey toss the cane back and forth before the Bear decides to ‘attack’ his victim, tackling them to the ground and covering them with a generous amount of the black mixture. This altercation typically ends with a slug of wine. However it might happen, being marked by the Bear is an honour and a sign of distinction; the black mark is considered a trophy.

Throughout the hunt, men and women sing and clap their hands to cheer and egg the Bears on, or to draw their attention. In turn, the Bears wade through the crowds, smearing the previously mentioned black mixture on the face of

The Hunters, far from facing off against the Bears, actually help them and point out the prey they should not forget about. They also manage crowd control, moving people out of the way to make room for the attacks. Addi-

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A girl having been mâchurée (painted with soot) in Prats-deMollo-la-Preste (2015). JAQUES MIOT

18 ‘Punta’ is the name given by the residents of Prats-de-Mollo-laPreste to Fort Lagarde’s Bastion Sainte-Marguerite, which towers over the village.

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tionally, the items they need for the hunt are divided up amongst them. These include a bottle of sunflower oil and a box of soot that allow the Bears to reapply the mâchurage after each attack by mixing the two ingredients together in their hands. They also carry a full leather wineskin. Finally, one of the Hunters is charged with helping the Bear up with the cane while the other two use rifles loaded with blanks to shoot into the air each time the Bear catches a new prey. When the Bears finally find their way to Plaça del Firal, the Barbers will have been waiting for them for some time. Dressed in white and in full white make-up, the Barbers march to the music of the folk band in rows of three, one behind the other. Each group comprises a Manaire19, who jangles a chain against the ground and whips it at people’s feet; an axe wielder, who pretends to sharpen his weapon against the pavement; and a Boudin, or ‘Sausage’, who carries a plastic recipient filled with wine in which he submerges an entire blood sausage to saturate it with the liquid. Each of the three groups is assigned a Bear and his Hunters. Finally, black and white face off in a series of confrontations that occupy the various squares of the lower village. Each group of Barbers worries solely about its designated Bear, trying to trap and dominate him. The Bears threaten them with their canes. Although the Bears consistently end up in chains, they never cease to escape and run off to continue blackening onlookers. It is an utterly chaotic scene: the three groups advance and intermingle in the square and in the surrounding streets; the Bears flee with the Barbers hot on their tail; finally, they end up on the ground with the men in white on top of them. When the three Bears have been fully worn down, they are brought to the centre of the square and sat in chairs. The folk band plays the Melody of the Barbers while the men rub the blood sausage drenched in wine (as if it were a shaving brush) on the Bears’ faces, before pretending to shave them with the blade of the axe. Finally, they remove the Bear costume and throw it towards the crowd. The Bears, with their newly restored humanity, the Hunters

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and the Barbers dance to the sound of the folk band’s Ball del Córrer. Eventually, friends join in as well. The day-long event finishes off with more sardanas and festivities in the village cafés. Essentially none of the elements of the Festival are permanent and therefore are not especially well cared for or safeguarded by the village. That is, except for a few accessories that are held onto from year to year, such as the chains, axes and plastic containers. Practically all of the costumes are renewed every year. Over the past 50 years, the Festival has undergone two major changes. In the 1960s the role of the Bears was still played by a member of the underclass, who was paid a small fee and given a pair of espadrilles for his trouble. The Festival was considered vulgar and antiquated, from a time gone by. Playing one of the Bears was not held in high esteem and, according to Prats’ older villagers, only the young, working class, poor women from the higher village would ‘run from the Bear’ in a game of provocation and escape. The more middle-class girls from the lower village sought to remain untouched by the black mixture. This line of thinking began to change from 1979 after a film was released about the Festival (Chegaray, 1979). The media coverage changed people’s minds, and masses of spectators began to attend the event.20 To help manage the increase in attendance, a third Bear was added. At the same time, the role of the Bear became a more gratifying one, as it required both athleticism and self-control, two qualities that are essential to play one of the Bears today. The Bears’ higher classification meant the mâchurage would also be seen in a more positive light. The black mark became a sign of honour, acknowledgement of young women’s powers of seduction and, when it came to men and women of a certain age, recognition of prestige within the Prats community. Nowadays, ending up without any black marks is cause for disappointment, and one of the Bears’ most important duties is to not leave anyone out. Additionally, violence management has become primordial for the Festival. The Bears no longer throw their canes at the Hunters’ legs to cause them to trip and fall while running. In

The character known as Meneur in Prats-de-Mollo-la-Prest, is typically referred to in Catalan as the Manaire in the other two villages. The Manaire is the most important of the three Barbers.

Since the beginning of the 1980s, after the release of a number of documentaries and films featuring the Festivals, the celebrations have taken on a new dimension, one that is more touristic and spectacular. Thus, when the weather is right, the Bear Festivals can gather a few thousand people in a single day.

The Bear Festivals in L’Alt Vallespir

fact, the Hunters main role is to supervise and ensure the safety of the Bears and the spectators. On another note, the Bears are often engaged by young outsiders, drunk and with a twisted idea of the Bear Festival as some ‘savage’ or ‘virile’ event, who react to the actors’ feigned roughness with real violence. Such intercultural misunderstandings, kindled by contemporary society’s general tendency towards judicialisation and the attending spectators’ consumer eagerness for extreme yet safe experiences and thrills, take a heavy toll on the Festival, the actors and the organisers. In hopes of raising awareness of the participatory nature of the Festival, recent years have seen the villages’ efforts move away from interference and towards mediation. Ultimately, they wish to convey that knowing how to ‘celebrate the Festival’ is a crucial aspect in enjoying it to the fullest. The Bear Festival in Saint-Laurentde-Cerdans The Saint-Laurent-de-Cerdans Bear Festival takes place on the last of the village’s three days of Carnival celebrations, starting on Friday afternoon with the Bear Festival for children,

known as the Old Bear Festival. When the mayor of Prats-de-Mollo-la-Preste turns over the Patte de l’Ours21 (Bear Paw) to the mayor of Saint-Laurent-de-Cerdans on Friday evening, a spectacular feast kicks off, bringing together all the villagers. Saturday is given over to a parade followed by a fancy-dress ball. The Carnivalesque mood will even spill over into the next day; in fact, some residents take part in hunting the Bear in full costume.

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The Bear from Prats-deMollo-la-Preste, chained up by the Barbers before the final shaving scene (2015). JAQUES MIOT

At two in the afternoon at a hunting shack outside the village, the Festival organisers begin to dress the young man playing the Bear. In Saint-Laurent-de-Cerdans, the costume is made out of real bearskin with a space in the neck for the actor, in full face paint, to stick his face out. At the same time, the other characters participating in the upcoming hunt get dressed in the garages of private homes. At around three o’clock, the Bear and the Monaca, a traditional Sant Llorenç character with two bodies, meet up. It is a brief moment just before the hunt begins and the Hunters quickly trap the Bear behind the Capella de la Sort,

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See note 16.

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where he has sometimes taken a young girl. The Meneur then chains the Bear up and drags him to the square located just below. There, the Hunters and other young men make a large circle around the Meneur, the Bear and the Monaca to protect them from the gathering crowd. In the centre of the circle, the Meneur pulls the Bear this way and that while reciting the Perdica (sic)22 and showing off a medal he is wearing around his neck, a gift he has been given as a reward for his great talent. The two walk around the circle of Hunters, which slowly turns clockwise, while the three main characters move in the opposite direction. The Monaca walks around the main characters and the Hunters while delivering a barrage of blows with its cloth arms and legs. The Perdica comes to an end just as the Bear escapes and hurries towards the village with the Hunters and spectators in pursuit. The crowd’s movement is soundtracked by La Principal del Rosselló, a folk band, playing the traditional Bear Festival music while spectators sing along. The entourage is also accompanied by two bands, one at the front and another at the

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back of the group. The Bear is caught over and over, each time managing to escape against the flow of the crowd while grabbing at the girls and women in his way, which gives rise to bouts of yelling and scattering. The chaos is further intensified by the narrowness of the streets and the exploits of other actors: the Hunters protect the Bear while pretending to chase after him and the Monaca waves its cloth arms and legs around erratically while those around do their best to dodge the blows. Then there is the Vell (Old Man) and the Vella (Old Woman), together known as the Escalfador (Bed Warmer), two men dressed as an older couple holding a bed warmer in which they burn pigskin and which they manoeuvre, with the help of a long handle, between women’s legs. The Nen Petit (Young Boy), otherwise known as the Brouette (Wheelbarrow), is also in action. In this case, a man dressed up as a baby rides in a wheelbarrow, which is pushed by a group of young men who go about trapping girls and throwing them on top of the baby while shaking the wheelbarrow to make it look like they are having sex. The Botifarrons (Blood Sausages) are there too. Dressed in

Perdica: vulgar version of the Catalan word prèdica (declaration) (Alcover, Moll, 1968). The term is used in Saint-Laurent-de-Cerdans to refer to the text recited by the Meneur.

The Bear from Saint-Laurentde-Cerdans joined by the Meneur and the Hunters (2015). MAIRIE ADAMSKI

The Bear Festivals in L’Alt Vallespir

white with faces painted white with a mixture of water and flour, the actors move throughout the crowd equipped with a metal pot filled with wine, which they use to drench a piece of sausage before rubbing it in women’s faces. A woman-only group called the Figueretes (Little Fig Trees) appeared several years ago to stand up to them. Not only do they attack the male spectators with smashed figs mixed with muscatel, they also challenge the Botifarrons and provoke simulated battles between the two groups. The movements are not laid out beforehand; they are, above all, the result of each character’s own initiative and ingenuity. They do, however, arrange themselves along the Bear’s route through the village, which is only interrupted by a stop in each square, where the initial Perdica scene is re-enacted. Halfway through, after the most important Perdica scene, performed in the great Plaça de l’Església, the entourage takes a break to switch out the Bear. A second actor in his own

costume will take over the chase until its end at Plaça del Syndicat. Once there, the Hunters form another circle to block off the crowd, which fills the square, spills into the street leading to it and makes its way up to the viewpoint situated above. While waiting for the main characters to arrive, the Escalfador, the Botifarrons and the Figueretes run around and push each other into the middle of the circle before ultimately finding their place just outside the circle to make room for the main characters to enter. The Meneur, armed with an axe, declaims his final, slightly modified Perdica and maintains a tight grasp on the Bear, who makes incessant attempts to flee. When his speech is finished, he forces the Bear to sit down on a tree trunk placed in the centre of the square and dances around him. At the same time, the Monaca walks around the square violently shaking its body to make its cloth limbs go wild. Suddenly, the Meneur, with a single blow of his axe, slays the Bear, who rolls on the ground as the enlivening music comes to an abrupt stop. The headpiece is

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The shaving of the Bear by the Meneur in Saint-Laurent-deCerdans (2015). MARIE ADAMSKI

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then removed to reveal the wearer’s face. The Bear, now a human again, finds a girl from the crowd with whom to dance a paso doble; the first Bear, the Hunters and the villagers join in shortly thereafter. Finally, the folk band begins to play sardanas. In Saint-Laurent-de-Cerdans, roughly 30 minutes are required to fully dress the Bear. The costume is real Canadian bearskin, which covers the actor’s body, arms and legs.23 The skin is tied together using a system of cords and eyelets. The bear’s head is attached to a helmet and the neck area is open to allow the wearer to breathe. Each actor playing the role of the Bear wears his own costume, both of which are kept in the village at Maison du patrimoine et de la mémoire André Abet. Until the 1940s, the costume was made of sheepskin.24 Later, in the 1950s, a harness maker sewed a new suit together using goatskin and made a giant bear head out of papier mâché. In the 1960s, the latter costume was added to the collections of Casa Pairal Museum (Perpignan’s old ethnographic museum), where it is still kept today (inventory code: 2014.0.362). This costume was eventually replaced by a slightly more close-fitting one, still made out of goatskin and paired with an impressive papier mâché head. Today, this second costume is kept at Saint-Laurentde-Cerdans’ Maison du patrimoine and used for the children’s Bear Festival. The Meneur’s costume is that of a woodcutter. He wears dark pants, a checked shirt, a woollen vest, a red cummerbund and a barretina (a traditional Catalan hat). His accessories include a hefty wooden medal featuring a bear standing upright on his hind legs; a chain, which he uses to tie up the Bear from the start of the hunt; and a wooden axe, which is employed at the end of the event to shave the Bear’s face. The Monaca costume has been kept by the same family in Saint-Laurent-de-Cerdans at least since the early twentieth century. The task has been passed down within the family from father to son for at least five generations. The costume’s body and head are attached to the

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actor’s belt, while the two arms fall to either side and the two legs hang from his back. The limbs were originally filled with hay, which was later replaced with foam. A large black smock covers the two bodies, making it difficult to see where the actor’s body ends and the costume begins. The dual nature of the character is further enhanced by the accessories: both figures wear a red handkerchief around their neck as well as a white cap. What’s more, two identical and expressionless masks hide the two faces, causing confusion as to which belongs to the actor and which belongs to the doll. Back in the 1970s the masks were black, followed by masks of a lighter colour years later, and today they are white. The Escalfador’s bed warmer, the Nen Petit’s wheelbarrow, the little cart in which the Figueretes carry their figs as well as all the other objects used by the characters who gravitate around the three leads are not fixed or marked in the collective imagination. The Festival undergoes constant change and is no stranger to integrating new elements and coming up with innovations and adaptations based on public and, in a broader sense, societal transformations. This very same dynamic between tradition and modernity is what brought about the Figueretes. In 2011 a group of young women, having seen that they could only play the role of prey or victim, decided to take action. Dressed in purple tutus, the Figueretes use figs to stand up to the Botifarrons and try to keep them from rubbing sausages on people’s faces, a traditional aspect of the Festival. In fact, the Figueretes themselves are the result of a long history of borrowings, imitations and aheadof-the-time inventions. The Figuereta first appeared in the Costumari Català (Collection of Catalan Customs) written by Joan Amades (Amades, 1950: 201, vol. II). Back then, the Figueretes were men dressed in long capes and hoods that bounced dried figs around on the end of fishing poles, which children would try to grab in their mouths without using their hands. For around 10 years, this character formed part of the Carnival entourage of the day before the Bear Festival, and was an impassive fisherman wearing a Chinese hat

In the 1990s, the Festivals Committee purchased the skin of a Pyrenees brown bear from a taxidermist in Prades, who transformed it into a suit. This single costume was used by two actors taking part in the Hunt. Ten years ago, three further bearskins were purchased, two of which came from a Canadian nature reserve. The skins were made into a spare, less worn-out costume. Thus, there are three costumes in all: one worn by the children at the Old Bear Festival and two made of real bearskin for the adults.

As shown in the photos on display in the Maison du patrimoine et de la mémoire André Abet in Saint-Laurent-de-Cerdans.

The Bear Festivals in Lâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Alt Vallespir

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The Monaca in Saint-Laurentde-Cerdans (2015). MARIE ADAMSKI

that would surprise children by making a fig or a chocolate appear out of nowhere right before their eyes. Once again re-enacting old systems of opposition (Amades spoke of other characters that would wave sausages around on the end of fishing poles), the residents of Saint-Laurent-de-Cerdans have enriched the Bear Festivalâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cast of characters by increasing the roles played by women. No longer restricted to the role of prey or seductress, women can now be allies and antagonists, while continuing to respect the original meanings evoked by the traditional figures. The child-friendly Old Bear Festival boasts increasing levels of parity between the young

boys and girls who take part, which also helps the adult celebration to evolve. The last time the Festival was held, in February 2018, the Escalfador was played by two adolescent girls who threatened both girls and boys with their bed warmer. Likewise, the boys who pushed the wheelbarrow carrying the Nen Petit chose both boys and girls as their victims. Conclusion The fact that these celebrations, included since December 2014 on the French Inventory of Intangible Cultural Heritage, are thriving today is a testament to their ability to safeguard and enrich their significance while also

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adapting to social change. Notable changes have underpinned the Festivals’ history in the twentieth century and the beginning of the twenty-first. Formerly centred on pasture and industry, these societies have undergone transformations, as have their complex, opposition-based rituals, although without distorting their meaning. To the ancient rituals associated with death, fertility and the passing of winter into spring, these societies have added male-female opposition to recognise the seductive power of girls and the virility of boys; the Festivals, therefore, continue to signify a rite of passage for both sexes. Most importantly, however, the Festivals today highlight community ties. In Prats-de-Mollo-la-Preste, getting face painted or invited to dance by the Bear is perceived as a right for native villagers and an honour for outsiders. With an agrarian, local background, the Festivals have become a chance for residents spread across the region to gather and celebrate together.25 Following the same processes of change seen in society, women have made their voices heard and have become increasingly active in the celebrations. Some participate directly, as is the case of the Figueretes in Saint-Laurent-de-Cerdans, while others help to organise and promote the Festivals. The gender dimension, while indeed an ever-present, central theme of the Festivals, is no longer rooted in discriminatory, unequal relationships between the sexes. Despite everything, the Carnivalesque elements of the celebration remain inseparable from the phenomena of transgression and excess witnessed in.26 The consumption of alcohol in particular helps participants to transcend, to go beyond their own nature in order to incarnate strange or wild characters. Given certain obstacles and safety requirements, and considering the demands of an increasingly large pool of spectators, the actors’ activity has come under significant scrutiny, as has the need for actors to appropriately handle the feigned violence. The implementation of safety regulations has also given way to heightened organisation and administrative management, which involves taking out insurance, mapping road blocks and requesting grants.

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From the ‘do it ourselves’ attitude characterising the Festivals inthe twentieth century to today’s well-advertised yet criticised events, the will of the Festivals has had to evolve in order to preserve their original spirit and keep the local traditions alive.

The anthropological research promoted by the French Inventory of Intangible Cultural Heritage27 has been conducted as part of the candidature process to get the Bear Festivals in L’Alt Vallespir added to UNESCO’s Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Since 2017, Cross-border Country of Art and History of the Tech and Ter Catalan Valleys has been in charge of the candidature process and of the roll-out of safeguarding measures. This organisation, holder of a French seal awarded by the Ministry of Culture, aims to give new value to heritage that has been the object of thorough documentation and research, therefore placing special emphasis on the evolution of the Festivals.

In contrast to any traditionalist or folklorist approach that would view tradition as the present-day upholding of an inherited past in its original, unmodified state, the Bear Festivals are evidence that the bonds between cultural elements and the communities creating them are alive and constantly reforged. It is not the Festivals’ material objects which are passed down; these are merely symbolic codes in a permanent state of reinvention. Rather, what is transferred from generation to generation is the will to perpetuate, in the present and with forms adapted to it, a cultural element considered vital to the community’s existence as a social and cultural entity. If the transmission is interrupted, it will not be because a practice of the past has been lost, but rather because the will and need to uphold the bonds and cultural cohesion have dissipated. In this regard, as anthropologists and historians alike have suggested (Hobsbawm and Terence, 1983; Lenclud, 1987; Hartog, 2003), tradition does not make sense without the influence of modernity. Tradition is constantly updated and reinvented to produce a retrospective view, while its connection with the past, an essential element in upholding a

The changes came to a climax between 1968 and the end of the 1980s, the result of the first filming to take place in Vallespir. The Bear Festivals begin and end in village cafés or at the dance, and popular meals are involved. Emile Leguiel, a resident of Pratsde-Mollo-la-Preste, offered his testimony in the 1950s, speaking of the Bears in the following way: “pour bien remplir leur rôle, ils doivent être un peu gris”, which in English translates to “to really fulfil their role, they have got to be a bit tipsy” (Leguiel, 1908: 264). Meanwhile, Violet Alford mentioned that “un homme du comité des fêtes à la barretina écarlate” (a man from the Committee of the Festivals wearing a scarlet barretina) met her in Arles “déjà copieusement ivre” (already quite drunk) and remembered how “deux ours commencent par stocker cinq litres de vin rouge chacun (two bears began to pack five litres of red wine each) in Prats-de-Mollo-la-Preste. (Alford, 2004: 32).

See http://www.culture.gouv.fr/ Thematiques/Patrimoine-culturelimmateriel/L-inventaire-national/ Inventaire/Fiches-de-l-Inventairenational-du-PCI/Pratiques-festives and https://www.pci-lab.fr/index. php?option=com_fichesinventaire &view=fiche&Itemid=389&id=60

The Bear Festivals in L’Alt Vallespir

feeling of cultural community, comes from a sort of inheritance without testament (Arendt, 1972: 11), given that the descendants themselves decide whether or not they choose to be heirs. However, although loyalty to the past is considered of little importance, with the exception of a few, more ‘traditionalist’ stakeholders concerned with upholding certain elements of the Festivals that are, in fact, quite recent (from their childhood), the conviction that the Festivals must continue to reflect a sense of community belonging – that ‘do it ourselves’ feeling and the awareness of cultural cohesion – remains pivotal.

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From this perspective, the Bear Festivals are alive and in resonance with the changes in today’s world; they date back to a distant past yet they are prepared with a modern-day taste for savagery; and they aim to attract community members and outsiders. As such, they are full of obstacles and paradoxes that represent them and enhance their richness, as well as their fragility. The Festivals’ candidacy for inclusion on UNESCO’s Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity is the least striking of these paradoxes. n

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Alcover, A.M. and Moll, F. (1968). Diccionari català-valencià-balear [online] Palma de Mallorca: Editorial Moll. Retrieved from: http://dcvb.iecat.net/ [Consulted on 19 March 2018]. Alford, V. (2004). Fêtes Pyrénéennes, Barcelona: Loubatières (1st edition 1937). Amades, J. (1950). Costumari Català (5 volumes), Barcelona: Ediciones Salvat. Arendt H. (1972). La crise de la culture, Gallimard. Bosch, R. (2013). Fêtes de l’ours en Vallespir, Perpignan: Trabucaire. Bosch de la Trinxeria, C. (1997). Montalba, Girona: Brau Edicions.

Collier, B. (1939). Catalan France, London. Duran, A. and Sanabre, J. (1930). Llibre de les Solemnitats de Barcelona, volume I, Barcelona: Institució Patxot. Fabre, D. (1969). “Recherches sur Jean de l’Ours, Conte populaire, deuxième partie, Essai d’analyse thématique”, Folklore, revue d’ethnographie méridionale, volume XXII, 32nd year, issue 2 summer: 2-23. Fabre, D. (1968). “Jean de l’Ours” Folklore, revue d’ethnographie méridionale, volume XXI, 31st year, issue 1 spring: 10-16. Hartog, F. (2003). Régimes d’historicité. Présentisme et expérience du temps, Paris: Le Seuil.

Henry, D. (1835). Histoire de Roussillon : comprenant l’histoire du Royaume de Majorque, first book, Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Hobsbawm, E. and Ranger, T. (1983). The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lluís Gual, O. (2017). Les derniers ours : une histoire des fêtes de l’ours, Costumari de Catalunya Nord issue 1. Leguiel, E. (1908). “Le Carnaval d’autrefois à Prats-de-Mollo (Souvenirs de ma belle-mère)”, Revue Catalane, Perpignan : Société d’Etude Catalane. Tome II, vol. 21, p. 262-267; vol. 22, p. 299304; vol. 23, p. 367-370; vol. 24, p. 387-392.

Lenclud, G. (1987). “La tradition n’est plus ce qu’elle était… Sur la notion de ‘tradition’ et de ‘société traditionnelle’ en ethnologie”, Terrain, issue 9, pp. 110-123. Retrieved from: https://journals. openedition.org/terrain/3195 [Consulted on 7 August 2018]. Pastoureau, M. (2007). L’ours, histoire d’un roi déchu, Paris: Seuil. Van Gennep, A. (1999). Le folklore français, du berceau à la tombe, Cycles de Carnaval-Carême et de Pâques, Paris: Robert Laffont.

GLOSSARY

Mâchurage: Neologism arising from the French verb mâchurer, which describes the act of blackening the participants’ faces with a mixture of sunflower oil and soot. The closest translation in English is “face painting”. Meneur: Known as Manaire in Prats-de-Mollo-la-Preste, this is the

name given to the character who represents both the bear hunters of old, easily identifiable by the long, solid cane they would carry as one of their weapons, and the Montreurs d’ours, the bear exhibitors present in squares, markets and trade fairs who, across the boarder in France, were still around at the beginning of the twentieth century and typically identified themselves

with a long cane and the chains they would use to tie up the bears.

meaning monkey, or from the Occitan monèca, meaning cloth doll.

Monaca: This character is unique to the Bear Festival in Saint-Laurent-de-Cerdans. A life-size cloth doll is wrapped around the human wearer, resulting in a figure with two faces, four arms and four legs. The term may originate from the Old Catalan word moneca,

Trappeur: This is the French equivalent of the English term trapper. At the Bear Festival in Arles-sur-Tech the Trappeur takes on the aspect of a Canadian trapper and expert bear hunter.

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Ivone Puig Artigas AUTONOMOUS UNIVERSITY OF BARCELONA

PhD in Social and Cultural Anthropology (UAB). Master's degree in Ethnographic Research, Anthropological Theory and Intercultural Relations (UAB). Graduate in Arab Philology (UB) and in Social and Cultural Anthropology (UAB). Specialised in Morocco.

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Paraules clau: Gastronomia, Marroc, cuina tradicional. Palabras clave: Gastronomía, Marruecos, cocina tradicional. Key words: Gastronomy, Morocco, traditional cuisine.

The main features of Moroccan gastronomy and its role in society

Tray of tea and pastries (2018). LLORENÇ VENDRELL

s Contreras (1993: 9) points out, eating is not a purely biological issue. People do not eat simply to feed themselves; we also connect our meals and cuisine to the wider social and cultural sphere. Throughout history, humankind has associated social life with communal meals. One need only think of the Christian agape or the last supper, which originate from the Greek and Roman “banquets of society”1, as Klinghardt affirms. In fact, the Greek word symposion (symposium) was formerly equivalent to “celebration of a banquet or libation” (Klinghardt, 2002: 43-49). Also, Montanari, who sees the table as a metaphor for life, points out that the etymology of the Catalan word “convit” (banquet in English) associates

living together (cum vivere) with eating together (2006: 94). On the other hand, there is no universal way of eating; in fact, the differences between various groups of humans regarding food and eating are extraordinary and fascinating to discover. Throughout its history, each culture has established its dietary parameters: what foods are or are not suitable for consumption; when, where and with whom they can or should be eaten; how they should be prepared and consumed (optimal combinations of foods, utensils used for preparation and eating, order within the meal, etc.), among other food and eating norms. What’s more, these codes have changed over time as a result of culture's evolving nature. Nor should it be forgotten that certain foods, beyond their

As Klinghardt points out, in ancient times there was no social alternative to communal meals. In Greece there were venues designed for social gatherings: the dining rooms, in which triclinium were found (3 klinē or sofas which the diners reclined on). As Plutarch details in his Disputes Convivales V. 5 and 6 (quoted by Klinghardt, 2002: 45), in these places, which had the same structure as the dining rooms of private houses, symposiasts gathered to eat, drink (to take part in libations), sing and converse. And it should be noted that this was also the place where higher education was taught. Among the different societies there was that of the philosophers and that of scientists or doctors. The word scholé, imprecisely translated as a “schoolroom”, according to this author, would actually refer to a meeting space equipped with triclinia. (2002: 42-48)

The main features of Moroccan gastronomy and its role in society

nutritional composition, can be endowed with symbolic meanings for some groups while they can be regarded as vulgar for others. And, as Contreras affirms, the eating habits of a people are a small-scale reflection of their culture in the broadest sense. The study of these habits, says the author, citing Farb and Armelagos, leads directly to the technical, economic and environmental system of the people studied, their social structure and their ideology (Farb and Armelagos, 1985: 10, in Contreras, 1993: 12). The purpose of this article is to draw a general outline of the Moroccan system of gastronomy, since, as one might expect, there is no single standard formula as regards the eating habits of a people. There are uncountable differences between rural cuisine and that of large cities and between the different areas of the country. As with European countries and most countries around the world, the way of cooking and eating in the north is very different from that of the inhabitants of the south. We could also look at the particularities and diversity in the way of eating between the coastal and mountain populations or according to social class, employment, age, gender, etc. Even so, we can study the cuisine of the popular classes of our southern neighbours, with a significant chance of understanding its foundations and most general features. It should also be pointed out that in this text, gastronomy is understood to mean everything to do with food, from culinary methods, rituals and protocols to the preparation and consumption of food, recipes, etc., and that the data provided comes from research carried out for my doctoral Aquest article parla de la gastronomia marroquina des del punt de vista no només dels seus aliments, plats tradicionals, formes de cuinar i restriccions alimentàries, sinó també sobre el rol que els àpats tenen en la vida social de les persones i de la comunitat.

thesis among Moroccan residents or those originally from Djebala, in the north of Morocco.2 Morocco. An overview The Kingdom of Morocco is in the western part of the Arab world, which is why ^ (literally: in Arabic it is called Al-Magrib where the sun goes down).

Its population exceeds 34 million people, 58% of whom live in urban areas.3 The native ethnic group is Amazigh4 (with about 5,000 years of history in the area) but, in the seventh century, following the arrival of the Arabs, a good part of the population was Arabised. In Morocco, the differences between rural areas and urban areas are vast in terms of education, health and infrastructures of all kinds. While cities and their metropolitan areas have achieved a high degree of modernisation (not homogeneously), the rural area is, in general, anchored in time and, in many cases, lacking the most basic services.

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Puig-Artigas I. (2012) Marroquins a les Illes Pitiüses (2007-2009). Trets del seu projecte migratori i canvis esdevinguts en les seves vides a partir d’aquest [online]. Doctoral thesis Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology, Faculty of Arts and Humanities (Autonomous University of Barcelona). <www.tdx.cat/bitstream/10803/96437/1/ipa1de1. pdf>

<http://worldpopulationreview. com/countries/morocco-population> [Consulted on 11 March 2016]

Care should be taken with the extended use of the term “Berber” used and popularised by European colonists. They call themselves Imazighen (“free people”) and in Morocco there are three well-differentiated groups. The term amazigh, plural Imazighen, has been adapted to English as “Amazigh”, plural “Amazighs”.

I would also like to point out that Moroccan men and women, according to my perception formed over years of fieldwork and contact with them, are, in general, proud of their traditions and their faith, which they adhere to with enthusiasm, even in complex situations such as migration or the modernisation of their own country. Introduction to Moroccan gastronomy As said, the act of eating structures social interaction within all cultures. There is no encounter, no social act or ritual that does not involve the consumption of food, no matter how little, and often in these cases, we see especially abundant, rich, elaborate

Este texto habla de la gastronomía marroquí desde el punto de vista no sólo de sus alimentos, platos tradicionales, formas de cocinar y restricciones alimentarias, sino también sobre el rol que las comidas tienen en la vida social de las personas y de la comunidad.

This article talks about Moroccan gastronomy from the point of view of not only their foods, traditional dishes, cooking methods and dietary restrictions, but also about the role that meals has in the social lives of people and the community.

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or valuable meals. Moroccan people, as I have seen throughout my time living with them, are not the exception, but quite the opposite. The famous tea ritual, the offering of little cakes and the invitation to share the communal dish are always present within the Moroccan community and extended to anybody that is with them. It is obvious to the onlooker that shared food is part of daily interaction among people in Morocco. The exchange of food marks an implicit pact of friendship, loyalty and commitment between peers: it is reciprocity, an act of moral obligation that can even guarantee survival in moments of extreme shortage. And my experience living alongside this

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group of people allows me to assert that, regardless of any type of transfer motivated by solidarity or slight personal interest, the Moroccan people show great generosity in the giving of their food.5 The main ingredients typical of Moroccan popular cuisine and prohibited foods Traditional Moroccan cuisine that is still used today has its roots in that of the Amazigh (Berber) communities in North Africa. Over the centuries, this cuisine was enriched with typical elements found in other culinary traditions coming from cultures that, for one reason or another, left

Plate of oranges with cinnamon (2018). LLORENÇ VENDRELL

Regarding the Moroccan community’s generosity with food and my experience, you can read: Puig-Artigas, I. (2017) Cròniques de Xauen. Dietari d’una antropòloga al Marroc. Valls: Quorum Llibres.

The main features of Moroccan gastronomy and its role in society

their mark on this land, from the Arabs of the Middle East to the Moorish Andalusian population, the Hebrews or those originally from other sub-Saharan African countries that were taken as slaves. The most common ingredients Now delving into the subject matter, it must be said that, as pointed out by the vast majority of books on the topic and confirmed by my experience, Moroccan cuisine is extremely tasty, aromatic and colourful. It is strictly based on fresh local produce, which is to be expected in an eminently rural context. The main elements are: vegetables, pulses and local seasonal fruits (virtually the same as in the rest of the Mediterranean), olive oil, eggs, cereals, fish, seafood (even in mountain villages sea products are delivered periodically) and snails, beef, goat and sheep meat and poultry (especially chicken).

One of the most outstanding features of Moroccan cuisine is the use of spices, as can be appreciated as soon as it is tasted. Any dish requires a good dose of cinnamon, cumin, pepper, turmeric, coriander, chili, saffron, parsley and more. This combina-

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tion of spices makes Moroccan dishes very intense in aroma and flavour and, often, also spicy. The national drink is mint tea and an inherent and idiosyncratic characteristic is an excessive amount of sugar. According to my experience, Moroccans delight in pastries and everything that oozes honey and sugar. They are sweet-toothed to the extreme, at least from a European’s point of view (it is important to underline that this is always relative and subjective). Olives, olive oil (also argan oil in the south) and bread are usually present at all tables and each meal. It could be said that products made from wheat flour, and to a lesser extent corn, are the basis of their daily diet. According to my observations, Moroccans usually eat everything with bread, meaning that it often becomes the bulk of their meals. In general, they use the bread to get hold of the contents of the dish, whether it is meat, vegetables or sauce. What’s more, they are great fans of sandwiches, couscous (their star dish made from wheat semolina), pasta (especially noodles), various kinds of 6 ^ ^ 7, harxa 8, etc.), dif, bagrīr pancakes (ragāyf .

Spiced olives (2012). LLORENÇ VENDRELL

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ferent types of pasties (briouats9, bast.īla10, etc.) and all sorts of cakes and sweet and savoury pastries, some made with more flair than others, that fill bakery windows and most Moroccan women's kitchens on the daily. As for dairy products, and apart from cow's milk, the use of zibda, handmade sour butter, is common, as well as the consumption of laban, liquid yoghurt that is normally drunk at meal times, either sweetened with aromas, salted or even flavoured with garlic. Food restrictions on religious grounds Islam, like other religions, imposes a series of dietary rules on its followers, a corpus of prohibitions that, according to Benkheira (2000: 34-66), has close ties with the religion's ethical discourse and is based on the old system of restrictions of pre-Islamic Arab populations. It should be taken into account that Islam was born among a community of shepherds (in the Arabian Peninsula of the seventeenth century), which obviously influences the conception of its food system.

The most important food norms of Islam are those that refer to the prohibition of meat and alcohol. The Quran11 makes it clear that, pork and the meat of predatory animals, birds with claws and any animal killed by natural causes, as well as alcohol in any of its forms, are prohibited for Muslims and, therefore, are considered harām (illicit). Certain parts of the body of the animal are also rejected by the Islamic community: genital organs, bone marrow and blood. While Marvin Harris (1980) argues that all dietary prohibitions of religions may be based on ecological factors, Benkheira (2000: 33-57) points out the hypothesis that Islamic prohibitions came from the need to limit human earthly desires and that it should also be analysed from an ethical and religious perspective, as well as from a dietetic, medical and zoological point of view.

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Regarding Islam's discrimination of licit meat in relation to other forbidden ones, Benkheira (2000: 198-199) concludes that the animals accepted for consumption are all linked to positive virtues and, therefore, their meat would be a carrier of health, whereas the meat of forbidden animals (predatory carnivores, birds of prey and scavengers) would be related to the negative traits observed in those creatures: aggressiveness, lack of compassion or contamination. This prohibition would be understood as the belief that food transmits its properties to the person who consumes it (2000: 173-176). The meat of prohibited animals would be harmful to the body and to the soul of the follower, but above all, to the political and social order of the community, since, as Benkheira says: On ne peut construire le lien social sur la brutalité, la cruauté et la sauvagerie propres aux fauves. (2000: 199) Concerning the prohibition of pork in particular, Marvin Harris (1980: 38-60) suggests that this may have become an article of luxury, ecologically and economically speaking, that Islam would have sought to regulate, while Benkheira (2000: 166) argues that it was no longer part of the traditional Arab diet. As additional arguments for its prohibition, Benkheira (2000: 177) points to two facts; on the one hand the fact that the animal has canines, and on the other, that it is an omnivorous animal. As regards alcohol, the majority of authors agree on a similar thesis. As wine was a commonly used drink in the Middle East of the pre-Islamic era, the prophet Muh. ammad may have restricted its consumption, at first only for the hours before prayer and, later, completely. If the first action was due to the idea that it was impossible to communicate properly with God in a state of drunkenness, the second action would have had a political and social motive. Since, at that time, wine had become a luxury item

Also called Faṭā’ir and Msāmān, they are a type of pancake, made with flour, water and oil, which are composed of several fine overlapping layers (like puff pastry). Sometimes these are folded and fried with meat or with chopped almonds and honey and are baked. There are endless versions, both sweet and savoury, depending on the area and the different regions of Morocco, also given different names.

Moroccan pancakes made with flour and water.

Sweet cake made with corn semolina.

Small triangular cakes made with puff pastry and stuffed with various ingredients: chicken, cheese, tuna, minced meat, etc.

Delicious puff pastry cake filled with chicken, eggs and almonds and covered with icing sugar and cinnamon. There are several versions, with other fillings such as fish, seafood or pigeon (the latter being typical of Fez and considered to be the original recipe).

Surahs: 2:172; 2:173; 2:219; 4:43; 5:3; 5:90-91; 6:145.

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only accessible to the richest people, and therefore an element that was conducive to social inequalities, the prophet would have opted for its definitive prohibition. On the other hand, everything consumed by a Muslim must be considered h. alāl. halāl foods are those prepared following Islamic regulations, which do not contain any harām substance. By way of example, halāl meat comes from an animal that has been sacrificed following the prescriptions of Xarī'a, the Islamic law extracted from the Quran and the Sunna (tradition of the Prophet Muh. ammad). This states that animals must be sacrificed following a strict protocol according to which they cannot be stunned, it should be ensured they do not realise that they are going to die, so they do not segregate fear hormones, and they must be immolated following specific order and hygiene requirements. Once the animal is lying on the floor (supposedly resting) on its left side and with its head in the direction of Mecca, the slaughterer invokes God with Bi-ismi Alāh (Bismillah)12 and proceeds immediately with the cutting of the carotid artery, the jugular vein and the trachea of the animal, draining it completely of blood.

Cooking methods and utensils According to my observations, the two essentials found in Moroccan kitchens are the tagine and the couscoussier. The utensils used to prepare the most popular Moroccan dishes of Berber origin: tagine (the same term is used for the casserole and the dish that it is cooked in) and couscous (from the Amazigh word Ksaksu or kseksú, also called Al-t.a‘ām, which means “food”).

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Bread peddler cart (2016). LLORENÇ VENDRELL

A tagine is a clay cooking pot that consists of a bottom plate and a lid in a conical shape with a small hole at the top or on the upper side. Traditionally, this pot is placed on top of a clay majmar (brazier) and the food is cooked very slowly by the embers. Nowadays, it is very common to cook tagine on a gas stove or portable stove, however. The design of the tagine allows the heat inside it to be distributed in an effective and energy-efficient way. It should be remembered that, as Contreras points out (1993), throughout history, different peoples have developed their cooking methods and tools, always adapting to their environment and taking ecological factors of their surroundings into account. A brazier used to cook a

Literally: “in the name of God”.

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Earthenware tagine (2018). LLORENÇ VENDRELL

tagine requires minimal fuel, so a few bush branches are enough. Couscous is cooked with the couscoussier, a pot made up of three pieces (like all steam pots): The bottom pot, called Marqa or Barma13, taller than those commonly used in our homes, where meat, chickpeas and vegetables are cooked; the sieve, called mafarad. a or Keskās, which is the perforated container where the couscous is placed; and the top lid. Although formerly the couscoussier was made of clay, the ones used today are almost all made of aluminium or of stainless steel. In addition, it must be said that the pressure cooker has been widely accepted over recent decades and it is used in most homes to cook vegetables (turnips, pumpkin, courgette and carrots, basically), chickpeas and meat (lamb, beef or chicken) that will later be added to the couscous. A thin, damp cotton cloth covered with flour, known as the qafāl, is usually placed between the pot and the sieve in order to prevent the loss of steam, as well as preventing the couscous grains from falling to the bottom.

An extensive set of specific terminology accompanies the making of couscous (varying from one area to another), which is a reflection of its importance as the community’s traditional meal. According to the extensive linguistic study carried out by Lerchundi (1999: 50-52): the action of preparing the grain is called kaskasa, the verb bahara - describes the action of cooking, the verb sammana refers to stirring butter into it, the recipient it is served from at the table is the gas.‘a. In addition, the name of the same dish differs according to the different versions, from saffà (finely ground couscous with fresh butter, sugar and raisins), mh. ams.a (thick couscous), saykūk (couscous with sour milk) or, among many others, ksaksu bi-al-tfāya (pronounced ksaksu tfaya and called “royal couscous” in restaurants for tourists). On the other hand, as I could see during my field work, although there are more and more homes that are equipped with an electric or gas oven, both in cities and rural areas, it is still very common to use the farrān. The farārīn are public ovens found in all of the towns, neighbourhoods and villages of the country. These are large ovens run by bakers to whom villagers bring their bread, tagines, sweet potatoes, peppers, vegetables, tubers,

In ancient times it was made of ceramic and was called Qadra.

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Earthernware couscoussier (2018). LLORENĂ&#x2021; VENDRELL

dishes, and above all, the giant plates covered with pastries that women make like authentic filigree artists for them to be cooked. The popular oven is a place of socialisation of the highest order, along with the weekly market, for both women and men, while the role of the baker, a trade that is inherited from father to son and which entails an excessive level of dedication, is equivalent to that of the inter-neighbourhood mediator in our society. For more on this subject, see Puig-Artigas (2012). Finally, we must mention the brochettes, a simple way to cook meat and fish that is very common in Moroccan households and popular restaurants. The Moroccan barbecue is usually composed of a ceramic brazier (the same used to cook the tagine) with some grills on top. A few twigs and a

pile of charcoal, often supplied by the baker, are the most popular fuel for the brazier. So, it can be said that the Moroccan people maintain a traditional way of cooking both in regard to cooking methods and the utensils used. Butâ&#x20AC;Ś Who cooks what and where? It is obvious that, when circumstances demand it, everyone cooks everything, but in the family home, and according to my observations, it is the woman who prepares meals in the interior (in the kitchen) while the man, when he helps, is in charge of what needs to be cooked outdoors, as is the case with the brochettes.

We must say that these roles in Morocco are flexible when circumstances require it, such as in the early stages of migration, in which many men live together, or in the

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case of men who live alone for whatever reason (being single, work away from the family home, etc.). Furthermore, there is a clear exception: tea. Very often it is the man who prepares it for and in honour of the guests. And, as I have said, this is the case within the household, as, according to my data, there are both men and women found in restaurant kitchens, especially in the popular places where the food is on show) and particularly in the kitchens of tourist restaurants. Typical family meals. What are they, what do they consist of, who are they eaten with and where? In Morocco it is customary to make four meals a day, which correspond to our four ^ meals: breakfast (fut.ūr o fit.r), lunch (gadā’), afternoon snack (Tardīda /meriyenda) and dinner (‘axā’ ). According to my experience, characteristics regarding the importance of meals and the way in which they are carried out differ very little from ours, although

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there is a slight difference as regards the importance of the afternoon snack, which coincides with visits by friends and relatives, a very common event in Morocco, and therefore takes on more significance. Home-made breakfast usually consists of coffee with milk or tea, a fruit juice and bread or a pancake with honey, butter, jam or Amlū14. Those who are in a hurry may be content with a pastry or a couple of doughnuts, sfinj15, while those who enjoy having breakfast at a café can choose from some more elaborate sandwich options. Having said that, one of the most popular options, especially for men and in rural areas, is a fried egg with cheese and olives, all drizzled with a generous amount of olive oil and a large piece of bread. Lunch usually consists of salad, various vegetables or potatoes, and meat or fish, often cooked in a tagine, but also marinated and fried, as a brochette or following other, more or less elaborate recipes. Friday is couscous day and it is a tradition to eat it at home with the family. As the details of

A cream made of almonds, argan oil and honey.

A kind of fried circular doughnut with a hole in the middle that is very popular both for breakfast and as an afternoon snack.

Plate of cràxels (2008). IVONE PUIG ARTIGAS

The main features of Moroccan gastronomy and its role in society

my fieldwork point out, although lunchtime is much more flexible the other days of the week, and often family members eat in different shifts as they arrive home, on Friday the couscous meal takes place around the great family platter all together and in complete harmony. Most housewives spend all morning cooking couscous. The whistle of the pressure cooker and the smell of the broth spread across the whole town. It is also common for women to make their own bread. Maybe not all women and not every single day, but it is a task that almost no Moroccan woman escapes on holidays or special occasions. Traditional Moroccan bread is a round and fairly flat bread, often made with a mixture of wheat flour and fine semolina. There is the family bread (huge like a gigantic ensaïmada pastry from Majorca) and individual breads, the size of a dessert dish. Tagines, couscous, salads and most other dishes are eaten, in general, in a large common platter placed in the middle of the table. It should be noted that the Moroccan table par excellence is round (with no head of the table positions) and low. It is common to cover the table for daily meals with a plastic tablecloth that the women clean with a damp cloth when the meal is over. It is also common to serve all the dishes at the same time. Everyone eats the portion in front of them, using their right hand with help from the bread, which will have been previously distributed among all family members or diners. A spoon is only used for couscous and soups. The Moroccan afternoon snack, which according to my experience often ends up being dinner, is usually copious and can consist of everything mentioned for breakfast and more: olives, nuts, bread, olive oil, butter, honey and jam, mortadella, home-made cakes, ba^grīr or ra^gāyf, briouats, sponge cake, etc. There are endless types of pastries that Moroccan women prepare for snacks, as well as ways of pre-

senting them, depending on the area, type of celebration and time of year. Afternoon snack time is also the time to drink mint tea, although, as we have already pointed out, mint tea is drunk everywhere and at all times in Morocco. Despite their love of green tea, Moroccans also drink a lot of coffee. So, coffee and milk pots are typical features on the tables of most homes, both at breakfast and afternoon snack time. Furthermore, soups are one of the most commonly eaten dishes in the evening, although they are always accompanied by bread, olives, hard-boiled eggs and often more cakes. The most typical soup is h. arīra16, well known all over Morocco. However, the consumption of bay s.āra is also frequent in the Djebala area and in the mountains. This is a thick, purée-type soup made with dried beans or peas. Both of these soups are combined and competing in popularity, especially during the winter months. What’s more, according to my observations, Moroccans are very careful with their personal hygiene and place great importance on hand washing, both before and after meals. In addition, no act related to food takes place without thanking God first, by saying Bi-ismi Alāh (pronounced “bismillah”). This very common expression is also used before starting any other act they consider to be entrusted to God (to start something, to break bread, to initiate a trip, to sacrifice an animal, etc.). At the end of the meal, it is customary to refer to God with the expression Al-h. amdu lil-lāh (“praise be to God”). Where do meals take place and who are they shared with? Breakfasts are eaten at home or in the street (mostly by men), but there is little protocol regarding this meal. Lunch, on the other hand, is usually eaten with family, especially on Fridays, as has already been said. Family members gather around the table, almost always with the omnipresent background television (or as the main attrac-

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Vegetable soup, prepared with sautéed tomatoes and onions, various chopped vegetables, meat or chicken, noodles, chickpeas, coriander and other ingredients to suit each person’s taste.

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tion), and when they finish eating they get up immediately, without any after-dinner conversation. Next, the women retire to the kitchen and the men lean back to take a nap or go out. Afternoon snacks are the most enjoyable meal of the day, according to my experience, being the most social meal, especially for women and children, since it is the time to go for a walk or to visit friends or family. Although it is very common to gather with the rest of the family members for the afternoon snack, especially women, at their home or at a friendâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house, it is also becoming increasingly frequent to see groups gathering in bakeries for their afternoon snack (the only public establishment, at least in rural areas, where the presence of women, whether alone or in groups, is considered acceptable). The afternoon snack, as mentioned before, is copious, varied and, above all, lengthy. The hosts dedicate several hours to the preparation of meals, depending on the

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occasion and the number of diners or visitors expected. Diners must wait a long time for the dishes to be served. Conversation takes place over a glass of fruit juice and a plate of nuts. As usual in Moroccan invitations, the food comes at the end of the session, together with mint tea, and it is, in my experience, always abundant and delicious. It is eaten around the living room table, which is completely covered with saucers, glasses, bowls and trays. And the television is almost always turned on. Finally, the protocol for dinners is practically the same as that of lunch, but in this case men (at least the oldest ones) remain at home once the meal is finished and, very often, watch TV with the rest of the family. Men are often the only ones to eat dinner, especially when the women have had an afternoon snack. Children, regardless of their age, are an integral part of the group during meals. In general, they eat with the adults and they

Plate of little cakes (2008). IVONE PUIG ARTIGAS

The main features of Moroccan gastronomy and its role in society

have the same dishes as them from an early age, whether at home or as guests. Types of hospitality Moroccans are famous for being one of the most hospitable communities in the world and, according to my experience, this is not just a stereotype. It is unthinkable to arrive at a Moroccan home, whether spontaneously or having arranged a visit, and not be given all kinds of food and with at least one barrād al-tāy, a teapot full of the 17 typical green tea with mint. TheDiyāfa , or . Moroccan hospitality code, includes both accommodation and meals. This should be kept in mind.

Moroccan etiquette involves guests (when it comes to men and women) being attended by the male members of the family, while women hurry to prepare a snack or, at least, a simple tea in the kitchen. Comfortably seated in the lounge, guests are offered fruit juices, coffee or tea and, depending on the time of day and circumstances, a few sweet pastries or a full meal. It is customary to serve juices and/or water, waiting for the arrival of the s.īnnīya (tray) with the tea still steaming. It is also normal, according to my experience, for the host to offer two or three rounds of this tea before saying goodbye to the visitors, who are asked to postpone their departure a couple of times when they announce their intention to leave.

that, according to my observations, many Moroccan homes, no matter how modest they are and as long as the size of the house permits it, have two living rooms: one close to the kitchen, which is simple and used for daily meals, and another more luxurious one that is reserved for celebrations or for important visits. It should be remembered that, most of the time, those who wait in the kitchen will eat the leftovers of what is served in the living room, so it is best for diners to satisfy their appetite up to a certain point, bearing this is mind. This custom shows the existence of hierarchies, a fact which cannot be overlooked. And, as Montanari (2006: 95) affirms, the table not only signifies belonging to a group, but also the relationships that exist within it. Festive or celebratory meals Moroccans are very much given to celebrations. Festivities of all kinds abound on the Moroccan calendar: personal ones (‘Ars or mariage, hu - t.ūba18or engagement party, htān or circumcision , sbū‘a or newborn party, birthdays, return of pilgrimage Haj and many more), religious ones (celebrations of the month of Ramadan, ‘Ayd al-sa^gīr 19, ‘Ayd al-kabīr 20, ‘Ayd al-mawlid 21, ‘Ā’ixūrā’, Fāti h. Mu h. arram 22, etc.) and official commemorative celebrations (Independence Day, Green March Day, etc.).

In general, Moroccans cannot conceive the possibility of receiving guests without providing them with everything that is within their reach, to the point where they will even give them what they had planned for the family meal. What’s more, one must bear in mind that the refusal to participate in the meals offered seriously offends the hosts.

Both the personal celebrations and the cited religious ones, according to my experience, have a long and complex ritual and a lot of prior preparation, especially for the meals. In general, it is the women of the family who deal with the culinary preparations as well as most of the housework that is related to it, with the exception of sacrificing the lamb 'Ayd al-kabīr.

Therefore, when guests are offered a meal, the usual rule is that male guests (and female guests if they are not from the family or close friends) eat in the living room in the company of the men of the house, while the women of the family and the children do so in the kitchen. Here it should be noted

While religious party meals are celebrated in the privacy of the family (remember that we are talking about large families), in Morocco the most important personal celebrations involve one or several receptions with a large number of people attending (family members, parents, friends, neigh-

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Term that is usually translated simply as “banquet”.

Colloquially it is very often called Ṭahara.

Literally, “the little party (minor)”, also called ‘Ayd al-fiṭr. It is the final celebration of Ramadan.

Literally, “the big party”, also called ‘Ayd al-aḍḥà. In Spain it is known as the “lamb feast” or the “sacrifice party”.

Celebration of the birth of the Prophet Muḥammad.

Islamic New Year, which, as its name suggests, is celebrated on the first day of the month of Muḥarram (the first of the Islamic calendar).

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bours and acquaintances) and at phenomenal expense. Meals for important personal celebrations, such as weddings or the newbornâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s party, are equivalent, according to my observations, to two or three meals of those for a minor celebration (a birthday, for example) or those of an 'Ayd, multiplying them, obviously, by the number of people attending the feast. All these celebrations, beyond the specificity of each of them, tend to be very similar in the type of meal offered, the protocol required and how they are carried out. The family offers guests a series of snacks, lunches and, in the case of the wedding, a great celebratory dinner.

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The parties last no less than eight hours, and some can last twelve or fifteen. Snacks are not usually provided until very late on in the session. Fruit juices and water are served first. While juices are divided into individual glasses, it is very common for the glass of water to be shared between a group of women or men who pass it around and refill it. It is, from my point of view, as if water were an element of communion, an indispensable element for life that they are used to sharing. A long time after the drinks, it is usual to start offering savoury pastries. Later on, it is time for the eagerly awaited mint tea which, on special occasions, is perfumed with rose water or delicate orange blossoms, served with little sweet cakes. Brioche stand (2016). LLORENĂ&#x2021; VENDRELL

The main features of Moroccan gastronomy and its role in society

Main meals, whether lunch or dinner, are awaited for a long time and, generally, they come at the end of the party. Men and women eat separately and, if necessary, in turns. When this is the case, the first ones to eat are men, and both these men and the guests are served by the women of the family. Between six and eight people are seated at each table and share the content of a large tray. The most common meal consists of two dishes of stewed meat, such as a chicken couscous cooked with olives and lemon confit and a beef or lamb tagine with almonds and prunes. Seasonal fruit is generally served for dessert on a large platter and water and soft drinks accompany the feast. The diners eat with their hands, with the help of pieces of bread and without invading the space of the neighbouring diners at the table. It is common for the older people or those with the most authority in the group to break up the meat and distribute it strategically on the tray, so that everyone can reach it. When meals are finished, guests bid farewell and leave. There is no after-dinner conversation around the table. There has been more than enough time for conversation beforehand. The party is over. Therapeutic meals As in all cultures, the Moroccan community give special foods to those who are weak or have undergone a recent effort, such as women after childbirth, newborns or the sick.

According to my observations, new mothers are given large spoonfuls of honey and eggs bildī’s (from the farm)23 and, among other foods, vegetable and poultry broths are prepared (of hen if they have had a girl and chicken if it is a boy). Honey and dates are part of many recipes for convalescent people. A glass of milk boiled with honey and dates is a popular remedy to fight the common cold.

It is also a widespread custom to make a newborn lick a date or some honey during the first hours of life. It should be made clear that in Morocco, as mentioned above, children are not subjected to any special diet. From nine months of age, they eat almost everything and take part in family meals, which are given in the form of small tasting portions. Eating away from the family home Moroccan people, like all Mediterranean people, are highly sociable. Moroccans are delighted to go out and take a walk with the family or with friends practically every day; they love to see people, gather in public squares, parks or in other public and recreational areas and, if possible, in contact with nature.

Furthermore, whenever possible, they take advantage of a stroll to stop and have a drink, whether in a restaurant or café (these are normally only frequented by men), a bakery or a simple street stall, of which there are many and to suit all tastes. In Morocco, the food that can be consumed in the street at popular prices is extraordinarily varied, according to my experience, and there are many people who, within the informal economy, earn a living or an extra income by selling food that has been cooked by themselves or by a member of their family. In North Africa, during years spent in Arab countries I have witnessed that this is a very common way to survive. Roasted or sugar-coated nuts, pancakes, briouats, brochettes, h. arīra or bays.āra soup, all kind of sandwiches (marqāz sausages (pronounced merguez), pieces of liver, tuna and boiled egg with salad, etc.), snails with broth, corn cobs, fried sardines, chickpea paste, hunja 24 tea, fruit juices, homemade pastries, sfinj (doughnuts), faqās. 25, brioche, bread and madfūna (Berber pizza) are just some of the most popular foods offered to passersby, from small counters at the entrances of houses, from tiny premises specialised in one, two or three products, from travelling carts or from a basket or a simple tray covered with a cloth or with cellophane.

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The Moroccan word bildī is equivalent to our term “local produce” and they use it to distinguish it from food produced by the food industry or imported.

Invigorating spice tea, typical of Marrakech, drunk in the street, very hot and usually accompanied by a piece of the extra sweet sfūf. Among its ingredients are cinnamon, cardamom, green anise, cloves, nutmeg, ginger and mace.

Plural of faqūṣa. Typical Moroccan dry pastry or sweet biscuit. There are several types and it comes in different shapes and sizes.

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Sellers open their modest premises for a few hours, coinciding with breakfast or snack time or dinner, depending on the product they offer, or go out to offer it through the busiest streets, singing out and stopping at key points in the medina where they know that they will find their clientele. Whether consumed in these precarious establishments (many of which are intimate little places), in bakeries (that are extraordinarily well-stocked and very popular for afternoon snacks) or popular restaurants such as the ones called mat.‘am xa‘bī 26, in Morocco few people are left without food. In that regard, it should be clarified that religion, at least from my point of view, has enhanced the humanitarian nature of this community. There is no doubt, one of the five pillars of Islam is Zakāt, the obligation to give alms. The fact that the Moroccan people enjoy gastronomy and share meals with friends, acquaintances and relatives has made the table a space of brotherhood, and the shared dish a symbol of friendship

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and respect, but people’s duty to be generous and compassionate is also very present. Commonly, Moroccans practice charity with those who have less, and they do it, above all, in the form of food.

Literally, “popular restaurant”.

On the other hand, it goes without saying that luxury restaurants are also present in all the cities of Morocco, with cuisine and establishments that have nothing to envy of the most luxurious restaurants in the western world and which I will not go into here. And, of course, the influence of international cuisine on Moroccan gastronomy cannot be ignored, an inescapable product of globalisation. Shawarma restau rants (having come from the Middle East), pizzerias, Chinese restaurants, burger bars and other types of fast food have invaded city centres and neighbourhoods, and even some villages. Conclusions Food and the regulations that surround it are, as can be seen, one of the most imporBriouats (2015). LLORENÇ VENDRELL

The main features of Moroccan gastronomy and its role in society

tant factors in the cultural and social life of the Moroccan people. In celebrations and on any commemorative occasion, food becomes an indispensable central feature (along with religious practice) and a primary part of identity. As has been seen, Moroccans, in general, receive and carry out many visits throughout the year; they are very fond of eating at home with relatives and friends and, conversely, cooking large amounts of food to be able to welcome guests properly. Aware of the symbolism of the shared meal, which, according to Durkheim, favours “a kind of artificial kinship between those who participate [in it]” (1960: 481, in Contreras, 2007: 16), the Moroccan community takes every opportunity to meet around the round table. And this fact is undoubtedly accentuated during the month of Ramadan and during the summer holidays, since there are many migrant Moroccans who return to their town or city of origin for these dates. Food is the perfect excuse to meet with the family and to spend time with friends. An example of this in daily life is the importance of afternoon snacks, especially for women.

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Where there is a gathering there is food, and vice versa. And, if meals around the table support family relationships, feasts with many guests carry out the same function, but on a much larger scale: the community. Such feasts, as mentioned, are characterised not only by their splendour and the high number of guests, but also by the implicit obligation among each of the families and the rest of the community to reciprocate. Therefore, in Morocco (as in the vast majority of communities) the existence of a direct relationship between social life and food is undeniable. Finally, I would like to insist on the fact that cuisine is a fundamental part of Moroccan culture, as well as being a reflection of it. If culinary methods and the utensils used provide clear evidence of the intense attachment to the traditions and identity of this community, the protocols of food preparation and the way both daily and celebratory meals are carried out show the patriarchal and hospitable character, among other features, of Moroccan society and Mediterranean society by extension. n

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Benkheira, M.h. (2000) Islam et interdits alimentaires. Juguler l’animalité. Paris: PUF.

Farb, P; Armelagos, G. (1985) Anthropologie des coutumes alimentaires. Paris: Denöel.

Montanari, M. (2006) La comida como cultura. Gijón: Ediciones Trea.

Contreras, J. (1993) Antropología de la alimentación. Madrid: Eudema.

Harris, M. (1980) Vacas, cerdos, guerras y brujas. Los enigmas de la cultura. Madrid: Alianza Editorial.

Contreras, J. (2007) “Alimentación y religión” [online], Humanitas. Humanidades médicas, monthly online topic, no. 16:16. <http://www.fundacionmhm.org/ tema0716/articulo.pdf> [Consulted on 18 March 2016]

Klinghardt, M. “Tomad y comed; Éste es mi cuerpo. Ágape e interpretación del ágape en el Cristianismo primitivo”. In Schmidt-Leukel, P. (Ed.) (2002) Las religiones y la comida, 37-71. Barcelona: Ariel.

Puig-Artigas, I. (2012) Marroquins a les Illes Pitiüses (20072009). Trets del seu projecte migratori i canvis esdevinguts en les seves vides a partir d’aquest [online]. Doctoral thesis. Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology, Faculty of Arts and Humanities (Autonomous University of Barcelona). <www.tdx. cat/bitstream/10803/96437/1/ ipa1de1.pdf>

Durkheim, E. (1960) Les formes élémentaires de la vie religieuse. Paris: PUF. El Corán. (1991) Translation by Joan Vernet. Barcelona: Planeta.

Lerchundi, J. (1999) Vocabulario Español-Arábigo del dialecto de Marruecos. Edición Facsímil. Madrid: Agencia Española de Cooperación Internacional para el Desarollo.

Puig-Artigas, I. (2017) Cròniques de Xauen. Dietari d’una antropòloga al Marroc. Valls: Quorum Llibres.

Rosander, EE. (2004[1991]) Mujeres en la frontera. Tradición e identidad musulmanas en Ceuta. Barcelona: Ediciones Bellaterra. Schmidt-Leukel, P. (ed.) (2002) Las religiones y la comida. Barcelona: Ariel.

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Josep Roca Guerrero UNIVERSITY OF BARCELONA

A Social and Cultural Anthropology graduate from the University of Barcelona, he has focused his research on heritage and ethnopoetics. He has worked on the sense of contemporary mythology in the Rias Altas area of Galicia, specifically regarding the Maruxaina celebration in the town of San Cibrao. Furthermore, he has a close relationship with the evolution of popular culture in the province of Lleida and has written about different cultural areas in the region, such as the heritage process of the Pyrenean falles festivals. He is currently studying the master's degree in Anthropology and Ethnography at the University of Barcelona.

Heritage and participation: a comparative reflection via the recognition of the Pyrenean falles festivals as intangible cultural heritage

rom 30 November to 4 December 2015, the 10th Session of the Intergovernmental Committee for the Safeguarding of Intangible Heritage was held in Windhoek, the capital of Namibia. There it was decided that the Pyrenean summer solstice fire festivals would become part of the Representative List of Intangible Cultural Heritage, along with 22 other proposals (among which we

A través d’una comparació del procés que dugué a la recent inclusió de les falles dels Pirineus a la Llista Representativa del Patrimoni Cultural Immaterial de la Humanitat de la UNESCO (2015) amb el Yeraal i el Degal (Mali) i l’art zafimaniry (Madagascar), dos membres africans del PCIH, l’article suggereix que el grau de participació pot ser un factor decisiu per a un impacte positiu sobre la població local. Les pròpies concepcions i normes del PCIH semblen afavorir l’èxit de les candidatures més familiaritzades amb la dinàmica patrimonial de les societats occidentals, en contradicció aparent amb els seus objectius inclusius inicials.

find Arab coffee, a symbol of generosity, or The Epic of Koroghlu, a set of songs, poems and sayings about the mythical hero Koroghlu, sung in Turkmenistan1). Candidates included 63 towns distributed between Spain (in particular the Catalan counties of L'Alta Ribagorça, El Pallars Sobirà and La Val d'Aran, as well as the eastern part of the Aragonese Pyrenees), Andorra and southern France. To the south of the Pyrenees, the most common of these celebrations are known as falles.

A través de una comparación del proceso que condujo a la reciente inclusión de las fallas del Pirineo en la Lista Representativa del Patrimonio Cultural Inmaterial de la Humanidad de la UNESCO (2015) con el Yeral y el Degal (Mali) y el arte zafimaniry (Madagascar), dos miembros africanos del PCIH, el artículo sugiere que el grado de participación puede ser un factor decisivo para un impacto positivo sobre la población local. Las mismas concepciones y normas del PICH parecen favorecer el éxito de las candidaturas más familiarizadas con la dinámica patrimonial de las sociedades occidentales, en contradicción aparente con sus objetivos inclusivos iniciales.

http://www.unesco.org/culture/ ich/es/10com

Through comparison of the process that led to the recent integration of the falles from Pyrenees to the UNESCO’s Intangible Cultural Heritage List (2015) with Yeraal and Degal (Mali) and art Zafimaniry, two other African members of ICH, the article suggests that degree of participation may be a crucial factor for a positive impact on local population. The very ICH notions and rules seem to favour the success of candidatures acquainted with heritage dynamics in Western societies, just against its initial inclusive goals.

Heritage and participation

This event captures observers' attention, and perhaps even more so if looked at from an ethnological perspective, for several reasons, a couple of which I will point out: the fact that they were given this distinction before their Valencian counterpart, as well as the confirmation of the success of the Catalan candidates or, even, of the Catalan Countries, although, in reality, the aforementioned list seemed to have been created for very different sociocultural contexts. I want to contribute to a more complex understanding of the heritage processes of “intangible” culture, working on the (more or less usual) suspicion that it is important for participants of these events to be involved in explaining them, referring specifically to the Pyrenean falles festivals, and through comparison, a methodological tool that is consubstantial with anthropology. The falles festivals, legacy of the people of the Pyrenees As is well known, the Pyrenean falles festivals are summer solstice celebrations held in some villages of L'Alt Pirineu. It consists of the descent of some burning branches from a

relatively high place (sometimes a hermitage) called faro (lighthouse), to the place where there is usually a bonfire, the falla major. Broadly speaking, despite its many variants, this is the ritual carried out in all the villages of the western Catalan Pyrenees where falles are celebrated, particularly in L'Alta Ribagorça and El Pallars Sobirà, which could be considered the central area of what I will call “the falles community”. In the French Pyrenees, the flaming aspect of the festival is limited to bonfires in the centre of the towns, known asbrandon, what are called haro/halhes in La Val d'Aran. In Andorra and in the Aragonese Pyrenees (especially in L'Alta Ribagorça), the falles are run around the bonfire rather than descended from on high. All these celebrations were included in the “community” recognised by UNESCO, along with, although far from the Catalan Pyrenees and with an “opposite” or “symmetrical” chronology (winter solstice, Christmas), Bagà and San Julià de Cerdanyola, where the falles are indeed descended from a high place (Fia Faia). This fact suggests some mystery regarding the meaning and origin of the falles, something that I cannot

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Paraules clau: Falles, Pirineus, Patrimoni Cultural Immaterial de la Humanitat, festes de foc del solstici estival. Palabras clave: Fallas, Pirineos, Patrimonio Cultural de la Humanidad, fiestas del fuego del solsticio estival. Keywords: Falles, Pyrenees, intangible cultural heritage, summer solstice fire festivals.

The faro of the falles festivals in Isil (2015) ORIOL RIART

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explore here, and also explains the choice of a controversial term such as “community” (Bauman, 2003). If I adopt it, it is not out of respect for UNESCO terminology, standarised by the Intangible Cultural Heritage Convention, but because its ambiguity, although it opens up possibilities for manipulation (Adell et al. [Eds.], 2015), it also responds to the dynamics of the real groups that carried out the candidacy of the falles. Other labels, such as neighbourhood or citizenship, would undermine the strength of the notions of tradition and autonomy in the heritage process. We enter the realm of Benedict Anderson’s imagined communities, social and historical currencies in the Clastrian sense. However, neither the adjective “imagined” nor its mystifying connotation, so open to the school of suspicion, are enough to understand the process and to examine its uniqueness or its normality. For the purpose of this article, the nature and origin of the ritual is not a fundamental concern. Even so, pointing out some of the most common explanations for the ritual can help us later to suggest the connection between past and present, which is inevitable when the notion of tradition is involved. Several interpretations relate the ritual to the annual solar cycle. The liturgical use of fire would be the symbolic human representation of the essential natural element of the agricultural cycle, the Sun. This function would have been in force until recently and, according to Riart and Jordà (2015), it could have been rooted in another more political function, that of the demarcation of territory. This political dimension would have been derived from the role of the faros as a method of surveillance, visually connected like many watchtowers. During each descent of the falles, the observation of the luminous path from the other points of descent (in particular from the other faros), and from the towns, delineated an ancient common space, blurred in modern times by the desertification of the Pyrenees and its political marginalisation.

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Other, perhaps more psychology-based investigations have provided arguments that the celebration could be related to the individual vital cycles of the people involved, as rites of passage, marked by the rhythm of the changes of nature. The traditional display of fadrins (young men) towards the fadrines (young women) during the descents would, however, go beyond the purely individual framework. The festivities would not only order the calendar, but also mobilise the local workforce and create bridges between towns, almost like a “marital fair”, in the best possible sense of expression. Nowadays, these functions have lost their effectiveness and their raison d’être insofar as the agrarian cycle no longer occupies a central place in Pyrenean rural life. The process goes way back, particularly in the French Pyrenees; we must think of the prophetic patrimonial vision of Elisée Reclus, back in the nineteenth century. The arrival of hydroelectric production, at the beginning of the twentieth century, intensified by the creation of FECSA in the fifties, promoted a local services sector to supply the new workers, a sector that would be a catalyst in the growth of tourism, to the detriment of traditional farms (Ros, 1997). In recent decades, the tertiarisation of the economy in the Catalan Pyrenees has been consolidated by the central role given to the heritage process of natural and cultural elements (Beltan and Vaccarro, 2007; Frigolé, 2012). Mountain tourism (skiing, hiking, rural houses and adventure sports, among others) has been fundamental in this transfer to a services society. So, the peak in participation in the festivities coincides with the peak of mountain tourism. In this way, the falles continue to present an ecological and economic component that comes together with symbolic factors. Where it used to be the agricultural cycle that was key to the reasons for the ritual, now it is the tourism cycle. The summer solstice becomes a symbolic axis that helps give a particular meaning to the summer season, by reconnecting natural heritage with the people and their culture, including intangible cultural heritage. Falles are, therefore, no longer celebrated

Heritage and participation

only on the night of Sant Joan, but have been organised so that the different villages partake in the festivities each on a different weekend at the beginning of the summer. Parallelism with Christmas and the extension of so-called “white holidays” is obvious.2 The falles add cultural value during the summertime to the “landscape requalification” spoken of by Joan Frigolé (2012). Their integration into the UNESCO List in 2015 consolidates this readjustment. A comparative view of intangible cultural heritage Heritage is a selection and filter of the past (Prats, 1997). This implies a double-edged sword: the concealment of versions of the past and the legitimisation of a hegemonic order through a partial past. Bendix and Kuutma (2013) make use of the concept of heritage regimes to name a kind of power network between the different parties that are involved in global heritage processes. The heritage regimes are the arena where transnational institutions, states and local groups come into play. The arrangement largely depends on UNESCO's programmes, as the body responsible for world heritage, which cannot be thought of as a sovereign agent that forces and obliges.

The idea of recognising intangible cultural heritage came about in the late 1990s under the pressure of developing countries that were under-represented in the UNESCO conception of world heritage. The definitions included in the Convention concerning the Protection of World Cultural and Natural Heritage3 of 1972 left out a large number of peoples and collectives around the world, those based on oral cultures, regardless of whether they are literate, and those that do not have their own material culture that can be described as monumental (Bendix et al., 2015). In the 1990s, with the end of the Cold War, indigenous movements became visible and reached levels of political influence that had previously been denied to them, especially in Latin America (Bretón, 2001). Likewise, the use, everywhere but particularly in Africa, of new concepts such as “social capital” or

“indigenous knowledge” was seen among major international agencies, such as the World Bank and UNESCO itself. It is no coincidence that, on 17 October 2003, at the end of the International Decade of the World's Indigenous People (1995-2004),4 UNESCO published the Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage where the main beneficiaries of the new agreement are identified: “(...) Recognising that communities, especially the indigenous ones [my italics], groups and in some cases individuals play an important role in the production, safeguarding, maintenance and recreation of intangible cultural heritage, thereby contributing to enriching cultural diversity and human creativity (...)”.5 Furthermore, UNESCO itself went on to establish that it should be the states themselves that promote their candidatures. Thus, power is found more in the ability of the stakeholders involved to provoke a reaction, a thought or a point of view in others. The effort required from anthropology consists in: discovering if, in the field of heritage, there is a desire to explain and to perceive culture as adaptive, and recording and explaining the variable impact of this effort, insofar as the different stakeholders involved in heritage do not have the same scope, nor the same ability to produce metacultural discourses (Bendix, 2012; Kuutma, 2012; Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, 2006). This imbalance between stakeholders is what leads us to talk about top down processes, to the point that authors who work with intangible cultural heritage consider the heritage regimesto be a metanarrative of globocentric cultures, which conceal the maintenance of the old colonial order in line with cultural imperialism behind democratic rhetoric (Edward Said, 1993; Kirshenblatt Gimblett, 2006; Santamarina, 2013). What does empirical observation tell us? Could there be different types of heritage regimes, distinguishing grassroots strategies as opposed to top down approaches? I suggest a comparative view of two African members of

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This is how the paths of fire came to be, which can be visited throughout the year: https://www.segre.com/pags/ hemeroteca.html (consulted on 20 December 2016) and http://www. turismealtaribagorca.cat/caminsde-foc/presentacio (consulted on 26 February 2018).

http://whc.unesco.org/archive/ convention-es.pdf (consulted on 18 February 2018).

https://www.un.org/development/ desa/indigenous-peoples-es/historia.html (consulted on 18 February 2018). In order to appreciate the synchrony between intangible cultural heritage and indigenous peoples' calendars, we note that, in 2007, four years after the definition of intangible cultural heritage and one year before the publication of the corresponding list, the UN published its Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples: https://undocs.org/A/RES/61/295 (consulted on 18 February 2018).

https://ich.unesco.org/es/convenci%C3%B3n (consulted on 18 February 2018). The very mention of “communities” and the distinction regarding “groups” are very significant and sanction a more intuitive and political approach to the “indigenous” category, as opposed to a legal or scientific one. On this legal uncertainty (and the consequent political informalisation), see the contributions by Sabrina Urbinatt, Lauso Zagato or Cristoph Brumann in Adell et al. (Eds.). (2015).

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the Representative List of Intangible Cultural Heritage: the Yeraal and Degal celebrations in Mali and Zafimaniry Art in Madagascar, both of which were proclaimed in the second selection round, in 2003, and ultimately appeared in the first registration of the List in 2008. My genealogical comparison with the Pyrenean falles festivals, which leverages the cultural distance, aims to recontextualise and re-understand the direction of global heritage policies. The Yeraal and Degal celebrations, Mali In 2013, 10 years after the proclamation, the anthropologist Anaïs Leblon published the results of her doctoral thesis on “the cultural space of yaraal and degaal”, an analysis of the heritage process of a festive aspect of the Fula (peul, pullo) community of Mali, in an influential collective publication. It must be remembered that the Fula people or Fulani form one of the most numerous originally pastoral and transhumance peoples (although today many are sedentary), distributed throughout the semi-arid zones of West Africa, from Senegal to the Atlantic and as far as the Central African Republic. The festivals of Yaraal and Degal take their name from two of the at least 29 points where, twice a year, the shepherds cross the Niger River (Djoliba, locally) with their herds (made up of thousands of animals) to go into or return from the Sahel (although the celebration is especially on the return). UNESCO’s description explicitly associates the two celebrations to the nomadic way of life.6 While the crossing of the river by the flocks is already spectacular in itself, the Fula groups make it more so with very eye-catching practices and celebrations: men decorate their cattle and wrap themselves with special clothes, while women prepare and sing songs to praise the event. A variety of competitions are held among the shepherds to present the most beautiful flock and, among women, to sing the most virtuous poems (Leblon, 2013).

These festivals were declared intangible cultural heritage by UNESCO in 2003,7 a proclamation that was achieved thanks in particular to the intervention of the National Directorate of Cultural Heritage, a Malian

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state body that aims to regulate and control heritage processes. For Leblon, the petition and justification that authorises the candidature of the Yaraal and Degal celebrations constitute a discourse that magnifies the spectacular aspect of the festival, leaving aside the social and political reality of the Fula people, the relationship with the state or the ecological connection with the surroundings. This is because the intangible cultural heritage standards, imposed by UNESCO, seem to be more interested in that which is rare, showy and exotic, rather than in the people who carry out these traditions, often minorities. Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett (2006: 8) states the sarcastic opinion of US publisher Cullen Murphy on the first Representative List of Intangible Cultural Heritage in 2003, published inThe Atlantic Monthly: “(…) the overall impression is of program listings for public television at 3.00 A.M.”. Bendix also speaks of elements that are”lost in translation” in heritage regimes: although the Malian state is interested in recognition of Yaaral and the Degal by UNESCO, either for the possibility of subsidies, for tourism or local development perspectives or merely for international visibility, it will not stop promoting the ploughing of increasingly extensive surfaces dedicated to agricultural monoculture exportation; consequently, it will increasingly restrict the grazing and transhumance areas (Leblon, 2013; Bendix, 2013), undermining, at heart, the way of life of the peoples that were the reason for Mali’s appearance on the intangible cultural heritage list. Inclusion as intangible cultural heritage serves as a screen to hide the promotion of Fula acculturation, the corresponding rural exodus or the multiplication of pauperised suburbs. The process helps to hide the directly or indirectly repressive policies of the state towards the Fula people, on whose behalf the UNESCO application was processed.8 However, reality reveals the persistence of identity after the numerous traumas of colonisation, the drought of the 1970s or the pressures of the new independent states to establish them. This plasticity suggests that Leblon could be undervaluing the capacity of the Fula people,

https://ich.unesco.org/en/RL/ cultural-space-of-the-yaaral-anddegal-00132

http://www.unesco.org/culture/ ich/es/RL/el-espacio-cultural-delyaaral-y-del-degal-00132

The outbreak of the Tuareg issue in 2014, the emergence of jihadism and French intervention have worsened, in some cases, Fula interaction with the state, as reflected by the media. For example: https://mondafrique.com/ conflits-entre-peuls-bambaras-ensanglantent-centre-mali/ and http:// www.jeuneafrique.com/403121/ politique/mali-violences-entrepeuls-bambaras-dizaine-demorts-sud-pays/ (consulted on 25 October 2017).

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and their features, to exploit the intangible cultural heritage label and, in general, the global factors, but this would not be relevant to its analysis, which can give pointers for the study of other comparable cases. The case of Zafimaniry art, Madagascar The second case is Zafimaniry art, studied by Fabiola Mancinelli in her doctoral thesis Zafimaniry, l’invention d’une tribu (Zafimaniry, the invention of a tribe). The Zafimaniry community is a Malagasy ethnic group that is difficult to categorise, but whose identity is based on its relationship with the Highlands forest and, above all, on the people’s

wood carving skills and the production of decorative or functional wooden objects, but with a clearly aesthetic design. According to the proclamation of UNESCO, one of the three fundamental reasons why Zafimaniry art should be considered intangible cultural heritage is that it would represent, and somehow maintain, the original way of life that is authentic to the Malagasy Highlands.9 This refers to the Merina culture, which is the most influential of the groups on the island that are usually associated with Zafimaniry. In modern Madagascar, Merina culture has often been wrongly confused with Malagasy culture since the nineteenth century,

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http://www.unesco.org/culture/ ich/es/RL/el-trabajo-de-la-maderade-los-zafimaniry-00080

Zafimaniry art display (2012) FABIOLA MANCINELLI

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when the kingdom of Antananarivo, in full hegemonic expansion, became the “kingdom of Madagascar”, and the dominant faction was partially occidentalised and went on to almost monopolise insular scientific production. The current state continues to have a Merina majority. It is not surprising, then, that the declaration of UNESCO assumed the state view of the candidature: Zafimaniry art must be preserved because it will implicitly maintain the tradition of Madagascar (Mancinelli, 2013). UNESCO’s discourse is very controversial, as it deals with everyday practice as an anachronism that needs to be “saved” from the dangers of homogenising modernity, an essentialist and paternalistic perspective of cultural processes, which are much more dynamic than this salvationist tendency suggests. Mancinelli points out that the worldview of the need to rescue is not a Malagasy view but a Western one, rooted in institutions such as UNESCO itself. According to the researcher, the result has been a series of paradoxical situations on a local level that, more than contributing to the maintenance of a way of life, have encouraged a complete top down implementation of a sort of UNESCO, eurocentric and globocentric modus operandi. Stoczkowski (2009) called Western ideology that sustains the conservation of local heritage as part of the great legacy of Humanity “secular soteriology”, that is, “lay salvationism”. Kuutma (2012) also talks about the curative concerns of heritage processes, emphasising the part of the UNESCO narrative that legitimises its action through the need for maintenance, the fear of loss and the salvation of culture (Mancinelli, 2013; Stoczkowski, 2009; Kuutma, 2012). For Mancinelli, recognition as intangible cultural heritage does not mean more hope for the future of Zafimaniry; in fact, it suggests a series of factors that can be counterproductive in local development. One of the most important factors is the creation of a collective brand, following the processes studied in the already famous work of Comaroff, Ethnicity, Inc. (2011). Mancinelli points out that these local development processes in Africa often involve the invention of presumably commu-

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nity entities that formally and legally respond to a sense of organisation and representation that are totally Western. Zafimaniry art is thereby transformed into a denomination of origin with certain characteristics that are typical of the Zafimaniry people, establishing a canon. But, can the intentions of the Zafimaniry people really be articulated with the logic of a brand and intellectual property rights? Is aesthetic normalisation, with 21 reasons in this case, a feature of Zafimaniry crafts? Mancinelli tells us how she talked to artisans who told her that they had learned Zafimaniry art at UNESCO schools where they were taught exactly what kind of designs they should carry out. In several passages, she points out how, in the same way as in Mali, the heritage process has been directed from the capital, Antananarivo, through a pyramidal structure that subordinates the Zafimaniry people, with an executive body that does not include a single one of them (Mancinelli, 2013; Comaroff & Comaroff, 2009). * * * Independent studies such as those by Mancinelli and Leblon suggest that, within the framework of intangible cultural heritage, states have reappropriated local initiatives and legacy in an attempt to expropriate and nationalise it. Heritagisation would not be a mere international recognition of resilient traditions, it would be a top down process. Expropriation instead of empowerment, in flagrant contradiction with the declarations of UNESCO on the beneficiaries of intangible cultural heritage: The reason for this perversion lies in the very organisation of the international system, where states and not the people claim sovereignty. Not all states are the same however. Both cases studied are African, where state structures are weak. It is significant that, at the beginning of 2018, a review of UNESCO's Representative List shows that Europe has had as many recognitions as Africa, America and Oceania, and not much less than Asia, despite the enormous difference in population sizes. This balance seems to be far from the objectives that led to the creation of intangible cultural heritage in the first place.

Heritage and participation

Leaving aside any hypothetical corruption in the selection system (which we do not have information about), this imbalance could be due to the Eurocentrism of international-type states, as well as the state-based bias of international heritagisation. In Western states, the ways of regulating citizen participation and action required by intangible cultural heritage could be more consistent with their societies than in postcolonial states. To clarify this, I propose the comparison of the cases mentioned with the candidacy of the Pyrenean falles festivals, paying particular attention to citizen participation. Participation and appropriation in the heritage process of the Pyrenean falles festivals The recognition of Pyrenean falles festivals as heritage has greatly popularised the celebration, not only in the eyes of foreigners, but amongst the very people of the Pyrenees. As a result, some towns have brought the festival back, while others have began celebrating it for the first time on record, as is the case in Espot and La Guingueta d'Àneu. This expansion not only precedes recognition as intangible cultural heritage, but seems to respond to endogenous dynamics that are as decisive, if not more so, than external factors, such as governmental cultural policies.

The recovery of traditions (whether more or less conservative, disruptive or even inventive) is inseparable from the heritage process that has culminated, for the moment, with inclusion as intangible cultural heritage. The first milestone to mark this connection occurred in 1991, well before the creation of the concept of intangible cultural heritage, with the declaration of the Isil falles festival as a “traditional holiday of national interest”. This recognition was automatically extended to the rest of Catalan falles communities, and the label consolidated the use of what was called popular culture as a social expression of democratisation in the western Catalan Pyrenees (beyond Isil), a phenomenon that was very noticeable throughout Catalonia during the 1980s. In this first heritage phase, falles festivals were recovered in populations

such as Alins, Andorra, Barruera, Erill La Vall or El Pont de Suert. Thus, there is a confluence between the local initiatives of neighbourhoods and city councils, the cultural policy promoted by the government and the mechanisms of the state to recognise and value heritage, including university research. One can argue that, although the institutional impulse is undeniable (autonomic and state), it can only crystallise through local initiative. Indeed, the path that led to recognition by UNESCO, and which can be considered as a second wave in the heritage process, reinforces the hypothesis of the importance of the local factor. In 2007, the intention to present an application to see the falles festivals recognised by UNESCO was expressed for the first time. It does not seem coincidental that, as of this moment, the towns that celebrate such festivals have multiplied, whether recovering it as an abandoned tradition or adopting it for the first time: Alós d'Isil, Cassòs, Espot, Gotarta, La Guingueta d'Àneu, to name a few. Andorra la Vella is a good example of the “contagious falles festival” phenomenon and the inseparable link between society and institutions. By 1987, the Collective Activities of the Commonwealth of Andorra la Vella had recovered the tradition. Then in 2010, the Government of Andorra included the falles festival within the Principality's intangible heritage catalogue. This government recognition promoted local interest until the Falles Association of Andorra la Vella appeared in 2013, which has since been responsible for encouraging the celebration through local participation programmes, focusing especially on children so that the little ones can enjoy the festival and identify it once again as something of their own (see the contribution of A. Samarra in Societat Andorrana de Ciències 2016: 86-87). In 2009, one year after the creation of the Representative List of Intangible Cultural Heritage, the first falles festival gathering was held in Isil, an event that would carry on and contribute to generating the critical mass and the necessary contacts to go ahead with the

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candidacy. The second gathering also took place in Isil, in 2010, taking advantage of the prestige of the celebration in the town. Over the following two years, the headquarters were located in El Pont de Suert, where a memorandum on the heritage project for the falles festivals is kept. In 2013, it took place in Alins, while the sixth gathering was organised in Les, La Val d'Aran. In 2015, almost premonitory, the gathering returned to Isil. The project was defined as transnational in 2012, since UNESCO seemed to positively value proposals that exceeded state boundaries. Since the space of the candidature was delimited, the celebrations were celebrated at an autonomic and national level. In France, as in Aragon, recognition arrived at the beginning of 2014, and later that same year it was also achieved in La Val d'Aran (Riart and Jordà, 2015). In March 2014, Andorra went ahead to lead the plurinational candidacy. It is reasonable to view this option as a strategic success. The candidatures must always be put forward by a state, and Andorra, a small country, did not have any world cultural heritage, which seems to have worked in the proposal’s favour. On 1 December 2015, the summer solstice fire festivals in the Pyrenees (the falles festivals) were declared intangible cultural heritage by UNESCO.10 Who do the falles festivals belong to? Tradition and heritage One way of addressing the dilemma surrounding heritage processes' driving social factors is to switch the research focus from “what these heritage elements are”, often described by UNESCO as “traditions”11, to “whose they are”. And whose they are before, during and after the process. The notion of heritagisation, as it is studied, implies an institutional recognition through positive law, as opposed to customary law. Therefore, the concept of heritage derived from it is different from local conceptions prior to the process, and that they could use the same word or, more often, another vernacular expression that is more or less equivalent. Analysis of the cases in Mali and Madagascar reveals that the new meaning is controlled, if not monopolised, by the state and removed from the society to which the traditions belong, which

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end up being understood as Malian or Malagasy rather than Fula or Zafimaniry. A very common interpretive tendency has adopted a kind of “expropriating vision”; that is to say, it has tended to understand more or less institutionalised heritage processes as processes of loss or distortion of the values, knowledge and practices that are intended to be conserved, with the institutions (states) and corporations (companies) depriving their former holders not only of their exclusivity, but of ownership, in the sense that communities (whoever they are) lose control of transmission (Carvalho, 2002, regarding musical culture). However, the example of the falles festivals implies a shared situation, where even local groups could sustain the initiative, which coincides with jobs that demand the ability of these collectives to use forces and global politics in an “appropriating vision” (Sanchez Fuarros, 2005, also regarding musical culture). The first scenario gives us a horizon of acculturation, which seems unlikely in view of the resilience shown by African societies over the last centuries, or a situation of pluralism, which is already apparent, where two or more conceptions and heritage practices are juxtaposed, compete, work together or make each other invisible, depending on the evolution of the circumstances. The second, on the contrary, seems to lead to a new avatar of tradition-heritage built and discussed in time by local society and the state. I propose that the key to addressing these divergences is to analyse the participation of the stakeholders involved, in particular in the falles festivals, acknowledging that local populations have been largely excluded from decision-making in the African cases used as a comparison. We must be aware that, as I have indicated, the current celebration of the Pyrenean falles festivals has little to do with the original conditions, which triggered its generational transmission and tradition. The solar cycle cannot have the same meaning in an agrarian society as in a tertiary one, like the falles region today. And, perhaps even more importantly, one can assume that the function of festive rituals, in spite of present elements of continuity, will be reappropriated

https://ich.unesco.org/es/RL/fiestas-del-fuego-del-solsticio-de-verano-en-los-pirineos-01073 (consulted on 14 February 2017). This was echoed between December 1 and 3 in various media (local and national, in Catalan and Spanish) and institutional websites (especially local ones).

These concepts (tradition, heritage) have been written about extensively and I do not want, nor can I attempt, to propose the state of the question and of the literature here. I do, however, want to clarify my use of the concepts. Unless otherwise indicated, I limit myself to using the term “tradition” in the contexts in which it is used by those who self-proclaim themselves holders or heirs of traditions, that is to say, what we could call the “falles community”. In general, this use evokes a rather vague sense of customs inherited from our ancestors, and therefore undoubtedly patrimonial. I understand, though, along with so many authors, that despite the discourse of resistance to change, the knowledge, behaviour or standard patterns called traditional not only incorporate changes determined by historical evolution and the combination of social forces, but they can also enable this change in a conspicuous, or even dominant manner. This process can be seen, for example, in some fairly common forms of passive resistance (often criticised by the left) and above all in overcoming Francoism in Catalonia (Arnabat and Duch, 2014, in particular, contributions by P. Solà and E. Prat). In any case, for the expression of the concept of tradition and heritage, I refer to the line started by Handler and Linnekin (1984), who understand the former as a symbolic construct, while trying to overcome the limits of the deconstructionism of Hobsbawn and Ranger (1983).

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The exceptions would be Andorra la Vella (23,000 inhabitants) or Vielha (around 6,000), peripheral to the falles world. However, even in these towns, direct personal relationships are of great political importance.

Girl carrying a falla in Alins (2017) ORIOL RIART

differently in a democratic society than in a heritage society, to use Weberian terminology. Discourse regarding the heritage process since the 1980s, gathered by Riart and JordĂ (2015), points to a strong local role, through town councils and falles associations. It is necessary to understand that the municipalities of the area are small and the face-to-face interaction among locals takes place daily.12 The

high tourist occupation masks weak demographics, with a lower census in the central falles area (L'Alta RibagorĂ§a and El Pallars SobirĂ ), and the whole of the Pyrenees, than in 1960, despite the relative recovery driven by tourism.13 This has two important implications for participation. The first is that it is methodologically plausible to assume that the adhesions of small Catalan

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municipalities implies the majority support of their populations, which add between ten and a few hundred neighbours. Therefore, we can suppose a high level of local participation. The situation is quite different not only in large European cities, but also in the “rural communes” of past African colonies. These, noticeably larger than the Pyrenean municipalities thanks to French administrative rationalism, are an inheritance of the colony, whose administrative structure and legal system respond to forms of sociability that can contrast greatly with the prevailing daily life of the populations, marked by kinship, religion, initiation, hierarchy. In the Pyrenees, however, the people have been living and appropriating these administrative structures for centuries. It is only necessary to think that the “communes” of the Pyrenees include the land and municipal resources (with many variations in local participation), while customary African counterparts rarely have any recognition of positive law. The second refers to identity. Downward migration statistics support the impression that heritage candidacies (presented to the ministry, the Government of Catalonia or UNESCO) have been driven mainly by indigenous people (personal communication by Oriol Riart). However, this occurs under very different conditions, from residents to “children of the people”, without forgetting individuals of external neorural origin or other external stakeholders (visitors, professionals, etc.). However, this autochthony, reasonably understood as an imagined community, could have a very different significance to that which separates local agents from state agents in the two African cases. While the Peul or Zafimaniry societies, who can be perfectly accepted as Malian or Malagasy, maintain a very clear autonomy in their worldview, in their logics of access to resources or in their technologies (which are directed as much towards nature as towards society), the acculturation and homogenisation of the Pyrenean societies are evident with respect to their French, Catalan, European or global origin. However, the current Pyrenean falles festival territory makes them a sign of a differentia-

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ble collective, an imagined community that, like others, nourishes Catalan identity from the margins, from the idealised memory of those mountains that disappeared first with the arrival of electricity and then tourism (Ros, 1997). Continuity of the form, rather than the meaning, of the ritual in just a few neighbourhoods (Isil, Vall de Boí, Vilaller and Senet de Varravés, among others) explains the resistance to relocation of falles festivals in the face of other material cultural heritage in the same region, as is the case of Romanesque heritage. This has been subjected to discursive hegemonies (Del Mármol, 2010) quite different from the falles festivals, most likely and in part due to its separation from the present, as well as the omnipresence of Romanesque heritage in many central places in the history of Europe. Therefore, it is not surprising that the Catalan and Catalanist imagination, both urbanite and Europeanist, is identified much more with the Romanesque remains than with mountain fire festivities, which have often been seen as an atavistic reminiscence, a vestige of cultural innocence under the protection of geographical isolation. Tertiarisation consecrated this internal exoticism built by folklorism (Prats, 1988). This relative cultural marginalisation leaves room for relatively counter-hegemonic spaces however. Some open reflections Comparisons of a calibre such as those proposed here (Europe, Africa) show the persistence of the asymmetry that intangible cultural heritage should correct, and which is inevitably associated with the grouping of heritage strategies on the horizon of development. The Pyrenees is a peripheral region in France and Catalonia, which is likely to be a factor of exoticism that would play in their favour in the inclusion on the list. The heading of the candidature by Andorra, a small country absent from the list until 2015, could be a “pretext” meant to continue increasing the weight of intangible cultural heritage acquired by Europe, in open contradiction with the original balancing goals of the Convention of 2003.

In reality, the relative marginality of the Pyrenees in European society has not been in

http://territori.gencat.cat/web/. content/home/06_territori_i_urbanisme/IDAPA/30_documentacio/ indicadors/informes/01_crisi_ afecta_demografia_pirinenca. pdf (consulted on 20 December 2017). The geopolitical economy of Andorra, you might say, explains that these figures do not apply, also affecting L'Alt Urgell (outside the falles areas), where a part of the Andorran labour force lives and where the population has been maintained.

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The main bonfire, or falla major, lit on the public square in Alins (2017) ORIOL RIART

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line with indicators of the global definition of marginalisation and poverty within the Spanish or French states for decades, not to mention the Andorran figures.14 The Pyrenees are peripheral politically and socio-geographically, but it is no longer a poor region that is “underdeveloped”. And, with tertiarisation, it has become much less culturally different: one could say that it has become acculturated. The people of the Pyrenees live as far away, if not more so, than those in Paris (UNESCO headquarters) from the situations of extreme poverty prevalent in Mali or Madagascar, as well as the cultural pluralism that is perceived there. The success of the Pyrenean initiative is contextualised in what we could call “Catalan-speaking bias” or “Levantino” in Spanish applications for the recognition of intangible cultural heritage. More than half are located in the famous and debated Catalan Countries, which means in the most economically dynamic part of the Spanish Mediterranean (although some of the initiatives are well inland), a strongly cosmopolitan area with a high degree of external investment. In the global hegemonic framework, it is in this prosperous and perfectly encultured context, aware of the language and international institutional resources and with a high potential for self-financing candidatures, where heritage strategies not only succeed, they take on the most popular arrangements and, therefore, that which is most convenient for the population. The associationism driving the falles heritage process is the same as that which the ensemble of Catalan society has been attributed to.15 The paradox is that these “practice communities” (in the sense in which Bendix or Bortolotto adopt the concept of Jean Lave and Étienne Wenger in Adell et al. [Eds.], 2015) are more operative the more imagined, or even the more “imaginary”, they are; in other words, the more the ritual is separated from technology and is restricted to discourse, a blatant difference with African cases. The paradox is comparable to that posed by the use of the notion of “social capital” in contexts of international development, in the sense put forth by Putnam (1993): a historic product of European countries wanting to be projected on the whole world to enhance cultural diversity. It is not unusual for the

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results to be disparaging and disappointing in many southern countries.16 The people that carry out the falles have normalised and to a large extent shared UNESCO's heritage preservation criteria, much more than the Fula or Zafimaniry collectives. This internalisation dates back to at least nineteenth-century folklore and became widespread with the “cultural urbanisation” of rural areas during the twentieth century. Indeed, a differential aspect with respect to African cases is the presence of native ethnographers (in a restricted, local sense), such as Riart and Jordà, that connect with this folklorism through illustrious precedents such as Ramon Violant and Simorra. C. Bortolotto’s suspicion regarding the difficult discrimination between European anthropologists' seemingly opposing “researcher” and “facilitator” roles is confirmed (see her contribution in Adell et al., 2015: 266-267). For the inhabitants of the Pyrenees, although appropriating heritage, even intellectually, does not override the top down dynamics that cross the tertiarisation of the territory, it can open up opportunities to build a “grassrootsterritorial policy” and to unite the social group, beyond business opportunities. The need to attract tourists and the continuity with the contiguous sociocultural fabric curb possible excluding dynamics towards “foreigners” and mitigate the democratic fears of the flowering of autochthonous communities (Ellen Heertz in Adell et al., 2015, regarding Switzerland). However, the factors determining the falles grassrootsstrategy are not transferable to the communities originally intended to be the beneficiaries of the intangible cultural heritage. The comparison suggests that the possibilities of them benefiting, which should not be ruled out given the resilience of local societies studied by anthropology, have less to do with the approach to the regulations established by states and international agencies, which are often contradictory to the local mechanisms of participation, and more to do with their ability to subvert them; subversion in the sense of instrumentalisation towards goals other than those officially set forth,

The falles counties show a tendency of increase throughout the first heritage period, from the 80s, reaching the highest family income in Catalonia by the end of the 90s: http://economia.gencat.cat/web/. content/70_economia_catalana/ arxius/publicacions_periodiques/ nota_d_economia/ne_66/6-larendafamiliardisponiblealescomarquescatalanes.pdf. Although Idescat shows a decrease in these figures after the recession (often with contradictory information), the level of income continues to be high: https://www.idescat.cat/ pub/?id=rfdbc&n=8224&lang=es (consulted on 30 November 2017), but http://www.elpuntavui. cat/article/4-economia/18-economia/419135-la-vall-daran-te-larenda-per-capita-mes-alta-de-catalunya.html (both consulted on 30 November 2017).

http://associacionisme.mhcat.cat/ (consulted on 16 February 2018).

The concept of “social capital” spread thanks to a push by World Bank (Bebbington et al., 2007). The problem is that the types of relationships that are considered “capitalisable”, generators of trust and cohesion, are diametrically opposed to Western societies and to others, particularly African ones; see a devastating criticism in Ben Fine (2002). On the other hand, the nationalist component of this capacity to mobilise civil society (such as in Belgium, for example) could be a factor to consider as influential on the state, but it does not seem decisive given the strong differences in this sense between Catalonia and Valencia, for example.

Heritage and participation

within the framework of cultural pluralism involuntarily established first by colonisation and then by cultural imperialism. In other words, putting local knowledge above internationally recognised expert knowledge. The dilemma of the role of diversity in development, in current progress, is a classic in anthropology, from well before M. G. Smith. However, research to solve the dilemma is not so common, not even in the seemingly ideal framework of intangible cultural heritage studies. The excellent collection by Adell et al., (2015) is good proof of this, since it does not practically address the issue of logics

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and different social values in play, conceptions and practices that are not necessarily consistent with the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, but legitimate locally, at least for the members of the “real” community, who react and adapt to the candidacy of an “imagined community”, presented by the relevant state. The close and comparative view of ethnography is indispensable in detecting, understanding and perhaps even integrating these mechanisms of deviation into heritage processes. n

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Adell, N., Bendix, R. F., Bortolotto, C. and Tauschek, M. (Eds.). (2015). Between Imagined Communities and Communities in Practice. Participation, Territory and the Making of Heritage. Göttingen: Göttingen Studies in Cultura Property, vol. 8, Universitätverlag Göttingen. Arnabat, R. and Duch, M. (Coords.). (2014). Historia de la sociabilidad contemporánea. Del asociacionismo a las redes sociales. Valencia: PUV. Bauman, Z. (2003). Comunidad. En busca de seguridad en un mundo hostil. Madrid: Siglo XXI Bebbington, A., Guggenheim, S., Olson, E. and Woolcock, M. (2007). “Exploring Social Capital Debates at the World Bank”. In The Journal of Development Studies, 40: 5, 33-64. Beltran, O. and Vaccaro, I. (2007). “El paisaje del Pallars Subirà: pastores, centrales hidroeléctricas y estaciones de esquí”. In Oriol Beltran & Ismael Vaccaro (Eds.) Ecología política de los Pirineos: estado, historia y paisaje, 139-156. Tremp: Garsineu. Bendix, R., Eggert, A. and Paselmann, A. (Eds.). (2013). Heritage Regime and the State. Göttingen: Universitätverlag Göttingen.

Bretón, V. (2001). “Capital social, etnicidad y desarrollo: algunas consideraciones críticas desde los Andes Ecuatorianos”. In Revista Yachaikuna no. 2 (December). Retrieved from: http://icci.nativeweb. org/yachaikuna/2/breton.html Comaroff, J. and Comaroff, J. (2011). Etnicidad S.A. Buenos Aires: Katz. De Carvalho, J. J. (2002). Las tradiciones musicales afroamericanas: de bienes comunales a fetiches transnacionales. Brasilia: Serie Antropología, Universidade de Brasília. Del Mármol, C. (2010). Pasados locales, políticas globales. Los efectos de patrimonialización en un valle del Pirineo Catalán. Barcelona: University of Barcelona, doctoral thesis (supervised by J. Frigolé). Fine, B. (2002). “It Ain’t Social, It Ain’t Capital and It Ain’t Africa”. In Studia Africana, 13: 18-33. Frigolé, J. (2012). “Cosmologías, ecosímbolos y patrimonialización en el Pirineo catalán en un contexto global”. In Revista de Antropología Social, 21: 173-196. Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, B. (2006). “World Heritage and Cultural Economics”. In Karp, I. and Kratz, C. (Eds.), Museum Frictions: Public Cultures/Global Transfor-

mations, 161-202. Duke: Duke University Press. Handler, R. and Linnekin, J. (1984). “Tradition, Genuine or Spurious”. In The Journal of American Folklore, vol. 97, no. 385 (Jul. – Sep.): 273-290. Hobsbawn, E. and Ranger, T. (Eds.). (2002). La invención de la tradición. Barcelona: Crítica. Leblon, A. (2013). “A Policy of Intangible Cultural Heritage between Local Constraints and International Standards: The cultural Space of Yaaral and the Degal”. In Bendix, R. F., Eggert, A. and Paselman, A. (Eds.), Heritage regimes and the State, 97-119. Göttingen: Göttingen Studies in Cultural Property, vol. 3, Universitätverlag Göttingen. Mancinelli, F. (2013). Zafimaniry: l’invention d’une tribu. Art ethnique, patrimoine immatériel et tourisme dans une communauté de Madagascar. Barcelona: University of Barcelona, doctoral thesis (supervised by Ll. Prats). Prats, Ll. (1988). El mite de la tradició popular. Barcelona: Edicions 62. Prats, Ll. (1997). Antropología y patrimonio. Barcelona: Ariel. Putnam, R. D. (1993). Making Democracy Work. Civic Traditions in Modern Italy. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Riart, O. and Jordà, S. (2015). Les falles del Pirineu: L’Alta Ribagorça i El Pallars Sobirà. Lleida: Pagès. Ros, I. (1997). Aquelles muntanyes se n’han anat al cel, Tremp: Garsineu. Sánchez-Fuarros, I. (2005). “Timba, rumba y la ‘apropiación desde dentro’”. In Trans. Revista transcultural de música, no. 9. Retrieved from: https://www.sibetrans.com/trans/articulo/169/timba-rumba-y-la-ldquo-apropiaciondesde-dentro-rdquo Said, E. (1993). Cultura e imperialismo. Barcelona: Anagrama. Santamarina, B. (2013). “Los mapas geopolíticos de la Unesco: entre la distinción y la diferencia están las asimetrías. El éxito (exótico del patrimonio inmaterial)”. In Revista de Antropología Social 22: 264-286. Societat Andorrana de Ciències. (2016). El sentit del folklore, avui. Vintenes Jornades de la Societat Andorrana de Ciències. Andorra la Vella: Societat Andorrana de Ciències. Retrieved from: http://onlinelibrary. wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.14678322.2009.00666.x/epdf StocZkowski, W. (2009). “UNESCO’s doctrine of human diversity: A secular soteriology?”. In Anthropology Today.

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María Royuela-Maldonado UNIVERSITY OF BARCELONA

Graduate in Tourism and specialist in cultural heritage management and cultural projects. Doctoral student in the Society and Culture programme at the University of Barcelona within the field of Culture and Heritage Management.

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Paraules clau: Patrimoni immaterial, participació, creativitat, UNESCO Palabras clave: Patrimonio inmaterial, participación, creatividad, UNESCO Keywords: Intangible heritage, participation, creativity, UNESCO

The Register of Good Safeguarding Practices for Intangible Cultural Heritage The Pusol School Museum Introduction

n order to explain the general attributes of UNESCO's Register of Good Safeguarding Practices for Intangible Cultural Heritage, we have examined the particular characteristics and processes associated with the Centre for Traditional Culture – Pusol School Museum. The study's aims are twofold: on the one hand, it focuses on the analysis of the Pusol School Museum project, whose

purpose is to safeguard intangible heritage, thereby contrasting with the contributions made by recent critical studies on heritage which view it as a new mechanism, created and legitimised to exercise control over contemporary societies (De Cesari, 2014; Sánchez-Carretero and Jiménez-Esquinas, 2016; Santamarina, 2013; Smith, 2011); on the other hand, the study takes a look at the text of the UNESCO Conven-

The symbiosis between museum and school. Façade of the Pusol School Museum. PHOTOGRAPH PROVIDED BY CHARMS MONROY, MARCH 2017.

The Register of Good Safeguarding Practices for Intangible Cultural Heritage

tion for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage and its results from the perspective of the interviewees. Although the analysis of another case study is available (Methodology for Inventorying Intangible Cultural Heritage in Biosphere Reserves: the Experience of Montseny), its inclusion in this article was not considered pertinent, since it has already been addressed in this journal on different occasions and from different perspectives.1 The collection of data was carried out through documentary research and field work techniques through semi-structured interviews with key informants; those who had been involved in the process of conceptualising and executing the project, and their action plan was focused from: (a) the perspective of the public institution; (b) the academic perspective; (c) the local perspective; or (d) the international perspective by means of experts in the field of heritage. The Register of Good Safeguarding Practices for Intangible Cultural Heritage Since it began, and more than ten years since its entry into force, the Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage has been the subject of study by numerous authors, since its scope of application is extremely complex and involves a multitude of obstacles. Defining and proposing effective and applicable measures to safeguard intangible cultural Aquest article es proposa exposar els atributs generals del Registre de Bones Pràctiques de Salvaguarda del Patrimoni Cultural Immaterial tot contrastant les atribucions realitzades des del corrent d’estudis del patrimoni i el text de la Convenció del 2003 amb els resultats observats. S’estima que els programes, projectes i activitats que conté aquest Registre són mecanismes de salvaguarda eficients, ja que, com que són dissenyats des d’una perspectiva local, poden contribuir al desenvolupament sostenible i promoure noves formes de participació de les societats contemporànies.

heritage, ICH, in the international arena is a difficult task; however, the experts who met in Paris on 17 October 2003 drafted a document that has become increasingly important over time in the field of heritage and has been legitimised as a tool for the rescue, preservation and dissemination of cultural elements and models defined as international intangible heritage. The Convention model attempts to maintain a living tradition in the face of possible threats and preserves the necessary conditions for its cultural reproduction (Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, 2004). It also seeks to guarantee the viability of ICH through measures and mechanisms with the participation of relevant stakeholders, especially of the communities and groups to which they belong. The international ICH safeguarding system was based on the implementation of three lists: the Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage, the Register of Good Safeguarding Practices and the List of Intangible Cultural Heritage in Need of Urgent Safeguarding. According to Goede, Leander and Sullivan (2015), the establishment of lists is a technique of governance that allows us to create visibility, meaning and objectivity in a non-narrative way and at a low cost, in the face of a set of elements that are grouped together for a certain purpose. For this reason, the implementation of UNESCO's lists of cultural heritage has been so well accepted internationally.

Este artículo busca exponer los atributos generales del Registro de Buenas Prácticas de Salvaguardia del Patrimonio Cultural Inmaterial contrastando las atribuciones realizadas desde la corriente de estudios críticos del patrimonio y el texto de la Convención del 2003 con los resultados observados. Se estima que los programas, proyectos y actividades contenidos en dicho Registro son mecanismos de salvaguarda eficientes ya que al ser diseñados desde una perspectiva local pueden contribuir al desarrollo sostenible y promover nuevas formas de participación de las sociedades contemporáneas.

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The Inventory of the Intangible Heritage of Montseny, in the register of best practices for the safeguarding of intangible heritage of UNESCO.The Catalonian Journal of Ethnology, (2014), 39, 246-247. Retrieved from: https://www.raco. cat/index.php/RevistaEtnologia/ article/view/280004/367697 [Consulted on 22 August 18]. Del Mármol Cartañà, C. and Roigé Ventura, X. (2014). Presentation Dossier. Debating intangible heritage. The Catalonian Journal of Ethnology, 39, 10-11. Retrieved from: https://www.raco.cat/index. php/RevistaEtnologia/article/ view/279974/367668 [Consulted on 22 August 18]. Garcia Petit, Ll. (2014). The application of the concept of intangible cultural heritage to Montseny: valuation of a pioneering experience. The Catalonian Journal of Ethnology, 39, 128-133. Retrieved from: https://www.raco.cat/index. php/RevistaEtnologia/article/ view/279985/367679 [Consulted on 22 August 18]. Estrada Bonell, F. and Del Mármol Cartañà, C. (2014). ICH Inventories The implementation of the UNESCO Convention. The Catalonian Journal of Ethnology, 39, 41-56. Retrieved from: https://www.raco.cat/index. php/RevistaEtnologia/article/ view/279977/367671 [Consulted on 22 August 18].

This paper seeks to present the general attributes of the Register of Good Practices for the Safeguarding of Intangible Cultural Heritage by contrasting the attributions from the critical heritage studies line, and the 2003 Convention text with the observed results. It is estimated that the programmes, projects, and activities contained in the Register are an effective safeguarding mechanism, and because they are designed from a local perspective, they can contribute to sustainable development, and promote new forms of participation in contemporary societies.

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The Register of Good, previously Best, Safeguarding Practices for Intangible Cultural Heritage has not been included in the UNESCOâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s conception of safeguarding and management of international intangible heritage, although (1) it is included as a safeguarding mechanism for ICH on an international level, along with the other two lists of the Convention; (2) it has a set of defined criteria; and (3) it is a list itself. It is article 18 of the Convention which mentions that the Intergovernmental Committee will select and promote programmes, projects and activities to safeguard intangible heritage that best reflect the principles and objectives of the Convention (UNESCO, 2016). However, it is the States Parties that have to submit candidates for the projects and, for an element to be included in the aforementioned register, it must conform to the selection criteria established by the operational directives: 1) It involves safeguarding, as defined in article 2.3 of the Convention. 2) It promotes the coordination of efforts on a regional, sub-regional and/or international level. 3) It reflects the principles and objectives of the Convention. 4) It has proven to be effective in contributing to the viability of ICH. 5) It has been carried out with the participation of the community with free, prior and informed consent. 6) It can be used as a model for safeguarding activities. 7) Applicants are willing to cooperate in its dissemination. 8) It comprises experiences with assessable results. 9) It responds mainly to the particular needs of developing countries.2 Compared to the registration criteria3 of the Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage, hereinafter referred to as RL, the Register of Good Safeguarding Practices has stricter and more selective parameters for its implementation. The most important attributes for the former are that, by means of inclusion in the List, it will make the ICH better known, con-

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tribute to awareness of its importance and foster intercultural dialogue (UNESCO, 2016) regarding the element registered. Meanwhile, the Register seeks to promote programmes, projects and/or activities that have proven effective in contributing to the viability of the ICH and have been carried out with the participation of the community, as well as responding to the needs of developing countries. Another difference between the two lists is that projects registered as good practices have been designed to 'solve' a local and intrinsic problem observed, at a given moment, from the perspective of the community itself; and the elements of the ICH that are representative of humanity are selected by governments that seek a certain status for the elements mentioned, to be used later. Bearing all this in mind, it is clear why 84.89% of the elements registered in the Convention from 2003 to 2017 are in the Representative List and only 4.04% have been registered as Good Practices, the remaining 11.06% belonging to the List of Intangible Cultural Heritage in Need of Urgent Safeguarding, since the States Parties opt more for the preparation of candidates for the Representative List than to appear in the Register of Good Safeguarding Practices, due to the simplicity of the process and the international recognition that it entails, rather than to promote and/or recognise safeguarding initiatives in which the communities are or have been the protagonists. There are currently 19 elements in what Lixinski (2011) calls the â&#x20AC;&#x153;best practices inventoryâ&#x20AC;? (p. 92), 47.36% of which demonstrate within their safeguarding tasks the five areas of intangible cultural heritage proposed by the Convention. This is considered relevant since the aforementioned projects mainly carry out safeguarding tasks that do not fragment heritage reality and address ICH from a holistic and integrating approach. The registers are distributed across 15 countries, with Spain heading the

Ibid., p. 29.

Ibid., p. 28.

The Register of Good Safeguarding Practices for Intangible Cultural Heritage

list with its three registered elements: the Methodology for Inventorying Intangible Cultural Heritage in Biosphere Reserves: the Experience of Montseny; the Revitalisation of the Traditional Crafsmanship of Lime-making in Morón de la Frontera, Seville, Andalusia; and the Centre for Traditional Culture – Pusol School Museum. Following Spain, with two registered items each, is Belgium, with the Programme of Cultivating Ludodiversity: Safeguarding Traditional Games in Flanders, and Safeguarding the Carillon Culture: Preservation, Transmission, Exchange and Awareness-raising; Brazil, with Fandango's Living Museum, and the Call for Projects of the National Programme of Intangible Heritage; Bulgaria, with the Festival of Folklore in Koprivshtitsa: a System of Practices for Heritage Presentation and Transmission, and the Bulgarian Chitalishte (Community Cultural Centre): Practical Experience in Safeguarding the Vitality of the Intangible Cultural Heritage; and Hungary, with the Táncház Method: a Hungarian Model for the Transmission of Intangible Cultural Heritage; and the Safeguarding of the Folk Music Heritage by the Kodály Concept.

The Centre for Traditional Culture – Pusol School Museum4

“This is an educational project, not a museum”, said Fernando García5 as he welcomed us into the premises. The history of the project dates back to 1968, when Fernando was given the teaching position at Pusol's one-room school. “When I arrived, I found one-rooom schools that were semi-abandoned because they had not had a permanent teacher”, he told us, and went on to explain that the first thing that was done in Pusol was to gather local residents to organise the school: clean it, carry out maintenance tasks and provide it with green spaces for the students to use as recreation areas. José Aniorte6 told us that it was a way to “start creating a link between the community, with parents, families” and so it became a place that also served as a meeting point to channel the demands of the local population towards the municipal authorities, a place that was more than just a school. On the other hand, the one-room schools had to have a pedagogical project, and the project for the school in Pusol came from Fernando, who saw that “traditional

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https://www.museopusol.com/es/

Director and founder of the Pusol School Museum, interviewed on 30 March 2017 as part of the qualitative research carried out to collect data.

Cultural manager of the Pusol School Museum interviewed, on 30 March 2017 as part of the qualitative research carried out to collect data.

Pusol School Museum. PHOTOGRAPH PROVIDED BY CHARMS MONROY, MARCH 2017.

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agriculture (...) had disappeared”. That's when a project was started to study the land before mechanisation, which was called The school and its environment and aimed to place the school within the context of its surroundings. The study of traditional jobs and trades, which were no longer part of the official school curriculum, were adapted with the fundamental purpose, in Fernando’s words, “of realising that children can capture the attention of the elderly, so that they recover their own culture.” The main objective was to take advantage of the recovery of rural culture and use it as an element of education for the students at the same time. Alliances started to be made with families that still practised some kind of traditional activity or trade, such as the use of the palm tree, and, whenever there was work related to it, families contacted the school so that children could go there as observers. They explained the work that was being done and how it was done, and with that, the children filled in forms to collect all the information and grouped it into small research projects. The process of social recognition triggered by this initial project is considered to be the basis of the social success of the project today. The elderly saw how value was given to their memories and experiences through the fieldwork that children did, and thus highlighted the local heritage of

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the rural area in Pusol. People wanted to be the protagonists of their own stories and it was this real participation that resulted in donations of personal property, with people saying “take this to school, you can keep it there and take better care of it”, creating a collection that is now the museum. First, they explained that a small exhibition room was built in the area that was the schoolmaster’s house and the house of the schoolmistress was used as a storage room. That is how the Agricultural School Museum was created. “It quickly became too small”, Jose told us. The Pusol School Museum On 23 June 1992, the Ministry of Culture, Education and Science of the Government of Valencia recognised it as a museum, since it complied with the established requirements for the recognition of museums and permanent museographic collections of the Valencian Community. A small extension was also carried out, which consisted of a bay that joined the two houses at the back and, in 2001, the current building was built with funds from City Council.

The building is illuminated with natural light that enters through the upper windows and the exhibition rooms have wall washer lights that provide general illumination. It has three permanent exhibition rooms and one temporary exhibition room, in which the exhibitions are changed approximately every three months. The rooms have an View of a normal day of class. Centre for Traditional Culture – Pusol School Museum. PHOTOGRAPH PROVIDED BY CHARMS MONROY, MARCH 2017.

The Register of Good Safeguarding Practices for Intangible Cultural Heritage

open layout, which conveys a feeling of accessibility and inclusion to the visitors. The Museum displays more than 70,000 inventoried objects, which have been given by the inhabitants of Pusol and Elche, most of which are deposited in the three available storerooms. The collection is divided into seven major sections that include the daily life of the locals, known as il·licitans in Valencian: (a) agriculture, (b) documents, (c) childhood, (d) textiles, (e) society (f ) trades and (g) domestic life. The museography is based on the contextualisation of objects through the reconstruction of everyday life using scenography. The texts exhibited along the way are basic and aim to give an overview of the topic that is being represented. In addition, the objects are mainly accompanied by a certificate that indicates the donor and the restorer and, sometimes, the number within the inventory. Visits to the museum are often guided by the school children; they explain what the visitor is looking at in the museum, the importance it has for local heritage and the history of the pieces in question. In addition to the exhibition halls you can also visit the garden and the vegetable garden, spaces that have been designed as part of the museum to show elements such as the threshing space, the outdoor area that was used for the threshing of grains such as wheat, and the traditional oven, which is used during gastronomy celebrations. The vegetable garden has been designed following the palm grove cultivation system, in which perimeter palms are sown to demarcate the area of cultivation, surrounded by a drain, which is typical of the area. The jobs of documentation and inventory creation of the pieces are carried out by a retired professor of philosophy, in collaboration with two elderly volunteers; they catalogue, photograph and allocate the location of the objects. The great avalanche of donations is constant, they said that it is normal to receive between two and three donations per week, so the inventory is

far from finished. This leads to questioning the future viability of the project in terms of storage and management of the collection. There are no selection criteria established for accepting donations; all objects are valued equally because they are all the material evidence of the intangible heritage and memory of the territory, which could result in the objects not having the necessary conditions for conservation and preservation. In addition, many of the restoration tasks are done by school children who, after receiving training through workshops, carry out the maintenance of the pieces; this could be another disadvantage as regards standardised restoration criteria and the fact that too many interventional tasks take place sometimes, or they are done using materials that may prove to be incompatible with the original materials over time. Symbiosis between museum and school Educational tasks have always been carried out alongside the museum's activities. On this, José comments: “Here there is a museum and a school (...) this is a project in which everything is one: it was born as a school and the museum was born from the school, but now, really, without the museum, the school would not exist”. This is stated because, with the regrouping of one-room schools to form larger schools, the former have disappeared, so the school itself and the operating model are also part of the intangible heritage safeguarded by the project.

The symbiosis generated between the two, the school and the museum, has protected both parts from external interests. “We had attempts to close the school to keep the museum and take it to Elche”, says Fernando, referring to the City Council’s intention to disassemble the museum of the town of Pusol and take it to the Elche town centre, closing the school as well. He also commented that on one occasion, with the excuse of wanting to set up the History Museum of Valencia, two trucks arrived from Valencia “with a lot of papers

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to take things away” but, according to him, the rural community, the students and the people of the museum did not allow it, and now they are collaborating by giving out items on loan for temporary exhibitions. An association has been created to handle the museum, to give it a fiscal entity that supports the project, and to give it some autonomy and independence with government entities. But José told us that the consideration is “that you have to look for the annual budget”, which, in his opinion, has always been a problem because a lot of time has to be spent looking for money: applying for public subsidies, submitting projects to private institutions, companies or opting for patronage to cover the annual cost of the museum, which was €236,181 in 2007,7 without counting the costs that are covered by voluntary work. Fernando states that, in the beginning, all the museum activities related to the collection, cataloguing, restoration, documentation and dissemination, were mainly carried out mainly by the schoolchildren, and points out that “the intention is to demonstrate that the culture of a village can be recovered through children, as an

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activity of the school itself”. Now the association has five people hired who are in charge of the areas of coordination, management, maintenance and restoration, and communication; City Hall pays the salaries of the person in charge of visitor support and the person in charge of gardening; the management of the school is run by the Government of Valencia. From local isolation to international recognition The scope of the project's work has always been completely local, located entirely in the Pusol district. “We have never left our shell to make ourselves known or to advertise ourselves; it has always been specialists or external people who have discovered us”, Fernando told us. In fact, from within the project, we never intended to become international or obtain any recognition from any institution. The way of working has been very amateur with the objective of conservation and transmission of local heritage, by and for local people. The work had been carried out in such isolation that it even caused problems and tensions, mainly with the local municipal authorities, according to Daniel Carmona.8 As it is a project focused on local heritage, City

Number obtained from the file presented to the Europa Nostra recognition provided by the Pusol School Museum.

Daniel Carmona Zubiri is an associate professor of Anthropology at Miguel Hernández University's Department of Social and Human Sciences in Elche, Spain, interviewed on 31 March 2017 as part of the qualitative research carried out to collect data.

Luis Pablo Martínez Sanmartín is a heritage inspector of the Government of Valencia, interviewed on 31 March 2017 as part of the qualitative research carried out to collect data.

From local isolation to international recognition. Recognition as a good safeguarding practice for intangible cultural heritage awarded by UNESCO in 2009. PHOTOGRAPH PROVIDED BY CHARMS MONROY, MARCH 2017.

The Register of Good Safeguarding Practices for Intangible Cultural Heritage

Council support measures have no political visibility, since, as Prats mentions (2005), local heritage references are of little interest beyond the community that are promoting them. The idea of presenting the project to the UNESCO Register of Good Practices came from Luis Pablo Martínez.9 He discovered the project when it was recommended as a documentation centre for preparing the candidacy of El Palmeral: “Discovering Pusol was a double shock for me (...) when verifying the magnitude of the heritage safeguarding work that a small rural school had been capable of carrying out”(Martinez, 2016: 46). He told us that “the candidacy emerged as a responseto the need to safeguard the project in the face of Fernando’s imminent retirement”. Taking advantage of the fact that the candidacy had been presented to Europa Nostra (in the form of education, training and awareness), the dossier for UNESCO was adapted, justifying it and adjusting the information to UNESCO terminology. “The biggest problem, however, was that the pedagogical project was not so much based on pragmatic documents that are subject to regular updating, but more on a tradition of broad, complex and long-term educational practices” (Martínez, 2016: 48) by means of which certain objects and manifestations had become significant. This meant that conservation measures were implemented spontaneously and the moment of filling out the forms was also an exercise of reflection and introspection regarding the project's objectives and the methods and mechanisms that were carried out to meet them. Having the direct and active participation of a technical expert in heritage accelerated the passage of the project through the administrative and institutional chain for its postulation by Spain: “advantage was taken of the statement by the Ministry of Elche to lobby at the Convention meeting, in Istanbul in 2008, with the Minister of Madrid”. This meeting was so successful that the file was presented to the Fourth

Session of the Intergovernmental Committee in Abu Dhabi the following year. It was recommended for registration, as it is a project that promotes and coordinates efforts and is aimed at safeguarding the intangible cultural heritage on a local level as well as the potential that it has to be replicated in developing countries. With regards to this subject Fernando told us that, in his opinion, this is what UNESCO recognised, “since they saw that this could be done anywhere in the world, especially in South America, where there are small villages where the local culture is being lost”. The project's real potential to be copied in other contexts is one of its strengths. The fact that the one-room school educational model has been preserved facilitates adaptation in developing countries. The Centre for Traditional Culture – Pusol School Museum today Following the registration as a Good Practice by UNESCO, there was a statement of institutional support, especially from Elche City Council. In spite of this, in 2016 the Government of Valencia and Alicante Municipal Council withdrew the subsidies that each granted the project for its annual operation, leaving the project solely with the money provided by City Council. “When they took the subsidies (...) it was impossible for us to keep our five employees”, says Fernando. Marián10 adds that the economic viability of the project is an endemic problem and that it was quite common to end up with no money by October or November but, unlike other years, in April 2016, they already lacked the necessary funds to face the rest of the year. “The five workers were laid off; we made a kind of communication campaign, a complaint to the City Council that it was letting an element of its heritage die”. The media campaign was carried out via the Museum’s social networks and in the main local media using #defiendepusol. These types of campaigns work if they go viral on the network, which was not the case. On this, José commented: “They ignored us, the media campaign did not work at all because

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Communications director of the Pusol School Museum, interviewed on 30 March 2017 as part of the qualitative research carried out to collect data.

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there were many conflicting interests; they were interested in leaving us to die and then rescuing the project, but without us”. Elche City Council was interested in recovering the project for the power and social recognition it has, but wanted to make substantial changes within its structure, focusing more on it as a museum. What saved and revived the project in this crisis was the intervention of private sector “business professionals in Elche (...), who love the project and have power of influence”, José told us. They met to form a Provisional Board, signing agreements with other companies to commit to donating €1,000 per year for five years. “There are already about fifty signatories”, said Fernando. As a result, “we have had to become much more professional” Marián told us, adding that the project is working more openly to the outside, which has allowed people who did not know or appreciate the project to start to identify with it and, at some point, participate in it. In addition, the aforementioned Provisional Board supports the formation of a Foundation which manages the educational project and guarantees its future. “This Board analyses how we work”, says José; the project is undergoing a period of transition and restructuring with which the procedures and ways of working are

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identified and standardised. “An incredible synthesis has been formed” adds Joseph. Conclusions The Centre for Traditional Culture – Pusol School Museum is “a community museum that has become a forum for the protection, safeguarding and spread of the local heritage of rural Pusol” through the education of the youngest members of the community. Within the museum, objects shake off their material nature to convey the intangibility that surrounds them, and they become tools for transmitting knowledge and local cultural references. As Prats (2005) points out, the construction of local heritage is based on memory, which is the mechanism that promotes the elements that become heritage. At the same time, the Pusol School Museum “has made it possible for heritage of only local interest to cross borders and become a project of international significance”, not for the heritage that is safeguarded, but for the methods and techniques it has put into practice from the beginning. It has become an example of the capacity of communities and local professionals to manage and preserve their heritage.

As mentioned, the project has managed to safeguard disused cultural practices such as white palm weaving and the celebration of

Pusol's Centre for Traditional Culture today. Students from the school at the native flora recovery workshop. PHOTOGRAPH PROVIDED BY CHARMS MONROY, MARCH 2017.

The Register of Good Safeguarding Practices for Intangible Cultural Heritage

All Saint’s Day, through its reproduction and teaching in the school, and has thus contributed to the awareness and viability of local heritage. However, and taking advantage of the conflict crisis that it went through in 2016 as a transformative tool, the centre's model needs to adapt to the new environment and reality. An alternative is to continue with the retrospective analysis of the forms and procedures that it has been working with since its inception but, at the same time, a prospective vision is needed that permits continuity for future generations. In addition, there is an obvious need to improve the project with regards to museology, renew the museography and the processes related to the conservation and storage of collections. Final thoughts The UNESCO Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage does not establish any defined strategy that guarantees the safeguarding of ICH. The protection of this kind of heritage in the international and national sphere is based on the archiving and documentation of those manifestations that comply with the characteristics established by the Convention text in order to be considered intangible heritage and follow the procedures established by the operational directives to be included in any of the lists that it proposes.

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The concepts of “community”, “participation” and “development” are not clearly defined within the Convention text, although they are constantly referred to, which impacts on the tasks of active association of the community for the management and use of their heritage, which is considered a key to the success of ICH safeguarding mechanisms and activities. The main objective of the Convention should be to support the safeguarding of the ICH based on operational criteria that guarantee the active participation of bearers and transmitters of heritage, in order to preserve their practices and intangible cultural manifestations, but, at the same time, changing and maintaining the contemporary cultural vitality that the creativity of each generation brings with it. Following this idea, the Register of Good Safeguarding Practices can be an example of how to place communities and local heritage professionals at the centre of safeguarding activities and strengthen their recognition and support through the initiation of projects aimed at the preservation of the ICH. A new decentralisation and distribution of governmental powers (Coombe, 2012) regarding heritage through the establishment of a heritage protection system focused on the execution of programmes, projects or activities designed from a local

The Centre for Traditional Culture today. Students and teachers playing a traditional game, Tanganillo or Caliche. PHOTOGRAPH PROVIDED BY CHARMS MONROY, MARCH 2017.

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perspective could contribute in a better way to sustainable development and to promote new forms of participation designed to bestow present generations the right and the possibility to change the current views or the values represented (Smith, 2011) and promote the heritage production through contemporary creativity. From an economic perspective, elements of intangible cultural heritage represent critical factors for the creation of new global and competitive scenarios in which creativity provides solutions to problems and disseminates projects regardless of their field of action. Its essence comes from cross references, paradigms and values that innovate and promote the ability of the community to generate new ideas, products or processes (Cominelli and Greffe, 2012). This could be applied to registers recognised as good practices that have emerged as a recovery and safeguarding

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plan for ICH, but also as an economic alternative for the bearers or transmitters of the aforementioned heritage. Another of the attributes that the safeguarding system based on programmes, projects or activities could have is the fact that the social fractures that occur within the heritage system and the social conflicts that they entail (Sánchez-Carretero and Jiménez-Esquinas, 2016) could be minimised, since society is the axis from which heritage policies are created and, so far, actions regarding heritage are inferred by the expectations of other agents and their narratives are widely used by local administrations (Ibarlucea, 2015; Sánchez-Carretero, 2013). However, in this scenario, State control would be diminished according to the increasing participation and positioning of the community in the decision-making process, and many states would not be willing to lose this new way of exercising control over the societies that they govern. n

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Cominelli, F. and Greffe, X. (2012). Intangible cultural heritage: safeguarding for creativity. City, Culture and Society, 3, 245-250. Coombe, R. (2012). Managing Cultural Heritage as Neoliberal Governmentality. In R. Bendix, A. Eggert, A. Peselmann and S. Meßling (Eds.), Heritage Regimes and the State. Gottingen Studies on Cultural Property, Vol. 6. Gottingen: Gottingen University Press, 375-389. De Cesari, C. (2013). Thinking through heritage regimes. In R. Bendix and A. Peselmann (Eds.), Heritage Regimes and the State. Gottingen: Gottingen University Press, 399-413. De Goede, M., Leander, A. and Sullivan, G. (2015). Introduction: The politics of the list. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 34(1), 3-13. doi: 10.1177/0263775815624561 Ibarlucea, L. (2015). De barrio sur a patrimonio mundial de la humanidad. Patrimonialización

del barrio histórico de Colonia del Sacramento–Uruguay. Estudios y Perspectivas en Turismo, 25, 374-398. Jacobs, M., Neyrinck, J. and Van Der Zeijden, A. (2014). UNESCO, Brokers and Critical Success (F)Actors in Safeguarding Intangible Cultural Heritage. Volkskunde, 115, 249-256. Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, B. (2004). El patrimonio cultural inmaterial como producción metacultural. Museum International, 221, 52-67. Kurin, R. (2004). La salvaguardia del patrimonio cultural inmaterial en la Convención de la UNESCO 2003: una valoración crítica. Museum International, 221, 68-81. Lixinski, L. (2011). Selecting Heritage: The Interplay of Art, Politics and Identity. The European Journal of International Law, 22(1), 81-100. doi: 10.1093/ejil/chr001 Martínez, L. (2017). El proyecto pedagógico del museo escolar de Pusol (Elche): aproximación a una

iniciativa ejemplar de educación patrimonial. In L. Arias, A. Ponce and D. Verdú (Eds.), Estrategias y recursos para la integración del patrimonio y los museos en la educación formal. Múrcia: Universidad de Murcia, 45-58. Prats, L. (2005). Concepto y gestión del patrimonio local. Cuadernos de Antropología Social, 21, 17-35. Rudolff, B. and Raymond, S. (2013). A Community Convention? An analysis of Free, Prior and Informed Consent given under the 2003 Convention. International Journal of Intangible Heritage, 8, 153-164. Sánchez-Carretero, C. (2013). Hacia una antropología del conflicto aplicada al patrimonio. In C. Sánchez-Carretero (Ed.), Geopolíticas patrimoniales. De culturas naturalezas e inmaterialidades. Alzira: Germania, 195-210. Sánchez-Carretero, C. and Jiménez-Esquinas, G. (2016). Relaciones entre actores patrimoniales: gobernanza patrimonial,

modelos neoliberales y procesos participativos. Revista PH, 90 190-197. Santamarina, B. (2013). Los mapas geopolíticos de la UNESCO: Entre la distinción y la diferencia están las asimetrías. El éxito (exótico) del patrimonio inmaterial. Revista de Antropología Social, 22, 263-286. doi: 10.5209/rev_RASO.2013.v22.43191 Skounti, A. (2011). The lost ring: UNESCO’s World Heritage and Intangible Cultural Heritage. Millî Folklor, 23 (89), 28-40. Smith, L. (2011). El “espejo patrimonial”. ¿Ilusión narcisista o reflexiones múltiples?. Antípoda. Revista de Antropología y Arqueología, 12 (January-June), 39-63. UNESCO (2016). Fundamental texts of the Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of 2003. Retrieved from: https://ich.unesco. org/doc/src/2003_Convention_ Basic_Texts-_2016_version-SP. pdf

Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage

The concept of intangible cultural heritage is relatively new and aims to emphasise the fact that every society is capable of generating and developing social practices of great cultural value regardless of the greatness or excellence of its historical trajectory. Until recently, cultural heritage was mostly associated with historical, artistic or monumental material heritage that evoked the splendour of the past and the memory of a time and a society. So, for a long time now, the concept of heritage has diversified considerably in both its material and intangible forms, and has also accommodated those manifestations and intangible expressions of the culture experienced and recreated by society, communities and groups, manifestations that are included in the social relations of the people and their areas of interaction in daily life: family, work, economics, politics,

festivities, religion, leisure, etc. It is precisely that which has been gathered under the heading of intangible heritage, a term that now designates a wide range of cultural expressions while at the same time deploying a large field of action in the field of management. The text of this Convention is presented as a general document that should facilitate, among other things, the integration of this new heritage reality into the legal and regulatory framework of cultural heritage and to all those initiatives linked to heritagisation processes, in order to achieve effective and efficient protection. Here you will find the reissue of the UNESCO Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage, which was approved in Paris on 17 October 2003 and translated by the Ministry of Culture for the first time into Catalan in March 2010.

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Guerau Palmada Auguet

Carles Quer Feo

Josep Maria Reyes Vidal

BANYOLES CENTRE OF REGIONAL STUDIES

LIMNOS ASSOCIATION

BANYOLES CENTRE OF REGIONAL STUDIES

Art historian, master’s degree graduate in Cultural Heritage Management, secondary school teacher and member of the Banyoles Centre of Regional Studies.

Biologist, member of the Limnos Association and environmental technician.

Graduate in Contemporary History, member of the Banyoles Centre of Regional Studies.

An exceptional ethnological rarity: the tradition of hydraulic exploitation in Banyoles

hroughout history, many cities and towns have taken advantage of the course of rivers to fill water channels for vegetable gardens, to obtain energy for mills and even for transport. What makes the water channels in Banyoles unique? To find out, we should go back to the Neolithic village of La Draga, one of the most important archaeological sites in Europe. The excavations have uncovered a very old town (7,000 years old), with dozens of houses built on logs (stilts) stuck in the wetlands of Lake Banyoles (Bosch A la ciutat de Banyoles la parcel·lació del paisatge en hortes i una xarxa de recs que desguassen l’aigua de l’estany s’ha configurat en els pas dels anys en un element etnològic, cultural, històric i natural d’una gran rellevància que cal preservar de cara al futur. La xarxa hidràulica començada a l’alta edat mitjana es va construir amb una tècnica constructiva tradicional i única a Catalunya: la pedra de travertí. En els salts dels recs es van anar edificant molins i indústries que aprofitaven la força motriu de l’aigua de l’estany, i que avui constitueixen un valuós patrimoni industrial.

[et al.], 2011). For thousands of years, the underground water intake of the lake originating from the L’Alta Garrotxa river courses have been the Llierca River and the Burró River (Brusi [et al.], 1985). The waters that emerged from the lake filled the lake basin and intermittently flooded an ample wetland area around it, finally clearing naturally with the slope towards the valley of the Canaleta creek bed and, later, the Terri River. For a small group of families of protohistory, dedicated to hunting, fishing, harvesting of nàiades (molluscs) and breeding some

En la ciudad de Banyoles la parcelación de su paisaje en huertas y una red de acequias que desaguan el agua del lago se ha configurado con el paso de los años en un elemento etnológico, cultural, histórico y natural de una gran relevancia para conservar en el futuro. La red hidráulica comenzada ya en la alta edad media fue construida con una técnica constructiva tradicional y única en Cataluña: la piedra de travertino. En los saltos de las acequias se fueron edificando molinos e industrias que aprovechaban la fuerza motriz del agua del lago, y que a día de hoy constituyen un valioso patrimonio industrial.

Paraules clau: Banyoles, hortes, recs, molins, travertí Palabras clave: Banyoles, huertas, acequias, molinos, travertino Keywords: Banyoles, vegetable gardens, water channels, mills, travertine

In the city of Banyoles the parcelling of the landscape in orchards and a network of water channels draining the lake, set up all along the years an ethnologyc, historical, cultural and natural element of a great relevance to preserve for the future. The hydraulic network, started at first medieval ages, is made using a traditional building technique, exclusive in Catalonia: the travertine slabs. At the waterfalls of the channels they set mills and industries using the hydraulic motion of the lake’s water, and today constitute a rich industrial and historical wealth.

An exceptional ethnological rarity: the tradition of hydraulic exploitation in Banyoles

domestic animals, the natural environment was more than enough. But it was impossible to take advantage of the abundance of water to establish a city, if the lake was not domesticated, the wetlands dried up and cultivable land gained. For this reason, settlements of the ancient period, such as the Roman city of Vilauba, had to be located far away from the lake, or in the small surrounding hills, such as the Iberian village of the castle of Porqueres. Whatever the case, the plain around the lake was still under water in the Roman period, so that no people settled there, either in the centuries of Visigoth rule, or during the brief Muslim rule of the territory. When the Visigoths that had taken refuge in the Kingdom of the Francs were able to return to the Girona region, under the military protection of the Carolingian emperor, a Visigoth nobleman, called Bonitus, accompanied by some of his friends and dependents, in around 812 asked the count of Girona, Odiló, to settle in an uninhabited place (locum eremum);

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permission was granted. It was the birth of the oldest monastery in Catalonia, Sant Esteve de Banyoles, organised in accordance with the Sant Benet rule. The precept of 822 confirmed this donation and consolidated the right of the monastic community to choose the abbot. The monks also made a remarkable effort to build the pre-Romanesque temple, the monks’ building and a poorhouse “ibidem proprio sudore laborasse” (Bertran [et al.], 2013). This monastery would not have prospered much if the decision had not been made to domesticate Lake Banyoles to create a space conducive to the birth of a medieval village and irrigated vegetable gardens intended to feed the population. This involved building spits around the lacustrine basin, demarcating it and excavating water channels in the travertine subsoil, directing water to fields and vegetable gardens and taking advantage of unevenness to obtain hydraulic energy. This task occupied practically all of the medieval period (the tenth to fifteenth centuries) and was completed

The vegetable gardens of Sotamonestir with the monastery of Sant Esteve in the background (May 2018). “SALVEM SOTAMONESTIR” PLATFORM.

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with common sense and impressive technical ability. The set of hydraulic infrastructures of medieval origin that are still used today are, in addition, respectful of the territory and the environment, efficient and continue to be economically profitable. All this rich medieval hydraulic heritage could be in danger if citizens and the public in general are not aware of its high value as ethnological, historical and natural heritage. Travertine stone and the construction of the water channels Travertine has been fundamental in the task of domesticating the waters of the lake and in the urban development of the medieval centre of Banyoles. Lapis Tiburtinus is the name given by the Romans to the calcareous sedimentary rock formed by calcite, aragonite and limonite, caused by sedimentation cycles, evaporation and submersion in flat areas of upwelling, and incorporating vegetation and animals captured by the rock in formation. It is an easy rock to work with, because it readily forms regular blocks and is quite resistant. It was used to

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build the Colosseum in Rome. It is abundant in Banyoles just a few metres deep in the subsoil. It should be noted that the foundations of urban houses were excavated in travertine beds, and often the walls, partitions, vaults and pillars were built with travertine slabs and ashlars (Bramon, 2009). The water channels were also excavated in the travertine subsoil and the slabs and rough stone extracted were used to build the side walls. It is so abundant that it is known locally as “Banyoles stone”. Dividing borders were built between the vegetable gardens, as well as the side walls of the water channels, the little passage levers, the bottoms of the channels, the oldest washing places and the fittings of barrages or checks, all using this soft calcareous rock. The construction of the water channels in the Middle Ages involved laborious hydraulic engineering work. Little by little, a network of main water channels was designed with secondary branches under the tutelage of the monastery of Sant Esteve, the vast majority of which are still preserved in the undeveloped

Detail of the technique used to construct water channels with travertine slabs (May 2018). “SALVEM SOTAMONESTIR” PLATFORM.

An exceptional ethnological rarity: the tradition of hydraulic exploitation in Banyoles

areas of the city of Banyoles (Jordi, 2002). Indeed, the abbot of the monastery, as the feudal lord of the town, had ownership and jurisdiction of a large area of lands, allods, streams and rivers, fountains and springs, and also the water of the lake (stagno). The first water channels were built discontinuously over the tenth to fifteenth centuries. The first water channels excavated were possibly the d’enTeixidor and Ca n’Hort channels, formerly known as Palau water channel, Riera Vella, and also the Guèmol water channel. The Guèmol and Palau water channel are mentioned in a document about the bad uses of the Benedictine monastery of the year 1263. By the year 1440, during the mandate of abbot Guillem de Pau, five water channels were already named: the Guèmol channel the Major (or Forques) channel, the Figuera d’en Xo (or Canela) channel, the d’en Teixidor channel and d’ca n’Hort channel (Grabuleda and Palmada, 2014). This network of water channels allows for the irrigation of about 3,000,000 square metres of vegetable gardens, with a set of 33 kilometres

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of channels, ponds and barrages. All of this infrastructure of medieval origin went from under the control of the monastery to that of the town in 1685, when the Banyolins (the inhabitans of Banyoles) bought the right to use the waters of the lake from the abbot of the monastery, Antoni de Planella. For this reason, from the year 1686, Banyoles had a water minister, that would resolve conflicts among Banyolins with regard to the right to irrigate the vegetable gardens inside and outside the city walls. The institution has never disappeared, and at the moment it is a Councillor of the City Council who carries out this traditional role (Pau, 2014). Over the centuries, there has been a network of dozens of kilometres of irrigation channels with the traditional and unique construction technique of Banyoles: travertine slab. In several places there are barrages that make it possible to block the passage of the main channel, increase the level of the small lock and allow the water to pass into another secondary channel, often located on a higher level. Often,

Detail of the water channels made with travertine slabs, Banyoles’ original construction technique (May of 2018). “SALVEM SOTAMONESTIR” PLATFORM.

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this hydraulic infrastructure also has a central spit with right of way, and to each side there is a irrigation channel where the water runs with inverse slopes. At the end of this complex watercourse is the Canaleta creek bed, which is, in fact, the name of the upper course of the Terri River that evacuates the excess water from the lake. The structural elements made of travertine that demarcate the vegetable garden plots and the channelling of the water make a unique landscape in Catalonia, and a unique ethnological element and landscape that should be preserved. The fish of the water channels, which were abundant in the past, are returning with the improvement of the quality of the water, and with them all kinds of birds and even the otters. This abundance of eels, barbels and tench gave rise to intense fishing that was regulated in medieval times under the control of the abbot, which established the seasons of prohibition and the reproduction sanctuaries; mechanisms that would seem so modern to us now. Several water channel sites (the canats1) were enabled to install fishing gear, initially built with reeds that formed funnels which trapped the fish. Outside these places, other portable gadgets made it possible to fish for barbels (barboleras) with nets with a double funnel. In fact, an old barbolera is still kept in a private collection in Banyoles. The vegetable gardens, which have been watered, weeded and worked on since the Early Middle Ages, have ended up with soil that is extraordinarily rich in humus and very productive. The spits also allowed the draining of flooded areas surrounding the lake, initially to be cultivated. The work of the farmers has created local varieties of cultivation that are very popular in Catalonia, such as the l’ull ros beans2 or the famous Banyoles garlic.3 Some of these vegetable gardens today are a fundamental element of survival for low-income families, and are the ideal place to educate schoolchildren on traditional vegetable garden produce and the historical process of dominating lake water that led to the birth of a city. Fully exploited, they could give crops with an annual value of 6 million euros. It is worth mentioning the “Campo Nyagaru”

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project, a cooperative task carried out by ten families with the support of a local women’s association (L’Ateneu Obert de la Dona) and the Platform for those Affected by Mortgages (Plataforma d’Afectats per la Hipoteca), with such an interesting dynamic that it has received the attention of the Autonomous University of Mexico, groups from Manresa and Salt and the country’s media. Bridges, washing places and fountains The first bridges of the Canaleta creek were mentioned in the medieval period. In 1337, mention is made of the bridge of Canaleta d’Amunt and the overpass of Canaleta d’Avall, as well as the bridge of Viridario (Verger). In the direction of Puigpalter the Margelaga bridge (Mas Argelaga) also had to be crossed. The bridges provided access to the lands, farmhouses and vegetable gardens outside the city walls, but they also formed part of the Camins Rals (Royal Roads) out of Banyoles, such as the medieval road of Puigpalter, which became the Bàscara road in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The bridges that are still preserved today on the Canaleta creek bed are in the Arcades, Canaleta and Can Puig neighbourhoods. The Arcades bridge stands out with its rounded arch, with the date of 1870 engraved on it along with the name of the former mayor, Martirià Morgat. The Arcades aqueduct was attached to the bridge, which provided the people of Banyoles with potable water. The stone bridge on the Camí Fondo in Canaleta is also noteworthy, as it is very narrow and used as a path to the Sotamonestir vegetable gardens. Finally, the Can Boada bridge is worthy of mention, with a diminished arch of travertine slabs. The bridge was renovated in the nineteenth century, although the origin of the bridge dates back to the medieval period as a path to the neighbourhood of Puigpalter (Grabuleda and Palmada, 2014).

The daily life of people was also affected by the hydraulic works. Many houses had personal washing places in the water channels, initially travertine, although later they were tiled. Also, the City Council, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, promoted the construction of public washing places,

In the Empordà and the Pla de l’Estany region, a canat refers to a type of canal made from long, flat reeds that are wide in the mouth and closed at the other end, which is the narrow part, and it is used to fish in running water, such as in water channels, canals or rivers.

The mongetes de l’ull ros beans, also known as fesol banyolí or fesol menut, are a variety of small legume that is typical of L’Empordà and from Pla de l’Estany, cultivated for many centuries and introduced by the Romans in Catalonia. These yellowish coloured beans with a small hook have a subtle flavour and fine skin, which makes them easy to cook.

Banyoles garlic is a variety of garlic that is typical of the region of Pla de l’Estany, with a smaller head than other varieties of garlic. It would have been introduced in the nineteenth century extensively, but from the 1970s its production went into decline, and now it is a variety in danger of extinction.

An exceptional ethnological rarity: the tradition of hydraulic exploitation in Banyoles

some of which were sheltered. Traditionally, these places were not just for doing laundry, they also served the social function of public lavoirs where people chatted and exchanged information and opinions. Other facilities were used to feed the animals, as the street Carrer Abeurador (abeurador means “watering trough” in English) reminds us, with the waters of the Major water channel running below it. Nor should we forget the richness of Banyolí folklore related to waters and travertine: the legends of the aloges in Banyoles, says they are living, hidden creatures that protect nature and life in the travertine outcrops of Les Estunes (Vergés, 2008). The water channels that supplied water to the monastery, (i.e. ca n’Hort i d’en Teixidor, Figuera d’en Xo) also supplied all of the town’s houses and fountains with water, although it was unhealthy and very harsh in lime content. Given the quality of the water that the lake receives from its springs, in the fifteenth century it was decided to build a Gothic fountain with channelling to look for better quality water in the vegetable gardens outside

of the wall. Then, at the end of the eighteenth century, a covered gallery was built that was several kilometres long and linked the Rajolera spring to the Plaça de la Font. These waters that descended from the hill of Solivera fed the old spring of Pia Almonia, now the headquarters of the Archaeological Museum of the Region. The Font d’en Sala is one of the oldest springs of the Banyoles vegetable gardens, built next to the Canaleta creek bed. It has preserved its low medieval structure, although it is no longer used and is closed, under Carrer Agraris. The structure of the fountain is rectangular and covered with a pointed barrel vault and with an ogival arch access made of well-cut travertine voussoirs. The spring is mentioned at the end of the fourteenth century and was repaired in the seventeenth. It took advantage of the waters that fell from Puig de la Bellacasa (Palmada [et al.], 2005). Waterfalls and mills The main water channels in Banyoles carry a flow of water that fluctuates between 90 and 200 litres of water per second, in several

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Old stone bridge on the Camino Fondo going over the Canaleta stream (May 2018). “SALVEM SOTAMONESTIR” PLATFORM.

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sections. This continuous flow of water was used from the Early Middle Ages to move the various mills, most of which were located outside the wall, and in the current area of the vegetable gardens, formerly known as “del Terme” (meaning “of the Boundary”). It is almost impossible to identify each mill, since their names, owners and uses have changed over the centuries. However, between 30 and 40 industrial facilities that used the force of water have historically been producing flour to feed the population; peeling the cereal to cook it; scrubbing the rolder to get the tannin and cook; grinding cutting tools; moving machines of all kinds, and manufacturing paper, hemp, woollen fabrics, beams, gunpowder, iron or copper tools, cement, electricity, oil and even chocolate. Water has also filled ponds to soak wool and hemp and macerate animal skins to make hides and cloths for paper, often until fairly recently (Rigau, 2001). All this created the material foundations that made Banyoles one of the richest cities of Catalonia throughout the medieval and modern era. In the nineteenth century, this industrial network even maintained its own banking institutions. The main mills that remain standing and that are of historical significance in the vegetable gardens of Banyoles are divided according to the water channel they are located by (Palmada, 2014; Donat and Solà, 2014).

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In the Ca n’Hort i d’en Teixidor water channel

Ca n’Hort Mill. Mill for flour, textiles and paper. Can Brugada-Teixidor Mill. Mill for flour and for refining hemp; next to a chocolate factory. Surribas Flour Mill. Former iron forge, paper mill, chocolate factory and flour mill. Rabassa Mill. Mill for flour, textiles and later a textile factory (today Sindicat Agrícola). Mas Bou or Can Laqué Mill. Mill for flour, textiles and cement. Can Boada mill. Flour mill. At the Major water channel

Colomer Factory. Oil and textile factory. Vilademí de Plaça Mill. Flour mill. Victòria Mill. Trade-union mill for textiles and flour. Masmitjà i Serratosa-Pujol Mill. Textile mill, textile and tanned hide factory (few remains preserved). Cordomí or Cal Nocaire Mill. Textile mill (few remains preserved). Campolier Mill. Flour mill and tanneries (few remains preserved). Former canner and hemp mill at Can Brugada-Teixidor (May 2018). “SALVEM SOTAMONESTIR” PLATFORM.

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Copper Forge. Production of copper and paper factory. Conflicts soon arose as some of the mill owners wanted to build locks and ponds to regulate and ensure the water flow they used. This was frowned upon by the established millers downstream, who feared that the flow of water towards their installations would diminish, to the detriment of their businesses. In general, the abbots tended to prohibit the establishment of locks of this type, because they retained the flow of water of the water channels, but, exceptionally, some were allowed, as in the cases of the flour mill of Boada or the pond of the Farga d’Aram (Copper Forge). The legal regime of the lake water The Usatges de Catalunya (Usages of Catalonia) established the power of the count as a representative of the tax on the waters and, therefore, of the lake, and the whole population had the right to use it without any hindrance or in return for any payment.4 The monastery of Banyoles monastery, however, tried to gain control of the lake and the water channels, and did so successfully, with various legal artifices: forgery of the papal bull of 1017, purchase of Termenat Castle and the feudal estate of Porqueres in 1250, a lawsuit against James II of Aragon in the 1280s, resistance to the purchase of feudal jurisdiction by the town at the end of the fourteenth century (Reyes,

2013 ). Centuries of lawsuits carried out by the papal curia and by the successive monarchs left the control of the feudal jurisdiction in the hands of the monastery until the confiscation of Mendizábal. Considering the little success the locals had with legal initiatives, it is not surprising that they opted to buy the lake from the monastery under the sub-emphyteusis regime in 1685, so it ended up being a communal asset that was theoretically a fiscal property, assigned by emphyteusis to the monastery in exchange for an annual census, which the monastery made the town pay for. The confiscation by Minister Álvarez Mendizábal, as of 1835, gave rise to the auction of all the goods of the monasteries, and that of Sant Esteve de Banyoles, like many others, finished completely. The emphyteutic right on the lake was acquired by an individual (Jaume Ordeix), which was subsequently transmitted to Josep Cordomí. The City Council ended up repaying the emphyteutic census and became the owner, as a representative of the community of neighbours, with complete power over the lake (1888). In the ordinances of 1907, the City Council codified the exercise of the communal property rights of the people of Banyoles on the lake water (Pau, 2014).

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In Usages 72 or in the Constitution of the Corts of Barcelona in 1283, the control of the waters in the village is established: “Les aigües corrents e les fonts vives... qui son en aquesta terra són de la potestat, no que hagen aqueles per alou, ne tenguen aqueles en lur senyoria, mas que sien tots temps a empriu pel seu poble... sens alcun contrast... ne sens alcun servei” (“The running water and living sources... of this land... belong to the owner, but this does not mean the owner can charge for use of the same, nor does the owner have power of decision over it. This means that the running water and living sources can be used by the population, without restriction and without any specific service established”.).

Water flow to the mill at Can Boada (May of 2018). “SALVEM SOTAMONESTIR” PLATFORM.

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The 1907 ordinances for the waters stipulate that, in case of discussion of subjects of special importance, the Batlle d’Aigües must summon an assembly with all the irrigators and the City Council must make decisions taking into account the majority opinion. The ordinances also establish a interesting system of equivalence between water, land and energy: 1 horsepower = 0.2187 hectare = 30 cubic metres of water per week. These ordinances, which regulate the days and hours that irrigators can use the water and penalise violation, remain in force. Later (1916 and 1969), the City Council tried to turn the lake and its waters into a City Council asset, inscribing it as property. As of the 1980s, a process was started to make the lake communal property again, at the initiative of the Council itself. The recent rulings (1993, 2002) recognise the lake as communal property and the City Council’s role of regulation and administration. The City Council also owns the water channels and distribution systems as municipal property and, therefore, has the right to set an irrigation fee, although it has not been collected for decades. A last conflict with the ACA (Catalan Water Agency) regarding the water fee was resolved with a law by the Parliament of Catalonia that establishes a zero fee for the lake water. The water channels and vegetable gardens as biological corridors The lake, the ponds and water channels of Banyoles constitute a highly valuable element from the point of view of biodiversity (Feo, 2011). The connection of the lake with the Terri River, a tributary of the Ter, through the water channels allows the passage of native fish such as barbels, catfish and eels (Massip, 1984). Several species related to aquatic ecosystems are unique. It is particularly unique that up to three species of river mussels can be found, filtering species with a high capacity to purify water. The water channels allow the coexistence of a city of 19,000 inhabitants with otters that hunt and live in the middle of the urban space, with the kingfisher that hides to hunt or with the rhythmic singing of the midwife toad, of which there used to be many, during wet nights.

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The stone walls of the banks are an especially interesting place as shelter for unique animals and plants. The water channels are populated by varieties of carbonated water plants such as carophytes algae, pond weeds, rushes, rockets, and a remarkable protected fern (Thelpteris palustris). The richness of sulfur and carbonates in the lake’s water has allowed to identify processes of evolution and bacterial adaptation never observed in other places. The result of this is also the formation of travertine due to sedimentation of water carbonates assisted by physicochemical and biological processes. The travertine is formed in Banyoles Lake, giving rise to stromatolites and, travertine processes also occur in the water channels, helping to fix the carbon causing the greenhouse effect. At the moment, in the municipality of Banyoles, there are still four large spaces of historic vegetable gardens and closely linked to the water channels: the Guèmol, Can Castanyer, Mas Riera i Bosc del Casalots and Sotamonestir vegetable gardens. We must also bear in mind that many of these vegetable gardens have been cultivated since the Middle Ages, as they are mentioned in documents dating back to the thirteenth to fifteenth centuries such as the Canat, Palaus, Colomer, d’en Fortià, d’en Ferrerós, d’en Brugada, Bosc or Sant Miquel vegetable gardens. The entire system in danger: the Special Plan of Sotamonestir and the Municipal Town Planning Project (POUM) of 2018 The urban planning procedure currently in force in Banyoles is the PGOU of 1984. At that time, there was little awareness of the value of the natural and agricultural spaces of Sotamonestir (in terms of heritage, landscape, biology, history, ethnology and social and economic factors), and the entire area was declared suitable for development, although it was not actually developed. We are dealing with about 25 hectares of vegetable gardens, probably the most valuable ones in Banyoles.

During the ERC (Republican Left of Catalonia party) government, Banyoles City Council prepared a proposal for the protection and

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A mallard duck on the travertine side wall of Ca n’Hort i d’en Teixidor (May 2018). “SALVEM SOTAMONESTIR” PLATFORM.

enhancement of the main resources, taking into account their landscape and ecological value, called dits verds (green fingers). The change of majorities left this project inactive. Also, during this period, the partial Plan for the Vilavenut road (UP8) was attempted, which was rejected by the Government of Catalonia’s Ministry of Urban Planning. In 2005, Limnos asked the Ministry of Culture to list it as a Cultural Asset of National Interest. In 2008, the Government of Catalonia proposed the construction of thousands of homes in the Sotamonestir area, in an action called “Strategic Residential Area of Banyoles”. The opposition of the City Council and the associations and entities led to the plan being abandoned. In 2010, the Pla de l’Estany Urban Plan was approved, which, due to the mobilisation of various environmental and social entities, included an express mention for the need to protect the most valuable vegetable gardens and the water channels. With the argument of needing to improve links in the neighbourhoods of Canaleta and Can Puig with the rest of the city, the munici-

pal team (Miquel Noguer, CiU) came up with a special plan to develop the space occupied by the Sotamonestir vegetable gardens in 2011. This plan provided for the construction of roads and housing blocks (+4 floor; 600 homes) in the area, and only expected the preservation of two hectares of vegetable gardens (of the 25 in Sotamonestir; 12 out of a total of 200). To try to stop the project, a citizen platform was created called “Salvem Sotamonestir” (Save Sotamonestir), which collected signatures and presented 89 allegations in the plan. The City Council resolved and rejected all these allegations, but did not go ahead with the plan. Within the framework of the plan the most valuable assets were identified and files were drawn up. Finally, as of March 2018, details of the new POUM de Banyoles have come to light, the initial approval of which is planned for the month of June. The new plan is to build roads through Sotamonestir and more than 2,000 homes in the vegetable garden area. This plan leaves the writing of regulations, in the later partial plans and the Water Channels Plan, that affect the owners maintenance of vegetable garden spaces remaining free after the planned development.

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But the building of streets would inevitably make the entire network of water channels, barrages, spits, washing places and travertine banks disappear; and with them, the landscape, the natural space, the immemorial knowledge of the techniques of cultivation and irrigation, and the construction and maintenance of water channels and the travertine boundaries, which are unique in Catalonia and which form an inseparable group with factories and mills, ponds and locks, washing places and bridges, main sources and main water channels that led to the Medieval and Modern Banyoles. Development also implies the loss of a heritage that could be a vital resource for the future, from the economic point of view, through the creation of cooperatives of producers, as well as from the educational and social point of view, with great potential as a museum space (Feo, 2015). These perspectives have led to the reactivation of the “Salvem Sotamonestir” platform, which aims to influence the design of a road

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network that respects the areas and vegetable gardens, especially those of Can Castanyer and Sotamonestir, and the preservation of the heritage they represent, asking for recognition as a Cultural Asset in the category of Area of Ethnological Interest. The regulation and protection of hydraulic and agrarian systems in other places There is a current trend to treat agrarian infrastructures more and more like a valuable and central element of the heritage of cities. But to integrate them into urban development, we must first know and emphasise their heritage value. Recently a large catalogue of hydraulic heritage and irrigation systems of the Valencian Country has been published (Hermosilla and Peña, 2013). We can see in this catalogue that only 383 washing places have been identified in the province of Valencia, when in the Pla de l’Estany region up to a total of 284 can be documented, which shows the remarkable level of concentration (Abellán and Casadevall, 2016).

Vegetable gardens cultivated in Sotamonestir and divided into small plots (May 2018). “SALVEM SOTAMONESTIR” PLATFORM.

An exceptional ethnological rarity: the tradition of hydraulic exploitation in Banyoles

The Argentinian city of Mendoza, since it was destroyed by an earthquake in 1861, led to a reconstruction in which a network of water channels and gates prevailed that allowed a real oasis of vegetation planted with a chess board appearance, which structured streets and houses (Bórmida, 1984). Regarding the value of the industrial heritage, the case could be compared with the protection, as an industrial landscape, of the tanneries of the Rec d’Igualada district (Suero, 2014). It should be mentioned that the tanneries of Igualada are documented from the nineteenth century, while those of Banyoles have historical sources already in the last third of the eighteenth century. The similarities are even clearer between Banyoles, with its set of agricultural and industrial hydraulic structures, and the Area of Ethnological Interest of the neighbourhood of Tanneries in Vic and the concept of Intangible Cultural Heritage (Costa, 2010;Costa and Folch, 2014). The example of “Les Tanques” in Menorca is very interesting, compared to the use of the travertine slabs used to demarcate the fields. The patrimonial value of the dry stone walls that demarcate the island’s fields (Vidal,1998) was already recognised in the 1990s. What is most transcendental is the treatment of the collection of 15,000 km of dry stone walls, as they protect them and prevent them from changing any of the elements. The Consell Insular de Menorca (Island Council of Menorca) protected the constructive technique by declaring it an Asset of Cultural Interest in the category of Intangible Asset of Cultural Interest (2016), and linked it to all the material assets (movable and immovable property) related to the technique, including the tools and each and every one of the constructions. In 2018, up to 2,500 farmers in the Balearic Islands applied for 9 million euros in grants to restore dry stone elements (122 kilometres). Eight million euros were already spent on sustainable tourism tax in 2017. Following this example, the other Balearic Islands, through the Safeguard Convention, have been added to the candidacy to declare dry stone enclosures as a UNESCO World

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Heritage Site (presented in March 2017), assumed by Spain, Greece, Cyprus, Croatia, France, Italy, Switzerland and Slovenia. It should be mentioned that, while the material elements are often protected in the municipalities through the declaration as a Cultural Asset of Interest, in others, it is the constructive technique itself that is to be protected as an Immaterial Asset of Local Relevance, within the category of Asset of Cultural Interest of the Valencian Country (Decree 62/2011 of 20 May). Also, the figure of Area of Ethnological Interest (within the BIC) has been used in the protection of the dry stone heritage of Ciutadella (2013), based on the Heritage Law of the Balearic Islands (Law 12/1998 Historic Heritage, of 21 December). By adding itself to the candidature mentioned in a unanimous vote on 9 June 2016, the Council of Mallorca, defined this immate-

Hydraulic system made with travertine slabs to irrigate the vegetable gardens (May 2018). PLATFORM “SAVE SOTAMONESTIR”.

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rial nature very well as one that exceeds the importance of the mere material remains: “The knowledge and techniques necessary to build them, or the trades related to their construction, maintenance and use, are some elements of this intangible heritage. This international recognition would mean recognition of the work of ancestors to preserve and transmit the whole culture of ‘dry stone’ and would help to maintain the traditional activities linked to it”. In conclusion, this humanisation and fragmentation of landscape into vegetable gardens and a network of water channels and

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canals in the Lake Banyoles area is configured as an ethnological, cultural, historical and natural element of great importance that needs to be preserved for the future and is not be underestimated. The channels and the entire hydraulic network were built following a traditional and unique construction technique in Catalonia: travertine stone. This heritage collection of vegetable gardens of medieval origin, an extensive network of resources, heritage elements and industrial buildings, must be given its due value as a great ethnological, natural, historical and social asset in the heart of the city of Banyoles. n

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Abellan, J.A. and Casadevall, R. (2016). Qui té roba per rentar? Rentadors, vivers i safareigs del Pla de l’Estany. Llegat patrimonial. Girona: Editorial MMV.

nològic: La protecció i conservació del patrimoni etnològic immoble. Barcelona, 22 and 23 November 2010. Barcelona: Caixa Fòrum – Centre Social i Cultural de l’Obra Social “la Caixa”.

Bertran, P. [et al.]. (2013).Monestirs i territori: 1200 aniversari de la fundació del monestir de Sant Esteve de Banyoles. Banyoles: Centre d’Estudis Comarcals de Banyoles. (Logboook, 33).

Costa, R. and Folch, R. “El patrimoni cultural immaterial de Catalunya. Legislació, actualitat i reptes de futur”. Catalonian Journal of Ethnology, issue 39, p. 57-74.

Bórmida, E. (1984). “Mendoza, una ciudad oasis”. Revista de la Universidad de Mendoza, issue 4-5, p. 68-72. Bosch, A. [et al.]. (2011). El jaciment neolític lacustre de la Draga. Banyoles: Girona Municipal Council and Banyoles City Council. (Banyoles Logbook, 13). Bramon, A. (September 2009). “La llosa. Un sistema constructiu peculiar a la comarca”. Revista de Banyoles, issue 911, p. 26-31. Brusi, D. [et al.]. (1985). Geologia de la conca lacustre de Banyoles-Besalú: enquadrament, materials i evolució. Banyoles: Centre d’Estudis Comarcals de Banyoles. (Logbook, 17). Costa, R. (2010). “El barri de les Adoberies de Vic, el primer bé cultural d’interès nacional en la categoria de zona d’interès etnològic de Catalunya”. Presentació a Jornades Nacionals de Patrimoni Et-

Donat, L. and Solà, X. (2014). “Els molins: construccions, tipologies i usos”. In J. Nogué and C. Puncernau, (Eds.). Aigua i ciutat: els recs de Banyoles, història i futur. Banyoles: Centre d’Estudis Comarcals de Banyoles, p. 67-84 (Logbook, 34). Feo Quer, C. (2011). “Els horts i recs de Banyoles”. El Llegat. Banyoles: Amics dels Museus de Banyoles and Banyoles City Council, issue 14. Feo Quer, C. (2015). “Museïtzació dels espais naturals” El Llegat. Banyoles: Amics dels Museus de Banyoles and Banyoles City Council, issue 19. Grabuleda, J. and Palmada, G. (2014). El Terme de Banyoles. Banyoles: Girona Municipal Council – Banyoles City Council. (Banyoles Logbook, 15). Jordi, M. (May 2002) “Els recs: la força de l’aigua” Revista de Banyoles, issue 830, p. 15-23.

Hermosilla, J. and Peña, M. (2013). “La arquitectura hidráulica de los regadíos históricos valencianos. Claves territoriales y tipológicas en torno a sus elementos, redes y sistemas”. Revista Bibliográfica de Geografía y Ciencias Sociales. Barcelona: University of Barcelona, vol. XVIII, issue 1024. Retrieved from: http://www. ub.edu/geocrit/b3w-1024.htm. Massip, J.M. (February-March 1984) “Fauna dels recs”. El Bagant, issue 35-36, p. 31. Palmada, G. [et al.] (2005). El patrimoni del Pla de l’Estany. Banyoles: Consell Comarcal del Pla de l’Estany. Palmada, G. “Molins, tints i fargues dels recs de Banyoles (segles xiv-xviii)”. In J. Nogué and C. Puncernau (Eds.). Aigua i ciutat: els recs de Banyoles, història i futur. Banyoles: Centre d’Estudis Comarcals, p. 85-115 (Logbook, 34). Pau, Ll. (2014). “L’aigua com a conflicte legal. Perspectives històriques i de present”. In J. Nogué and C. Puncernau (Eds.). Aigua i ciutat: els recs de Banyoles, història i futur. Banyoles: Centre d’Estudis Comarcals, p. 51-66 (Logbook, 34). Reyes, J.M. (2013). “Els orígens de la jurisdicció feudal del monestir de Banyoles”. In J. Galofré (Ed.).

Monestirs i territori: 1200 aniversari de la fundació del monestir de Sant Esteve de Banyoles. Banyoles: Centre d’Estudis Comarcals de Banyoles, p. 125-148 (Logbook, 33). Rigau, A.M. (2001). “Les flaires del Rec del Tint”, El teixit de la memòria. Articles (1946-2000). Banyoles: Família Rigau i Oliver, p. 1177-1181. Suero, A. (2014). Rehabilitació i posada en valor de les adoberies del barri del Rec d’Igualada. Barcelona: Master’s Degree Final Project – University of Barcelona. Vergés, A. (2008). Llegendes del Pla de l’Estany. Sant Vicenç de Castellet: Farell Edicions, (collection of popular legends). Vidal, T. “El paisatge rural de l’illa de Menorca”. Revista de Geografia, vol. 32-33, p. 23-44.

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The Rec Comtal: infrastructures and imagination in Barcelona water

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Identity features of the Santa Llúcia Christmas market in Barcelona, between aspiration and reality

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Journey to the Icària neighbourhood

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Juniper oil production, a pioneering trade in Riba-roja d’Ebre

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The complete social act: a necessary viewpoint when working with intangible heritage. The case of the Sant Roc festival in Paüls

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The long road to industrial musicology: the Minorcan example Industrial musicology in the Catalan-speaking regions

ith the publication of the book Cantar a la fàbrica, cantar al coro (Singing in the factory, singing in the choir), by the ethnomusicologist Jaume Ayats, and the musicologist Joaquim Rabaseda (2008: 65) “industrial musicology” was inaugurated in the Catalan-speaking regions. The study enters the world of the factories of the River Ter as it passes through the Catalan region of Osona, the musical singing activity of its workers, and the relationship between this and the origin of the workers’ choirs that were promoted by Josep Anselm Clavé. However, the path started by Ayats has not continued in the field of Catalan musicology. Indeed, since the nineteenth century, when an interest arose in what was then called traditional folklore, there have been countless collections and studies, old and new, on songs and the whole music scene in the rural area of the Catalan-speaking regions and throughout Europe. In recent times, ethnomusicology has also been interested in popular music and urban music. But it is surprising that industrial work, which for more than 100 years has occupied, and continues to occupy, thousands of workers in Catalonia, the Valencian Community and the Balearic Islands, and the musical activity that takes place in factories and workshops in Catalonia, have aroused so little interest among musicologists.

This does not only happen here: In 2007, a British sociologist and scholar on this subject, Marek Korczynski, warned, with regard to Anglo-Saxon musicology and the powerful British industrial past that, “the processes by which music might have had an effect have been left unexamined. This means that any meanings ascribed by workers to music on the factory floor have been treated as a black box, not to be opened.” (2007: 254). A few years later, he himself insisted that this was still a field for researchers to explore: “[...] the way in which music is used as a cultural resource within the workplace has been largely ignored by industrial sociologists and musicologists [...]” (Korczynski, 2011: 87). The works of Korczynski over the years, alone or in collaboration with others, have culminated in collective and extensive work written with Emma Robertson and Michael Pickering: Rhythms of Labour. Music at Work in Britain (2013), a comprehensive, historical and ethnographic study which offers a theoretical framework on the relationship between music and industrial work. But in the introduction (2013: 4), the authors repeat the fact that this field had been explored very little by scholars: “With only a very few notable exceptions, scholars have tended to ignore music at work whether it be in the form of the singing of the workers themselves, or in the form of the relaying of broadcast music.”, Then, as an example, they expressly cite “[...] the excellence and illumination of Betty Messenger’s anthropological study of song cultures among Belfast textile work-

Amadeu Corbera Jaume CONSERVATORY OF MUSIC OF THE BALEARIC ISLANDS.

Ethnomusicologist. Professor of Musicology at the Conservatory of the Balearic Islands and studying for a PhD on the Majorcan musician Baltasar Samper at the University of the Balearic Islands. Co-founder of the Musicological Research Group of Minorca, author of articles on traditional and popular music, and the book Les festes de Sant Joan de Ciutadella. Sota l’ombra del poder (Lleonard Muntaner editor, 2012).

Eulàlia Febrer Coll UNIVERSITY OF CARDIFF

Ethnomusicologist. She is currently working on her doctoral thesis at Cardiff University, Wales, where she studies the relationship between the new ritual conformations and the use they make of music. She is also a member and co-founder of the Musicological Research Group of Minorca, which belongs to the Minorcan Studies Institute.

Paraules clau: temps, cantar, capitalisme, industrialització, etnomusicologia Palabras clave: tiempo, cantar, capitalismo, industrialización, etnomusicología. Keywords: time, singing, capitalism, industrialisation, ethnomusicology

ers in the early to mid twentieth century [...]”. In fact, the book by American anthropologist Betty Messenger, Picking up the Linen Threads (1980) is, as indicated in its subtitle, “a study of industrial folklore” of workers in the linen industry in Belfast during the period between 1900 and 1935. Carried out in the mid-1970s, when ethnomusicology was just beginning to be considered as

The long road to industrial musicology: the Minorcan example

“the study of music as culture” (Myers, 1995: 8), Messenger, with extraordinary clairvoyance, already predicted that a look at industrial folklore would open the door to a deeper understanding of the working and life experience of its workers, beyond material conditions and structures: “[...] My own quest not only led to the discovery of additional examples of objectionable aspects of the factory system everywhere during this era but also revealed a new and brighter dimension to the usual picture.” (Messenger, 1980: XVI).

within the Catalan and even Spanish ethnomusicological field, focused on the study of the rural world on the one hand, and on new urban tendencies on the other: We therefore find that Catalan “industrial musicology” continues to be an area for exploration and studying, still lacking a broad theoretical base and sufficient case studies to allow us to construct a complete analysis model of music as a social space of experience and construction of reality, of Catalonia’s industrial past and present.

Messenger’s work is really brilliant, and certainly “illuminating”, but as with the case of Ayats, other researchers did not follow suit; therefore, beyond this and another few shorter studies, only Korczynski’s line of work, alone or with other authors, has expanded the field of British “industrial musicology”.

In this sense, therefore, the study Popular Music and Industrialisation in Minorca, that we present here, about singing in the context of Minorcan factories and workshops is pioneering in a way, since it takes up the path begun by Ayats, which has served us as a model to establish certain analogies and document here some of the situations that he explains; but at the same time we incorporate much of the theoretical basis of the cited British works, from Messenger to Korczynski, Robertson, Pickering, and others, which place special emphasis on the relationship between the development of Taylorist or Fordist productive systems and workers’ musical habits, and how, in short, music becomes a mechanism of resistance and resilience towards new forms of expression of capitalist work order.

Returning to Catalonia, the work of Jaume Ayats is undoubtedly the most complete and important work ever done in this area,1 and because of its geographical boundaries, the situations described serve as a work model for the rest of the industrialised Catalan territories, especially the closest ones, as the case of Majorca and Minorca; in any case, the Osona region is much more similar to the islands than to Belfast or England. However, it is still exceptional research Podríem denominar «musicologia industrial» l’estudi del fet musical en fàbriques i factories. A diferència de la música de les societats rurals i agràries, hi ha molts pocs estudis sobre l’activitat musical dels treballadors industrials, ni als Països Catalans ni a Europa. A partir dels pocs treballs teòrics d’investigadors britànics i catalans existents, la nostra recerca Música popular i industrialització a Menorca, de la qual en presentam algunes conclusions, pretén ampliar els marcs de treball per a futures investigacions etnomusicològiques dins aquest camp.

Podríamos denominar «musicología industrial» el estudio del hecho musical en fábricas y factorías. A diferencia de la música en las sociedades rurales y agrarias, hay muy pocos estudios sobre la actividad musical de los trabajadores industriales, ni en los Países Catalanes ni en Europa. A partir de los pocos trabajos teóricos de investigadores británicos y catalanes existentes, nuestra investigación Música popular i industrialització a Menorca, de la que presentamos algunas conclusiones, pretende ampliar los marcos de trabajo para futuras investigaciones etnomusicológicas en este campo.

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Despite limitations on time and opportunities to do this research, we believe that both the theoretical framework presented, on the one hand, as well as the result and the conclusions on the other, are sufficiently satisfactory, and we hope that they open the door, if it were ever closed, for future researchers to continue along the path of this industrial musicology, understanding it as a window to knowledge and the construction of the great ethnographic account of working culture and the work experience of the industrial workers in the Catalan-speaking regions, with plenty of research still to be done. Methodology and context Our research project, entitled Popular Song and Industrialisation in Minorca, with a grant from the Minorcan Institute of Studies (IME) and the Institut Ramon Muntaner (IRMU), includes the whole island of Minorca. Some of the data and first conclusions have already been exhibited in different seminars and congresses, such as the International Congress on Industrial Heritage of Minorca organised by the IME (November 2015), the annual conference of the Irish section of the International Council for Traditional Music (ICTM; Dublin, February 27 and 28, 2016), the Fourteenth Congress of the Iberian Society for Ethnomusicology (SIBE; Madrid, from October 19 to 22, 2016), the Eighteenth Local History One could call «industrial musicology» the study of the musical life in factories and workshops. Unlike agrarian societies, there are very few works about industrial workers’ musical activity, neither at the Catalan Countries nor Europe. Based on British and Catalan scholars’ few theoretical works, our research Música popular i industrialització a Menorca, from which we present some conclusions in this paper, pretends to expand the working frames for future ethnomusicological research in this same field.

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and Cultural Heritage Congress of the Island of Minorca (Alaior, March 13, 2017) or the Music and everyday activities day in Les Terres de Cruïlla in the 5th Music in Terra de Cruïlla 2017 Festival (La Sénia October 28, 2017) organised by the Centre d’Estudis Seniencs and the Ramon Muntaner Institute. Furthermore, through the Ramon Muntaner Institute, this project has also been part of the Inventory of the Ethnological Heritage of Catalonia (IPEC). The collection and classification of interviewees has been carried out according to the criteria provided by this institution, being the first project of this type in the Balearic Islands. As for field work, it consisted of a total of 36 interviews between July 2015 and February 2016. This includes more than 50 people, from all the municipalities on the island, of both sexes and aged between 48 and 85. Workers in active employment and retired from the Minorcan shoe and costume jewellery sector. Thanks to them, we know what the singing activity was like in factories and workshops, what it’s like now, and most importantly: how it has changed. Changes, however, are not due to a simple transformation of the workers’ musical tastes, but respond to the forced adaptation to a new working context in terms of schedules and time management, spatial distribution and acoustic conditions. As with the cited work of Betty Messenger in the case of Belfast at the beginning of the twentieth century, with this study we follow the historical thread of the workers’ musical activity inside and outside their work space, and define their cultural experience in relation to the world of work; for the most part, this allows us to establish a story about the arrival, implementation, resistance and adaptation of industrial capitalism in Minorca during the twentieth century and beginning of the twenty-first

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century, and the consequences of each phase in the configuration of the social reality of the Minorcan people. The Minorcan case The conclusions of the research report, which we present a summary of here, lead us to establish three historical stages depending on the musical activity in the area of factory work. The first phase, called “preindustrial”, shows a great deal of singing activity. It is based on an artisanal production model and a pre-capitalist mentality, which continued roughly until the 1960s. It is what we call the putting out system either domestic work or in small workshops, which in the case of Minorcan shoe workshops were usually four or five benches, with four men working on each bench, plus some assistants. In all, in these workshops there could be about thirty people, between masters of the trade and apprentices. They were spaces, therefore, for men to socialise, where singing obviously served to pass the time, but above all as a framework for community interaction where workers were building themselves as individuals and as a community.

In the thirties, the Majorcan ethnomusicologist Baltasar Samper, a researcher of the missions of the Balearic Islands for the Obra del Cançoner Popular de Catalunya (Collection of Popular Songs of Catalonia), noted the close relationship between work and singing, to the point where singing was considered “an inseparable part” of it by the workers themselves: “[...]Majorcan countrymen feel this relationship so naturally, that they would never consider singing a strange thing at work, but for them it is something that goes hand in hand with work, [...] an organic part of it we could say[...]”(Samper, 1994: 36).

In the context of artisanal work then, survival of the mentality, uses and habits that are more typical of a rural pre-capitalist society, where singing was part of the work experience, is not at all strange: Samper himself, in a letter from 1927 to Francesc Pujol,2 explains how in the village of Alaró, where the entire population works in shoe workshops, there are posters that say A good worker is punctual and works without singing, which indicates the problems that the employers had to implement the new temporal and social capitalist order in a population that continued to function with completely different logic and that obviously sang. In Minorca, we also see how these agrarian society models remain with the transition from field to workshop. The researcher Robert Alzina (2008: 55) explains how only the man who was in charge of the animals sang in Minorcan fields, and stopped doing so when he passed the job on to another: that is to say, the hierarchy of work was also built around sound. In the workshops, these social construct models related to sound, showing the roles of hierarchy and importance in the workplace through singing, continued to be valid, and as our interviewees explained to us, only master shoemakers could sing, while apprentices never normally did. Despite the change in context and activity, the previous cultural codes continued to regulate work and social life. In this context, singing in rounds, a common practice in all the Catalanspeaking regions and in general, in the Western Mediterranean, but little described in the Balearic Islands to date (Ayats and Martinez, 2008), was also a feature that survived: Singing in rounds not only makes the physical space evident but also the sound space, the space of socialisation. So, in workshops we find a great deal of heterophonic activity, even explained by the shoemakers themselves with the same traditional

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A group of shoemakers and two benches. The work situation and male fellowship favoured moments of singing. Behind we can see the young apprentice, in the background, physically but also socially (early twentieth century). PHOTO: PROVIDED BY THE “SHOE HISTORY GROUP” OF MINORCA

Catalan terminology, that of singing baix (low), primer (first) or segon (second) (Ayats, 2007: 35), as one of our interviewees told us: “Many shoemakers knew how to do seconds. They worked and they sang, and one was first and another was second... “ (Magí Pons Sabater, Ciutadella). It does not seem that there was an order for singing: One started and the others joined in. Singing in rounds was, therefore, the recreation of the frame of interaction and occupation of the physical space, the workshop, the temporal evidence of a sound space and male fraternity. As far as we know, women also sang in rounds, in well-differentiated spaces, in

the same place or in different venues. There are, however, very few examples of men and women singing in rounds together. However, if that happened, because the spatial delimitation was not clear enough, it was only possible in the case that the man was single, as we were told by an embauladora3 (packer) about a tallador4 (cutter) who sometimes sang with the women: “That one was a young single man. The other cutters were married and they did not sing. (Rosario Pons Pons of Can Biel Buet, Alaior) In this way, the frameworks, limits and behaviours of the socially acceptable or reprehensible were designed in the workspace through singing.

It is not surprising therefore, that this significant singing activity, and singing in rounds gave Clavé the idea of the male workers’ choirs, which took root in Minorca, in the way that Ayats points out (2008). Choral societies such as the Orfeó Maonès or La Alborada de Ciutadella, among many others, provided both a new model of organised leisure and a new lyrical repertoire that could be sung in the factory through the same sound conventions, and that quickly replaced the shoemakers and costume jewellery makers’ own songs, as Andreu Ferrer lamented in 1932: “[...] Anyone we ask tells us that there have been a lot of folklore songs but not any more, there are no witnesses left, those who knew them are already dead, and that nobody sings if it’s not opera”.

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This may be a paradigmatic case, although much later, it is the Orfeó of CATISA (Carretero y Timoner, SA), a Mahon costume jewellery factory, founded in the 1950s. CATISA was a good example of the Franco vertical corporate business model, which provided its workers with all services within the same factory complex: housing, training, leisure, medical care, etc. Among the educational and leisure activities, we should highlight that there was a choir and a theatre where they used to put on zarzuelas organised by the same singing workers, many of whom were also in the Orfeó Maonès, and it was not surprising that the soloists of the Orfeó collaborated in the performances of CATISA. These male choir groups, mostly made up of workers, also contributed to the change of leisure activities related to the most important and popular festivals and celebrations, such as Carnival or Easter, understood in the context of leisure that was not subject to the logic of time division demanded by manufacturing capitalism, and allowed within a framework of flexibility and dialogue between the needs of modern productive business and the self-management of traditional society to avoid conflicts (Garcia, 1995: 108-109). Until more or less the 1960s, we not only find choirs related to more or less regulated recreational societies, but also students that are often connected to taverns, eminently masculine spaces, or to the factories, such as the one that existed at the Can Menéndez shoe factory in Ciutadella. These groups used to go out during the Darrers Dies de carnestoltes (Last Days of Carnival), and were licensed to enter the factories and stop production, which is unthinkable today, but prevailing until a few decades ago: “The Last Days student choir came to the factory, it was Shrove Thurs-

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day, it was Carnival Thursday, and as the student choir had come, we had that evening free [...]” (Juana Torrent, Ciutadella) A similar case happened with the Deixem lo dol, the Minorcan name to refer to the Easter songs known as caramelles or goigs de pasqua that are sung all over the Catalan-speaking regions, always by groups of men. As Arcadi Gomila explains (in Seguí, 2009: 96), “[...] theDeixem lo Dol was already sung in the shoe factories [...]. The shoemakers took their minds off the work by singing in chorus, and one of the pieces that was usually sung was the Deixem lo Dol, especially when approaching the Easter celebrations [...]” With the creation of the choirs, these more formal entities were responsible for singing it, while maintaining the patterns and models, though not of sound, of the social organisation of time and leisure. For their part, and in the same period, women, who were excluded from this male scene, had their own mechanisms of interaction within their own female work spaces; in this case, the songs of the Month of Mary: “I sang with Ferreries choir [...] Then they called it ses cantadores and we were a group of young women. We sang the Month of Mary, we did the Month of Mary in May.” (Eulàlia Serra Truyol, Ferreries) In short, this first phase of our story shows, through observing the singing activity in manufacturing work, a situation of control and self-management of the work experience that was much more horizontal and dynamic, with flexible business supervision agreed with the workers not to violate the social codes in place in a “post-rural” society, with leisure and work time management unrelated to productive demands, where singing was one of the main tools to create a sense of com-

munity, strengthen collective ties and create social contexts of enculturation. Regarding the second stage, we can call it “modernisation” or implementation of factory capitalism and the increase in demand for productivity. This happens initially, due to the concentration of the work force in one larger space: from workshops to industrial buildings, subjecting workers to stricter control (they all enter and leave at the same time) and with a different spatial distribution, individualised and segmented, where communication and visual contact is almost impossible. The great change, however, occurs with the installation of crankshafts, automatic assembly lines, in the case of shoes, and other chain manufacturing systems in the case of costume jewellery. In other words, the consolidation of Fordism, which obliges workers to specialise in a single phase of the process, under strict control of the working time of each phase, and that alienates them from their efforts in relation to the product and the rest of their workmates. “Modernisation” therefore meant a forced change of mentality, frameworks and social spaces that preceded a “new work logic that fractures the workers’ experience to separate the work from other practices”, in the words of Garcia Balañà (1995: 111). For example, as Alzina and Seguí state (2002: 169) the student choir Casino January 17 of Ciutadella, that had survived even the Civil War, stopped acting in the year 1962: “[...] The processes of assembly in chain and the division of the work arrived definitively in Ciutadella [...]. When the machines were working, nobody could stop for a second, there was work and people had to take advantage of it, although the traditions resented it; This was the case of the student choir that, after overcoming the Civil War and the difficulties celebrating carnivals during the

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dictatorship, was seriously compromised by the new machinery (which could not be stopped), by the new production process and by the considerable demand. Shrove Thursday could not be a time of celebration nor could work be left unfinished when the student choir arrived, since it was even difficult to recruit singers. This one made its last appearance during the carnival of 1962. The decision was taken jointly with the board of directors of the Cercle Artístic, which also organised student music groups”. Contrary to common belief, and what the workers themselves admit, our conclusion is that it is not the noise of industrial machinery, but rather the application of a new working model and a capitalist logic of temporal and spatial distribution, which put an end to singing at work. However, despite the reconfiguration and loss of control of the physical and sound space, the oldest workers did not stop the musical practice, which was necessary from their point of view, and even socially meaningful. We have not found what Corbera (2015) calls “singing silently” or in other cases, sign singing in Minorca (Ayats, 2008: 30), but there are several situations where the workers sing above the noise, or even establish a certain dialogue with it: “Maria Morena, who had a good voice, like all of the Morenas, sang a song that stuck in my mind [...] She sang this song, because they all went their own way in there [...] This woman sang in a lively manner and then the people who were at their tables started singing of their own accord, because one was on one side, another was on the other, and one would sing one song and someone else sang another.” (Carmen Ribas Costa, Ciutadella) In the case of men, the “male need” to sing in rounds we described before was maintained, despite the profound

change in working conditions, and therefore conditions for sound and interaction. For example, we even found some cases where the interaction was directly with the sound of the machines, incorporating it when singing afauxbourdon (Ayats, 2007), thereby recreating the sound space and the control lost with the change of production phase: “Sometimes we tried to start a machine to make its music to sing to [...]. With Pau Laganga we started the machine and we both started singing, him on one side of the conveyor and me on the other”. (Rafel Pons Sabater, Ciutadella) Therefore, the “silencing process” (Korczynski et al., 2013: 114) in the factories, which we understand here as a tool for social control and verticalisation of activity and time management, faced a certain amount of resistant behaviour. Faced with this musical need, then, during the first decades of concentration, the Minorcan factories incorporated centralised music systems that, on the one hand, satisfied the demand for music by the workers and on the other, ensured the control of the sound space, still within a context

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of negotiation between workers and business owners but at the same time establishing an increasingly hierarchical and less horizontal relationship (Korczynski and Jones 2006: 147). However, it should be noted that the situation found in Minorca is much more permissive than in other places, it is what we call the “last example of the survival of the mechanisms of precapitalist social flexibility”. So, workers were often allowed to bring their own music to be played throughout the factory; a good example is what happened at the Pons Quintana d’Alaior shoe factory. “The record collection we had here was awesome [...] Some didn’t like the zarzuelas they put on and would say “well, can we put another kind of music on, this is boring every day...” [...] It was usually the person in charge that brought the music, and then it was another “(Juan Fernando Palliser Sintes, Alaior) All this ends in the third phase that we have documented in our work, on “consolidation of capitalism”, which reinforces the process of making schedules and more rigid control (Weber,

Old speakers of the Pons Quintana shoes factory, Alaior. The factory workers could bring their own records, as well as have the company’s collection, to put on while they worked (July 2015). PHOTO: AMADEU CORBERA

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Main shed at the Mibo d’es Migjorn Gran avarques factory. In the centre you can see the conveyor, with the carts on the rails. Two workers, separated, doing different tasks. You can also see a speaker, playing music selected only by the factory manager (July 2015). PHOTO: AMADEU CORBERA

1978) at the same time that communal musical practices still found in the 1960s and ‘70s was abandoned in favour of individualised consumption of music through transistors and iPods, and occupational isolation. In this contemporary phase, some Minorcan factories have maintained music sound systems, but there is no longer any negotiation as the choice of repertoire is exclusively the manager’s responsibility, whether the workers like it or not: music acts as a tool for constructing the vertical nature of the current capitalist scene; generating a social reality that is, to paraphrase the Ethnomusicologist Josep Martí (2002), fully hierarchical and where the sound space, like the work, is alien and alienating, thus preventing the possibility of establishing the collective social bonds

that emerged in the past through the act of singing. However, there are still some areas of factory work in Minorca that have been left outside of the “modern” systems, where the codes applied in rural and artisanal society are at play: workshops and car depots exclusively for women workers, the last example of domestic work. They are spaces of socialisation for women, where only women work “and the odd young lad”, but never an adult man; as we have mentioned, the gender and age distinction continues to exist, where there is a certain flexibility regarding work, time and free time, and where music and singing continue to play a significant role in recreating collective frameworks of interaction, in this case, through the negotiation of the chosen repertoire that will be heard on the devices:

“There are four of us at our car depot, and we sing. Whatever: now for Saint John’s we have a CD of Fire and Smoke, or Saint John’s songs, or of Minorcan songs, and we sing along; We put the CD on and sing all the songs. (...) At Christmas we sometimes put carols on.” (Juana Torrent, Ciutadella). Conclusions From the musical, sound, social aspect of singing in and outside the factory, but in the context of factory work, we have been able to reconstruct the past to understand the present. We have understood how workers that, in the words of Jaume Ayats (2008: 12) had “a solid habit of singing”, were incorporated into a work model that needed to banish these practices to force adaptation to modern times, different codes and conventions from the previous

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ones, where the factory appears to be the vertex from which the new capitalist society is structured. “Modernity” or “productivity” are, therefore, conceptual euphemisms used to reduce the physical areas and sound spaces of collective negotiation and recreation, for a more horizontal and autonomous social model in daily decision-making and the construction of community conventions, towards a hierarchical one. In this process, focusing on musical activity, we have been able to observe resistant and resilient behaviour that, in some way, refuse to take on the new scene. Behaviour that, nevertheless, was not able to slow down the success of the late industrial model, and from the 1970s onwards, it had done away with this singing in Minorca and with all the cultural rules that this implied. The most interesting point, for us, has been understanding how, through the study of singing, we can establish the three phases of this process, that is to say: we have built a story about the social history and cultural transformation of a community, in this case Minorca, which until now had never been explained, at least not in these terms. Three phases that we establish according to this musical phenomenon as follows: 1) End of the nineteenth – 1960s. In craft workshops, workers had full control over the repertoire they sang and the circumstances in which they did so. 2) 1960s – 1980s With the initial entry in the factory, this control was reduced, but it did not disappear altogether: Centralised sound systems were installed, but workers were allowed to bring their own music in, and others continued to sing even within a very different sound context from the one they were used to. The employers still allowed some flexibility in time

management, not to violate the limits of the pre-existing and still relatively valid social conventions. 3) 1980s – today. With the total and absolute centralisation of sound systems on the one hand, and the final isolation of individuals within the factory, the old conventions disappeared and the community ties made possible by music along with them, reducing musical activity to passive and often individualised listening. We thereby see how the management of the sound space, of its creation as an expressive and aesthetic framework of relationships and conventions, is the battlefield where the attitudes of resistance, resilience and adaptation to the cultural model of industrial capitalism are reproduced. If music, using the famous title of the book by Josep Martí (2002), is generating social realities, then controlling it becomes a key factor in the control and manipulation of this reality. It is this silencing process in the world of work, in the words of Marek Korczynski, through the change in productive needs and time management, a concept we feel it is important to highlight, and not the noise of industrial machinery, which put an end to the singing. With regard to aesthetics and the repertoire, we no longer find unique models in Minorca, but it seems very clear that the creation of Claverian choral societies first, and the entrance of the radio and sound systems later, facilitated the incorporation of new songs and sound aesthetics. “To have a good voice” still means to have a lyric, choir or zarzuela voice; in this sense, we do find that the rural aesthetic codes, which in Majorca was “tenir bona miula” and was socially significant (Ayats et al. 2005), very soon disappeared. But that of Claverian choirs is also, we understand, a masculine aesthetic, of an expressive world reserved for men, and that is perhaps

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why women, organised in a less formal way, did not develop explicit aesthetic considerations about how to sing, at least not that we have seen. On the other hand, their own genres such as “shoemaker songs”, if they had existed, were also quickly replaced by opera and zarzuela choruses, and years later, boleros and popular folk songs.5 A long way to go The study presented here, and which we have tried to summarise in the most efficient way in this article, is intended to be one more small contribution to the slow path of “industrial musicology” in Catalonia. We believe that this work can serve as a basis for future studies in the whole of Catalonia or beyond, since we are lucky that Minorca presents the complete past and present picture, to understand the evolution and transformation of cultural life of industrial workers, inside and outside the workspace. Returning to Marek Korczynski, we fully agree with his reflection on the lack of attention to cultural studies in the workplace:

“If we take an inquiry into how people live with and against the structures of rational capitalism as one of the starting points for contemporary cultural analysis, then the lack of attention given to cultural practices within the labour process is an alarming one. This is because the labour process represents the point where the contradictions of capitalism are at their sharpest, and it is there, therefore, where we may learn much about how people use cultural practices to live with and against the rational structures of contemporary capitalism.” (Korczynski 2011: 88) And so, as Betty Messenger in her splendid work has already shown, it is through the analysis of cultural-music

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experiences that we can gain a deeper understanding of the implications of the introduction of the contemporary industrial production model in a very specific society, the Minorcan one, but with consequences that can be transferred to territories that are culturally and socially similar.

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The objective of our research was therefore to: understand how the social mechanism of singing and listening to music inside and outside the factory had evolved, to understand the processes of resistance, resilience and social adaptation to the capitalist times of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries in

Minorca. And thereby open the door a little more to building the cultural story of the industrial working class in the Catalan-speaking regions. We still have a long way to go. n

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NOTES

Although the relationships between leisure and musical attitudes towards industrial work in Catalonia had already been explored earlier in an article by Albert Garcia Balañà (1995), which we cited in this article and in the body of the report several times.

Letter from Baltasar Samper to Francesc Pujol, August 25, 1927. Documentation Centre of

the Orfeó Català. Reg: 2229-2269. TOP: BIB 2_3.2.04

Person in charge of cleaning the shoes before putting them in boxes to take them to the storeroom.

Person in charge of cutting the leather to make the shoe.

Another of the possible arguments, suggested by some interviewees, about the change of repertoire, apart from what we have mentioned, is that many of the workers in the shoe guild, especially in the eastern towns of Minorca, Mahon, es Castell, Alaior, were anarchists or socialists before 1936, and many of their songs were of a political nature. With the repression of the post-war period, therefore, these songs were forgotten.

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The Rec Comtal: infrastructures and imagination in Barcelona water Roger Sansi UNIVERSITY OF BARCELONA AND THE CATALAN INSTITUTE OF ANTHROPOLOGY

Associate Professor in the Social Anthropology Department of the University of Barcelona. He has done research on Afro-Brazilian religion and culture, the concept of fetish, and art and politics in Barcelona. His publications include Fetishes and Monuments (Berghahn, 2008), Sorcery in the Black Atlantic (University of Chicago press 2011), Money and Personalism in the Lusophone World (New England UP 2012) and Art, Anthropology and the Gift (Bloomsbury, 2015).

he old Rec Comtal is a canal that provided the city of Barcelona with water. The origin of the Rec is difficult to identify, since building works of different periods overlap. During the last two centuries, due to the accelerated development of Barcelona, the Rec has disappeared under the network of the city’s water pipes and sewers. However, one can say that it is one of the human infrastructures that has left the most significant imprint on the collective memory and heritage of the people of Barcelona. In recent years, recovery of the Rec has started as an element of archaeological and historical heritage. However, up to

En aquest article presentem la nostra recerca sobre el Rec Comtal, una infraestructura hidràulica medieval que proveïa d’aigua la ciutat de Barcelona. El Rec va ser abandonat a finals del segle xx i actualment està sent recuperat com a patrimoni històric. En aquest article ens interessa entendre com els veïns de Barcelona es relacionen amb el Rec, com els poden afectar els plans de recuperació, com el Rec planteja qüestions respecte a les infraestructures com a patrimoni privat, públic o comú. Finalment, l’article es planteja, en termes més generals, la importància de les imatges per a una antropologia de les infraestructures.

Paraules clau: Rec Comtal, Barcelona, Aigua, Infraestructures, Imaginari Palabras clave: Rec Comtal, Barcelona, Agua, Infraestructuras, Imaginario Keywords: Rec Comtal, Barcelona, water, infrastructures, Imagination.

now the memory and the relationship of the population with the Rec has not been focussed on. Through the Catalan Institute of Anthropology, and with the help of the Observatory of Ethnological and Intangible Heritage, the “Rec Comtal” project aims to understand how the uses of history and heritage currently affect the neighbourhoods and groups that now live along the route of what was once the Rec Comtal. We have also sought to understand how, through the recovery of cultural, material or intangible heritage, this case raises questions regarding “heritage”, property, and common property in much broader terms: in the case of the Rec Comtal, the recovery of historical heritage is strictly linked to the history of the right of access and ownership, whether public, private or common, of basic resources such as

water. In short, the recovery of the Rec Comtal not only raises questions of cultural heritage, but also, through cultural heritage, a complex debate on the right to resources and infrastructures (Corsin, 2014), the right to the city.

En este artículo presentamos nuestra investigación sobre el Rec Comtal, una infraestructura hidráulica medieval que proveía de agua a la ciudad de Barcelona. El Rec fue abandonado a finales del siglo xx y actualmente está siendo recuperado como patrimonio histórico. En este artículo nos interesa entender cómo los vecinos de Barcelona se relacionan con el Rec, como les pueden afectar los planes de recuperación, como el Rec plantea cuestiones respecto a las infraestructuras como patrimonio privado, público o común. Finalmente, el artículo se plantea en términos más generales la importancia del imaginario y las imágenes para una antropología de las infraestructuras.

In this article we present our research on the Rec Comtal, a medieval hydraulic infrastructure that provided water to the city of Barcelona. The Rec was abandoned at the end of the 20th century and is currently being recovered as a historical heritage site. In the article we are interested in understanding how the residents of Barcelona relate to the Rec, how the recovery plans might affect them, as the Rec raises questions about infrastructure as private, public or common heritage. Finally, the article considers in more general terms the importance of Imagination and images for an anthropology of infrastructures.

The “Rec Comtal” project proposes making a documentary. The documentary project has been a key tool for research, in two ways. First, because one of our main objectives is to give visibility to the Rec infrastructure: Understanding what it is inside and out, and how it is presented to the people of Barcelona. In this sense, we have proposed a visual anthropology of infrastructures in which the canal appears not only as a background or context of social action, but as a form of this action. The documentary offers us

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an excellent methodological approach, since it allows us to concentrate on the images of an infrastructure that is usually defined by its invisibility (since it is buried, abandoned, hidden, in the background). Putting it on display helps us to recover its significance, presence, active social role. History of the Rec Comtal The Rec is a medieval canal of uncertain origin. It is “comtal” (from the count of Barcelona), but it is unknown how or when it was built, although it is assumed that it was after the end of the tenth century (March, 2016). It was partly built following the layout of the Roman aqueduct, but with different objectives: the purpose of Rec was not to provide Barcelona with water, but to move the wheels of flour mills. For this reason, the Rec followed a more winding and less direct route than the aqueduct, to take advantage of the unevenness of the terrain (Miró, et al., 2015). Another important difference is that the aqueduct was covered, while the Rec was exposed. If the aqueduct responds to the Roman vision of infrastructures as res publica, a citizen’s right, in this case guaranteeing the city’s water supply (Orengo and Miró, 2013), the Rec was one of the count’s undertakings to collect income from flour mills that needed water to operate. It was not, therefore, a “public” work in the modern sense, but responded to a feudal taxation plan (Orti Gost, 1993). It is important to note that the Rec, like the old aqueduct, also acted as a means of communication. Via Augusta was built together with the aqueduct, which was still the main outlet of Barcelona in medieval times.

With the passing of the centuries and the growth of the population in Barcelona, between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries, water from the Rec began to be used to water the orchards and for the dye and leather workshops in the Rivera neighbourhood, where

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the Rec flowed into the sea. The water also began to be used to drink, although most of the city’s water was supplied by wells (March, 2016). As of the eighteenth century the water from the Rec was also used for the first cotton factories. The water started to become scarce due to its excessive use and to be too contaminated to be used as drinking water in its final section, in Barcelona. By the end of the century, the Crown, heir to the House of Barcelona, renewed the infrastructure and built the Casa de la Mina de Montcada (Montcada mine), which took groundwater from the Besòs River as an additional supply for the Rec. With the disentailment, the Rec was no longer royal heritage and was managed by a Junta de Regants (Irrigation Board), consisting of three parts: the State, Barcelona City Council and the irrigation community itself (owners of orchards, mills and factories that used the water from the Rec). However, Barcelona City Council presided over the board. As Martin explains (1999), the history of the Irrigation Board is full of conflicts over the use of water from the Rec. This was to be expected in an infrastructure of this kind: The way a person used the water inevitably affects the next person, either because it reduces the flow of water or because it contaminates it. The flow of water was a fundamental factor in this conflict. Water is annoying, as one of our interviewees said, because it escapes; It needs to be contained, separated, quantified and administered in order not to lose it. These are the fundamental functions of any water infrastructure, and yet the infrastructure will never contain this fluidity, especially in the imagination of the users. This difficulty to control it can been seen more clearly in a Mediterranean context in which the discharge is irregular, sometimes weak and sometimes excessive.

Ironically, perhaps the great victim of these conflicts was Barcelona City Council’s public service, the great end user of the Rec. Historically, the city’s drinking water had been supplied through many springs and wells, but the city’s growth forced the municipality to create new infrastructures that would guarantee supply, beyond the Rec. While the need for a drinking water supply grew, so did the needs of agriculture and industry, which consumed and contaminated the Rec water before it reached the town. At the end of the nineteenth century another Casa de les Aigües (pumping station) was built in Montcada to complement the Rec. However, its legality was questioned from the beginning since, according to the Water Act of 1879, it was prohibited to use mechanical wells to the detriment of third parties in areas of public domain (Conillera, 1991, p. 56). Those negatively affected could initially be the other Rec irrigators, but as of the end of the nineteenth century, private water companies were too. Despite these obstacles and conflicts, at different times the City Council continued to build infrastructures, such as Trinitat Vella and Trinitat Nova pumping stations, and planning the public water supply to the city. But while the City Council began to build infrastructure, private companies offering this service grew. At the end of the nineteenth century and the early decades of the twentieth, the conflict regarding water was mainly between Barcelona City Council and the private companies; in particular, Societat General d’Aigües de Barcelona, SGAB (later, Agbar) (Martin, 2009). At the beginning of the twentieth century, an important part of the Rec was already integrated into Barcelona’s water system. The typhus epidemic of 1917 was attributed to the water from the Rec, so a water sanitation programme was demanded. This was an episode of the struggle between the public and private sectors, a struggle that Agbar won for

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various reasons, both due to the lack of resources of the City Council, technical problems and the lack of long-term political will (Martin, 2017). At the end of the nineteenth century, the Rec came town planning into conflict with the expansion of the city and its infrastructures: The opening of the Eixample and the creation of railways and roads made it necessary to bury or divert the Rec in several phases (Guardia, 2012). As Barcelona absorbed the towns to the north, the Rec also disappeared. During the first half of the twentieth century, several sections of the Rec were covered up to Plaça de les Glòries. During the Franco regime, other stretches were covered as far as Sant Andreu, finally reaching the Trinitat Vella section, which was covered at the end of the seventies. In the second half of the twentieth century the flow of the Rec was only residual in the new Barcelona water system. From 1965, the supply of drinking water from the Rec was withdrawn. In 1985 the irrigation society, which had already become irrelevant, was dissolved and in 1992 finally, the Rec was diverted from Trinitat Vella, returning to the Besòs River, on the occasion of the construction of the Nus de la Trinitat (a highway interchange). In recent years in Barcelona we have witnessed a certain recovery of the Rec, at least in public discourse and imagination: The Rec is spoken of in politics and the media, in neighbours’ associations, and local researchers, historians and archaeologists have begun publishing works on the Rec (March, 2016; Miró, 2015). According to Manel Martin (personal communication), the idea to recover of the Rec in the city stems from the discovery of the eighteenth century remains which were found under the Mercat del Born and declared a Cultural Asset of National Interest in 2006. The Rec appears in these remains as one of the main defining features of the urban fabric of the city. At the other

end of the Rec, in Montcada, historical buildings such as the Casa de la Mina have been recovered since the 1990s, and, more recently, the stretches of the Rec in the open air have been dignified. At the moment in Barcelona a Rec Comtal master plan is being processed, through which it is also planned to recover and give value to different sections of the Rec. On the date of writing of this article (June 2018), the Master Plan has not yet been made public. These recovery plans, in accordance with the notion that the Rec is a historical asset to be valued, have found the financial support of Agbar, which, paradoxically (or perhaps not), is interested in recovering the memory of an infrastructure that was once its rival, one hundred years ago. But this recovery is considered, for now, in terms of cultural heritage. The possibility of restoring the Rec as a public water supply infrastructure in Barcelona is not considered. This point places the Rec at the centre of a debate that is currently taking place openly, between public and private, in the city’s water service. The case of the Rec, we believe, can add an element of complexity to this debate, in which the definition of what is public, private or common, historically, is not as obvious as it may seem. The Rec Comtal, neighbourhood to neighbourhood In our research we have followed the route of the Rec, from the source to what was once the point where it flowed into the sea: from Montcada to the Ciutat Vella district of Barcelona. On this route we have found the residents to have very different relationships with the Rec. We have identified three sections: The first section, from Montcada to Trinitat Nova, where the Rec still exists, is in the open air and is still part of everyday life. It is in this section also that the infrastructure of the big city (transport, water, factories, electricity) and its conflicting relationship with the

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neighbourhood is most evident. The second section, from Trinitat Nova to Glòries, where the Rec was covered over and disappeared in the second half of the twentieth century. The claim over the Rec has been led by cultural associations and local historians who have tried to recover its recent memory. In this section the Rec appears as an icon of the identity of the neighbourhoods, as opposed to the imposition of Barcelona as a metropolis. Finally, in the third section, from Glòries to La Ribera and Barceloneta, where the memory of the Rec is already distant, the Rec appears as a fundamental element of historical and archaeological heritage in the hands of the The City Council archaeology and heritage services, but it is also used by residents as a symbol of the resistance of the neighbourhood against real estate speculation. In the following sections, we will explain what we have found in each of these places in more detail. From Montcada to Trinitat Vella: the open Rec and the big city infrastructures. The Rec appears on the surface at the Casa de la Mina Vella pump house in Montcada i Reixac, a building that was constructed at the end of the eighteenth century by the crown of Spain, when the water level of the Rec was increased by taking groundwater from the Besòs River. This building has been restored and is currently a nursing home in the neighbourhood of Can Sant Joan. The Rec comes out under the house, through the “Reixegó”, the grid that controlled the flow of water, and which only the Irrigation Board had access to. A few hundred metres further away is the Casa de les Aigües (or Montcada Wells), which was built at the end of the nineteenth century, faced with the evidence that the supply from the Mina Vella was not enough for the city. This time, the Casa de les Aigües was a project by the municipality of Barcelona. A pump house was built on the premises

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spaces are currently being restored and turned into museums and guided tours and visits are organised there. In these visits and in the information panels, the importance of Montcada in the Barcelona water supply is emphasised, and in the fact that these are public infrastructures. Beyond the Casa de les Aigües we find the Can Sant Joan district. This neighbourhood is physically separated from the centre of Montcada by a series of roads and railway tracks, along with the Besòs River, which isolates it from other town centres. Can Sant Joan grew as a mainly self-built working class neighbourhood during the Franco regime. Much of the population worked for one of these infrastructures, in particular for Renfe: There is a train stop, MontcadaBifurcació, which gave the most common name of the neighbourhood, “Bifurcació” or “Bifurca”. Although they live or have lived thanks to these infrastructures, the residents of Can Sant Joan are aware that they are located on what they call “the periphery of the periphery”, a neighbourhood that is virtually isolated although, ironically, it is surrounded by roads and high voltage power lines. Accidents when crossing the train tracks are all too frequent.

Mina Vella in Montcada. December 2016. LIMEN ARCHIVE

where the Rec Irrigation Board held its meetings. The Casa de les Aigües de Montcada was renovated in 1917 by introducing new water purification techniques and new catchments to prevent further outbreaks of typhus, such as the 1914 epidemic, which had been attributed to the waters of Montcada, although the source of the outbreak was never found. The new wells that were to supply Barcelona with water were built under the

house. In this period the Trinitat Vella and Trinitat Nova pump houses were also built, which we will discuss later. The Casa de les Aigües stopped operating as such in 1989, and then suffered great deterioration. Although it belonged to Barcelona City Council, the City Council of Moncada i Reixac took over and restored it, transforming it into the axis of the Parc de les Aigües, which goes from the Casa de la Mina Vella to the Casa de l’Aigua. These

The great majority of the inhabitants of this district knew the Rec as “the river”. They were not farmers, they were not members of the Irrigation Board and, therefore, they did not have any productive relationship with it. In the memories of the people of Can Sant Joan, the Rec is often associated with recreational use: the children swam in the Rec and they still swim in it now. It was used to wash clothes and, in fact, it still is: We have seen people washing rugs in the “river”. We also witnessed an evangelical baptism in the Rec. The stretch of the “river” that passed through the town of Can Sant Joan, was covered in the 1950s and known

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as Carrer del Reixagó. The “river” was seen in that period as potentially dangerous (some children had drowned) in the context of exponential growth in the neighbourhood. The section that left Montcada and led to Barcelona was left open, in the neighbourhood of Vallbona, but until recently this section was very neglected and full of rubbish. This stretch of the Rec passes between a hill that separates Montcada from Barcelona and the Renfe railway track. The neighbours demanded that this section be cleaned up, not only for aesthetic or cultural reasons, or for the recovery of local historical heritage, but also for practical reasons: It was a contaminated and dangerous area, and the road linking Vallbona with Can San Joan is regularly used by residents of the two neighbourhoods, which are both isolated. At Can Sant Joan, the Rec is essentially a recreational space, a place to stroll, and also a means of communication with another nearby neighbourhood. Viewing the Rec as heritage seems secondary to these roles. Cleaning up the Rec has been one of the local demands

of the residents of Can Sant Joan, but not the only one nor the most important one. For decades, neighbours have been fighting to close the cement factory that dominates the neighbourhood’s skyline. And, in particular, like the whole city of Montcada, they ask for the train tracks to be covered. It seems that the recent agreement between Montcada Town Hall and the Ministry (2017)1 will finally result in the train tracks being covered. But in this case, it is not clear what will happen to the Rec, which is only a few metres away from the tracks. In any case, it is difficult to say what the neighbours of Can Sant Joan would choose if they had the choice between burying the tracks and the disappearance of the Rec. At Vallbona we find a similar type of relationship with the Rec. Vallbona, like Can Sant Joan, is surrounded by infrastructures that isolate it from the rest of the city. To reach Torre Baró train station, you must cross a bridge over Avinguda Meridiana. On the other hand, only a few buses come to Vallbona.

Allotment with drawbridge to cross the Rec Comtal. December 2016. LIMEN ARCHIVE

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The initial stretch of the Rec through the centre of Vallbona was landscaped in the nineties by Barcelona City Council. But coming out of Vallbona, the Rec still has a similar appearance today to a hundred years ago. In the area formerly known as the Quadra de Vallbona, the Rec is still used for agricultural purposes today. To the south of the Rec, on the narrow terraces that separate it from Avinguda Meridiana, there are many unofficial allotments. But on the other side we find what may be the last agricultural exploitation of the municipality of Barcelona: The “La Ponderosa” allotment, as it is commonly called. This allotment is the work of José Ortuño, an old immigrant who arrived in Barcelona in the fifties and began to work the land in Vallbona. Progressively, he rented all of the land and had to hand over many of the plots as they were invaded by infrastructures, like Avinguda Meridiana. At La Ponderosa, water circulates with one of the oldest techniques of the Mediterranean vegetable garden,

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Furrow irrigation at La Ponderosa. December 2017. LIMEN ARCHIVE

furrow irrigation. This type of irrigation can be seen as an expensive use of water. The fact is that La Ponderosa does not pay for the water it uses, nor is it ever without water. Since the Irrigation Board no longer existed, in 1985, there was nobody claiming any payment to use the water of the Rec, which, despite being a built infrastructure, appears as a natural “river” and without an owner. This also invites informal and sometimes surprising use of water, such as cartoners or cardboard scavengers that come to fill the trucks with water to swell the cardboard and sell it at a better price. The farmers of La Ponderosa complain about this activity, not because they are stealing water, but because they flood the paths. We do not know what will happen to the La Ponderosa allotment once Mr Ortuño is no longer around. Pending the publication of the Rec Master Plan, the City Council has already commissioned some projects to develop the area. Apparently, the allotment is on buildable land, but in the plans that have been made public so far, it has been

kept as agricultural land (although it is not specified who will be the owner).2 After La Ponderosa, the Rec disappears. If we pass under a bridge on Av. Meridiana, we arrive at the Casa de les Aigües in Trinitat Vella. This building was built in 1917 as a pumping station for water, which reached Trinitat Nova. The City Council project was to bring the water from Montcada to Collserola and from there make it reach the whole city. This project was not carried out. Agbar took over the supply of water for Barcelona. In fact, Agbar built a Casa de les Aigües next to the Besòs River, a little further downstream from the Casa de les Aigües of Trinitat Nova. Since 1965, the water of the Rec has not gone directly into the municipal supply circuit. At the same time, the Rec was covered. At the moment, after arriving at Trinitat Nova, it is diverted and returns to the Besòs River. In Trinitat Vella, as in Vallbona, the Rec was known as the “river”. This neighbourhood of the Sant Andreu

district is, like the previous ones, a working class district, which grew exponentially with immigration during the Franco regime. The “river” is remembered by the locals in a similar way to the previous neighbourhoods: in playful terms, as a recreational space where children swam, clothes were washed and people went for a stroll. But in this neighbourhood there is less of a memory, given the physical disappearance of the “river” in the late seventies: It can only be revived through photographs of when the “river” was open. The historic memory of the Rec is not as publicly marked as in Montcada. The Trinitat Vella pump house has not been made into a museum, although the Association for the Research and Dissemination of the Memory of Trinidad Vella has been demanding the use of the space as a heritage site for years. But the house is assigned to a foundation that is dedicated to the social and labour integration of the young people of the neighbourhood. In this section, until now, the Rec has not been given much importance as a heritage site.

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Children paddling in the Rec. Carrer Madriguera, Trinitat Vella 1952. COMMISSION FOR THE RESEARCH AND DISSEMINATION OF THE MEMORY OF TRINITAT VELLA

In Trinitat Nova we find the outskirts of the city, the opening or burial of the great infrastructures that surround it: freeways, railways, water treatment stations and the Besòs River itself. It is interesting to see how, on entering Barcelona, there is less institutional interest to reclaim a public infrastructure of the City Council, compared to the importance it is given in Montcada. From Trinitat Vella to Glòries: the memory of the neighbourhoods and the recovery of the Rec The old route of the Rec arrives at Sant Andreu, passing through the Nus de la Trinitat. An interesting point in this stretch is the plot of land between L’Andana de la Estació and Fernando Pessoa streets, in front of the train tracks and on the other side of the old Maquinista factory. On this site archaeological remains of the ancient Roman aqueduct, a bridge, the Rec and the old

Sant Andreu mill have been found. The City Council commissioned architect Carles Enrich to create an archaeological park project on this site. Enrich’s project suggest revamping this area which is currently disused, and making a park where the archaeological remains are highlighted, but where local vegetation is also recovered, in what he calls “renaturalisation”, and recreational use and urban vegetable allotments are promoted. This project is the pilot plan for a much more ambitious project, the Rec Master Plan, which was proposed on March 23, 2016, but which has not yet been approved.3 The plan proposes a metropolitan route with new recreation areas, garden areas, green spaces and spaces for representation of the archaeological remains of the Rec, in a cultural and natural restoration project. In some sections it was suggested that the Rec be uncovered again (although water does not actually come from

the Montcada mines): in others, that the archaeological remains be put on display behind protective glass, and in others, it was suggested that the route of the Rec be shown using a different pavement, with red brickwork. In terms of town planning, it has been suggested that the Rec be used as an axis that connects neighbourhoods with pedestrian roads and cycling tracks. The project suggests restoring the Rec as a riverbank, as a “blue corridor” and “green corridor” (Massanes and Evers, 1999), but also as a connection point, a social and historical corridor, so to speak. It would be, in short, a case of reconnecting the neighbourhoods and provide new spaces, not only for recreation, but also for heritage purposes, which are green spaces and also become a mark of the identity of the neighbourhoods. This project is linked to the project for Plaça de les Glòries, which is already

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note that the Study Centre has made a video for the exhibition. In this video, members of the Study Centre talk about the passage of the Rec through Sant Andreu, and residents of Sant Andreu also appear, explaining their childhood memories of the Rec, which was cover over in this neighbourhood in the fifties. These memories are staged with children dressed in vintage clothing in sequences in black and white. The video has a clearly nostalgic air.

Sant Andreu de Palomar, end of the nineteenth century. SANTIAGO RUSIÑOL

underway (2018). The “Canopia Urbana” project aims to transform a space that was essentially a connection point, Plaça de les Glòries, into an urban forest, including the creation of small reserves for migratory birds.4 The Rec Comtal is also preeminent in the project, with the creation of a waterway where it used to pass through. It is interesting, however, to see the images of the projects that identify how leisure is understood in these spaces. In the “renaturalisation” images proposed in the Enrich project, by the team of architects commissioned for the Vallbona project5 and the Canopia Urbana project for Glòries, we cannot see any children (or elderly people) bathing in the Rec, which makes us assume that this would be considered an inappropriate use of the Rec. In fact, when a member of the Can Sant Joan residents’ association recently asked a person in charge of the Town Hall Archaeology Service whether someone could swim in the Canòpia Urbana de Glòries River, they were amused and responded: “I don’t think they’ll let them.” In the images, there are many people walking, doing sports or cycling.

The “allotments”, on the other hand, appear in the background as neat, open, without enclosures, like public gardens, obviously not informal vegetable gardens. The image of the recreational use put forth in these projects responds, perhaps inevitably, to an idea of leisure that perhaps we could define as “civic”, that complies with municipal ordinances. The City Council projects coincide, without overriding, with the view of the Rec held in neighbourhoods such as Sant Andreu or El Clot. In these neighbourhoods, it is the cultural associations and local historians who defend the memory of the Rec, in particular, the Ignasi Iglésias Study Centre in Sant Andreu, which inherited the Board of Irrigator’s archive for the Rec Comtal.6 The Study Centre recently opened an exhibition called, “Past, Present and Future of the Rec Comtal”, at the Can Fabra Cultural Centre. This exhibition aims to be the heart of the Rec Interpretation Centre project that the Study Centre intends to open in an abandoned house on Carrer del Pont de Sant Andreu, where the Rec used to be. The exhibition also received the support of Agbar. It is interesting to

From the point of view of the Study Centre, the Rec is mainly seen as a sign of identity in the neighbourhood, as a reaction to the radical transformation it has gone through in the last fifty years which has made it a peripheral area of Barcelona. The past of Sant Andreu “village”, with a clearly differentiated centre, with the “river” and the fields, appears for the purposes of nostalgia, but also in order to reclaim it. In fact, it is expected that the Rec Comtal revival project will help to reopen it as far as the historic centre of the neighbourhood. In El Clot, the relationship with the Rec is similar, in terms of nostalgia and reclaiming of a disappeared identity trait, before the absorption of the neighbourhood into the great city during the twentieth century. The Rec was also covered in this district after the Civil War. Enric H. March, a member of the Clot-Camp de l’Arpa History Workshop, has kept a blog on the Rec7 for years and has recently published a book. El Rec Comtal: 1000 anys d’història (March, 2016), which gives an excellent summary of the history of the Rec and identifies its passage through the city. It should be said that both the exhibition at the Ignasi Iglésias Study Centre and the book by March seem to have been a great success with the public, given attendance at the exhibition and the activities organised and the many presentations that March has given of the book, which has already sold out. El Rec is an issue that

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the people of Barcelona are interested and curious, particularly in the neighbourhoods the Rec went through. From Glòries to the sea: Rec archaeology and real estate speculation Just outside El Clot, recent works in Plaça de les Glòries (March 2016) have uncovered a section of the Rec which, according to the Archaeology service, is of great importance, since it can help explain the origin of the Rec, which may be older than was assumed until now (tenth century).8 In any case, from Glòries to the sea, residents’ memory of and relationship with the Rec is much vaguer, since the Rec was covered between the end of the nineteenth century and the early twentieth century (March, 2016). There is, therefore, no living memory of the Rec. But it is present in the names of the streets, like Carrer del Rec Comtal, Carrer de Sant Pere, or Carrer del Rec in La Ribera.

In the Fort Pienc neighbourhood, the Ateneu Popular el Rec social centre was recently founded.9 It was born in June 2014 as a result of the occupation of premises abandoned by Bankia at number 72, Carrer Ausiàs March. The occupation is the result of a campaign by youth associations in the neighbourhood that protested about the lack of associative spaces. The name Ateneu Popular el Rec was chosen to refer to an element that reflects the neighbourhood’s identity, although there is almost no direct memory of it. In Fort Pienc, the Rec refers to a Barcelona before the Eixample grid, before the homogenisation and depersonalisation of the neighbourhoods. However, the objective of the Ateneu is not only to research the heritage of the Rec, but also to revive the association, “make a neighbourhood” and present a critical position with regard to the real estate speculation that the area has suffered in recent years. After two years’ operation, they received an eviction notice. From

that moment on, the “RECsistència, banc o barri” campaign was launched10 (RECsistence, bank or neighbourhood) to defend the Ateneu, which clearly expresses a position of confrontation with real estate speculation and the financial institutions that carry it out. At the time of writing this article (March 2018), the Ateneu has not yet vacated. The question of real estate speculation is also key to the next and last section of the Rec, Ciutat Vella. In this area the pressure of housing sale and rental prices has been added to the pressure of tourism, which has resulted in many residents having to leave and their homes being replaced by tourist accommodation. Among the multitude of conflicts, scandals and police reports that this transformation has caused in the last decades, we find the case of the Hotel on Carrer Rec Comtal. On September 18, 2015, the Ciutat Vella Neighbourhood Association and the Neighbours in Defence of Ciutat Vella blocked Passeig de Lluís Companys

The Rec. 2014. ATENEU POPULAR DEL FORT PIENC

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in protest against the construction of a hotel with 99 beds, awarded to the construction company Nuñez i Navarro. The neighbours protested against the flood of tourists in the Old Town, but in particular they argued that the hotel was built on the remains of the Rec Comtal, thus violating the historical heritage of the city.11 This protest forced the City Council to carry out an archaeological survey of the site, the result of which was the discovery of a necropolis dating back to the Early Middle Ages. However, the City Council reached an agreement with Nuñez and Navarro to incorporate an archaeological plan parallel to the construction of the hotel12 and the works went on. Neighbourhood associations lodged a complaint against the City Council for the case of the hotel, and the Public Prosecutor’s Office found irregularities in the procedure, but without there being any criminal significance.13 For residents, the argument of historical heritage is only part of a more general

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problem; the transformation of the neighbourhood into a tourist area. In Ciutat Vella the Rec Comtal is a remote presence, “fossilised” in the streets, as March says (2016). What is interesting, however, is how the remains of the Rec in this area have been given value. According to Manel Martin, as we have mentioned, it can be said that the recovery of the Rec is due to the importance given to the eighteenth century remains of the city found under the Born market, which in 2006 were declared a Cultural Asset of National Interest. The case of the Mercat del Born is interesting, because in the previous decade, in 1991, the City Council built a car park opposite the market, where there were similar archaeological remains or, perhaps, even more important ones, including a Roman necropolis and a Muslim one.14 But few remains still exist today. The “discovery” of the city of 1714 under the Born, and its museological recovery, are the result not only of an archaeological research process but also of a political project. A project that also made an entity visible that had become invisible, the Rec, and that from the beginning of the twenty-first century is reborn under the protection of historical heritage. But as we have seen, not all sections of the Rec produce

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the same image, nor do they seem to have the same value as heritage. Conclusions: urbanism, heritage and infrastructure Our research on the Rec Comtal has led us to think about a number of issues, which could be summarised as three topics: The first is the uses of the Rec, real and planned, between the residents and the city, and how these uses affect the “development” of the Rec. The second is the question of the Rec as heritage. Cultural, material and intangible heritage, but also heritage in the most general sense, a property. The third is the question of infrastructure as an image and the collective imagination regarding infrastructures. Uses of the Rec and city projects In the various relationships that the agents we have presented have with the Rec, a series of visions of the city have been laid on the table from the point of view of urban planning, neighbourhood cohesion, public spiritedness, leisure, centre-suburbs relations, connections and uses or the “culture” of water. One of the results of the Master Plan will be to determine the correct and incorrect uses of the Rec. Precisely, this regulation which attempts to pro-

The Rec Comtal in the Born-Centre for Culture and Memory. 2016. LIMEN ARCHIVE

tect the Rec may conflict with many of these uses. As we have seen, in the initial sections of the Rec, where it is still open, the Rec is a “river”, an open space without an owner and “natural”, meaning free; people use it to wash clothes, water gardens, swim... or even swell cardboard. Probably none of these uses can be accommodated in the regulation that the Master Plan will propose. Determining the correct uses of the Rec depends on the rights of access to water. The regulatory plans of Barcelona City Council will include a legal report that says who has the right to the Rec and how it can be used. It is not, therefore, a question only of cultural, material or intangible heritage, but rather of “heritage” in itself, of ownership of the water and of the infrastructure that contains it. After all, the question is what kind of heritage we are talking about, who it belongs to and who has the right to use it. From the perspective of the architectural and landscape projects that we have mentioned, the Rec appears as an object of contemplation, an image, a part of a landscape or park that can be admired from a distance: walking, cycling, exercising. Even in the case that the allotments are present, it is not clear how they will be administered and drained of water; It is unlikely that unlimited irrigation will be allowed due to the expense it would entail. In these projects, the Rec does not appear as a functional infrastructure or as a natural river, but as an embellishing feature of a “naturalised” space but not actually natural, that is, free: The projects design parks that look like what these places may look like “naturally”, but within a highly symbolic urban order, which tries to signify a natural and cultural past without returning to it. Paradoxically, then, this “recovery” may conflict with the experience of the Rec which local residents currently have. This does not mean that recovery of the Rec is not a project that many residents might

The Rec Comtal: infrastructures and imagination in Barcelona water

enthusiastically support, but it must be noted that this recovery will also involve some compromises. In particular, we can say that the project conforms to the perspective of neighbourhoods such as Sant Andreu and El Clot, who want to recover the Rec as an element of identity, rather than in the areas of the initial and final stretches of the Rec. The urban development plans to recover the Rec are an example of the “Barcelona model”, characterised by large urban projects (Capel, 2005) that suggest a collective identity (Delgado, 2007). But precisely because they try to reflect a collective identity, these projects leave little room for peripheral or dissenting identities from the models they propose. Water heritage It is interesting to point out, on the other hand, that these projects have the backing and financial support of Agbar. In recent years, the Agbar Foundation and the Archaeology Service of Barcelona have signed several collaboration agreements to promote projects to recover the remains of the Rec. The agreement signed on May 4, 2016 provides for the production of a web documentary, an interactive documentary that will offer a virtual tour of the Rec. Agbar’s interest in the Rec can be a reason for reflection, since, as we have said, the Rec and the public infrastructures that derive from it have disappeared as a direct or indirect consequence of the success of Agbar as a supplier of water in the city of Barcelona. The only possible reading of this interest is in terms of public image: the company’s desire, we could even say need, to show a positive image, of involvement in the appreciation of the historical and cultural heritage of water infrastructures and, even, identification with the public institutions. This desire and need is made clearer in a context in which this company has been widely questioned, in particular since March 16, 2016, when the High Court of Justice of Catalonia cancelled the contract signed between Agbar and

the Metropolitan Area of Barcelona in 2012.15 The contract was cancelled because it had been awarded without a public tender. In recent years, critical voices have risen against the monopoly enjoyed by Agbar, and private water supply companies in Catalonia in general, with campaigns such as l’Agua és Vida (www.aiguaesvida.org), which have promoted the idea of consulting the public on the public management of water in Barcelona in May 2018. The question of this consultation was: “Do you want Barcelona water management to be public and with citizen participation?”. The inclusion of this question has been challenged by Agbar for two reasons: first, because the City Council does not have the authority to decide unilaterally on the public management of water; and secondly, because the question is not “clear enough”; Water management is already public, but it is granted to a mixed company, owned 70% by Agbar, 15% by AMB and 15% by Criteria, CaixaBank.16 It seems, then, quite obvious why Agbar feels the need for a good public image. In this sense, the recovery of the Rec can be related to the claim over a public water service. But we must go a little further and understand which of the ideas that the “remunicipalisation”17 of water or even of water as a common asset, recently promoted by the City of Barcelona,18 are difficult to apply to the case of the Rec. Indeed, the Rec was never entirely owned by the municipality, initially it was feudal property and was not built with the intention of providing a public service; and then it was a consortium between the Crown, the City Hall and the irrigators. This infrastructure was never a “common asset” either19 but it was always an object of conflict of interests between different entities and powers. In the case of the Rec, the argument of the “comuns” or the “right to infrastructures” (Corsin, 2014) can not be justified, in reference to the origins.

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The Rec Comtal and a visual anthropology of infrastructures This article also proposes a contribution to the anthropology of infrastructures. We could define an infrastructure as a built structure that facilitates the circulation and the exchange of things, people or ideas. Infrastructures operate as systems that model the nature of the elements that constitute it. They have a peculiar ontology: they are things and also relationships between things (Larkin, 2012).

The term infrastructure insists on the figure of the "base" or "background" on which objects and subjects are formed and circulated. Infrastructures are also vehicles of imagination, in particular the collective imagination of progress and modernity. Within this imagination, the infrastructure that works should be invisible and inaudible: It remains in the background as the network that permits circulation. The infrastructure that appears as an object, and is itself the protagonist, indicates on the contrary an accident, something that should not happen. But, ironically, it is these accidents that make us understand the operation of infrastructures, because they open the door in the background: They make an image appear. We are not interested here in understanding the “infrastructure” as a “real” background that hides the fiction of figures, ideology. On the contrary, what we find interesting is the dynamic relationship between figure and background: how figures (objects and subjects on the surface) can, in fact, change infrastructures. This dynamic duality between figure and background, thing/ network, object/context, is fundamental in what we suggest calling a visual anthropology of infrastructures. The Rec is an extraordinary example of this argument. When it disappears as an infrastructure at the end of the twentieth century, it appears as an image that different agents (architects, archaeologists,

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historians, municipal officials) intend to recover. But it is always an image: they do not really propose “reviving” the Rec, re-using it as an infrastructure, but simply “recreating it”, giving it value through the imagination. How-

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ever, the different appearances of the Rec, as it emerges on the surface, resist the construction of a single “directed” coherent image: from the residents of Can Sant Joan who swim in the river to the residents of Ciutat Vella who protest

about the construction of the hotel over the Rec, the background comes to the surface in unexpected and uncontrollable ways, like the water it contained. n

Larkin, B. (2013). “The Poetics and Politics of Infrastructure”. Annu. Rev. Anthropol. Vol. 42, p. 327-343.

Massanes, R. and Envers, A. (1999). Corredors Blaus i corredors verds. Manual de restauració de riberes fluvials. Barcelona: Fundació Terra.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Capel, H. (2005). El modelo Barcelona: Un examen crítico. Madrid: El Serbal. Conillera i Vives, P. (1991). L’aigua de Montcada. L’abastament Municipal d’Aigua de Barcelona. Mil Anys d’Història. Barcelona: Publicacions de l’Institut d’Ecologia Urbana de Barcelona. Ajuntament de Barcelona. Corsín Jiménez, A. (2014). The right to Infrastructure. A prototype for Open Source Urbanism. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 32(2), p. 342-362. Delgado, M. (2007). La ciudad mentirosa. Fraude y miseria del modelo Barcelona. Madrid: Piqueta.

March, E. H. (2016). El Rec Comtal: 1000 anys d’història. Barcelona: Viena Edicions. Martín Pascual, M. (1999). El Rec Comtal, 1822-1879: la lluita pel control de l’aigua a la Barcelona del segle xix. Barcelona: Rafael Dalmau. Martin Pascual, M. (2009). Barcelona aigua i ciutat. L’abastament d´aigua entre les dues exposicions (1888-1929). Barcelona: Agbar Foundation.

Miró, C., Orengo, H. A. and Ejarque, A. (2015). El Rec Comtal. Com l’aigua dibuixa la ciutat. Actes V CAMMC. Barcelona: Ajuntament de Barcelona, p. 21-38. Orengo H. A. and Miró, C. (2013). Reconsidering the water system of Roman Barcino (Barcelona) from supply to discharge. Water History, 5(3), p. 243-266.

Martin Pascual, M. (2017). Aigües de Barcelona. 150 anys al servei de la ciutat (18672017). Barcelona: Agbar Foundation.

Ortí Gost, P. (1993). L’explotació d’una renda reial: els molins del Rec Comtal de Barcelona fins el segle xiii. In Sánchez Martínez, M. (comp.), Estudios sobre renta, fiscalidad y finanzas en la Cataluña bajomedieval (p. 243-275). Barcelona: CSIC, [Annual on medieval estudies. Annex, 27].

http://www.planur-e.es/miscelanea/view/ recuperaci-n-del-rec-comtal-barcelona-/full

Guardia, M. (ed.) (2012). La revolució de l’aigua a Barcelona. Aigua corrent i ciutat moderna 1867-1967. Barcelona: Museum of the History of Barcelona.

NOTES

https://elpais.com/ccaa/2017/05/18/ catalunya/1495135353_843242.html

https://www.elperiodico.com/es/barcelona/ 20160403/ayuntamiento-propone-22 -intervenciones-urbanas-recorrido-reccomtal-5014363

https://www.elperiodico.cat/ca/barcelona/ 20140207/el-projecte-canopia-urbana-guanyael-projecte-de-reforma-de-les-Glòries-3080130

http://www.lavanguardia.com/local/barcelona/20160308/40280493192/hallada-piedrarosetta-rec-comtal-Glòries.html https://ateneupopularelrec.wordpress.com/ https://ateneupopularelrec.wordpress.com/ el-rec/recsistencia/

https://www.elperiodico.com/es/barcelona/ 20141003/nueva-protesta-en-ciutat-vellacontra-el-hotel-proyectado-en-el-rec-comtal3573277

https://www.elperiodico.cat/ca/barcelona/ 20161019/ningu-va-defensar-el-bornel-1991-5574524 https://www.ara.cat/economia/TSJC-concessiolempresa-recorrera-prestant_0_1541246056. html

http://www.elcritic.cat/investigacio/la-novaguerra-de-aigua-agbar-contra-la-multiconsultade-barcelona-20898

http://www.aiguaesvida.org/category/ remunicipalitzacio/

http://www.planur-e.es/miscelanea/view/ recuperaci-n-del-rec-comtal-barcelona-/full

https://www.elperiodico.com/es/barcelona/ 20141218/una-necropolis-bajo-el-hotel-delrec-3784360

http://centreestudisignasiiglesias.blogspot. com.es/

http://el-rec-comtal.blogspot.com.es/

https://www.elperiodico.com/es/barcelona/ 20170614/el-fiscal-halla-irregularidades-enel-hotel-de-rec-comtal-de-barcelona-nunez-ynavarro-no-delito-6105014

http://ajuntament.barcelona.cat/ ecologiaurbana/ca/dia-mundial-aigua/jornada https://reccomtal.wordpress.com/2018/02/11/ programa-de-la-jornada-rec-comtal-un-be-comu/

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Identifying features of the Santa Llúcia Christmas market in Barcelona, between aspiration and reality Jordi Montlló Bolart EL BOU Y LA MULA ASSOCIATION

Doctor in Social Anthropology for the UB. Master’s Degree in Museology and Ethnological and Cultural Heritage Management. Some of the latest monographs are: Our nativity figures (2010), The paths of the nativity scene (2014) and Bartomeu Marcé i Reixach, the last romantic sculptor of nativity scenes in Catalonia (2015). He is president and founder of the Nativity Scene Opinion, Research and Dissemination Association El Bou i La Mula.

his article grew out of a doctoral thesis entitled La Fira de Santa Llúcia de Barcelona: la primera fira de pessebres documentada (1786-2012), defended on July 18 at the Faculty of Geography and History of the University of Barcelona, supervised by Dr Josefina Roma and Dr Xavier Roigé. The thesis served a double purpose: to determine the genesis and the evolutionary process of this market in this context as an interpretation of Barcelona and Catalan society, and to know the mechanisms and relationships that are established, first within the working and family organisation of the stallholders A l’article ens preguntem quines són les característiques que defineixen la Fira de Santa Llúcia a partir del relat creat pels informants i firaires i la paradoxa amb la realitat que es descriu en el relat etnogràfic. També ens qüestionem si l’imaginari dels usuaris és una construcció més pròpia del desig que de la realitat. Existeix la fira que cadascú es construeix en el seu relat? És possible que es projecti una imatge estereotipada? Possiblement coexisteixi més d’una fira alhora, però per entreveure-les han calgut cinc anys de recerca.

Paraules claus: Nadal, fira, Santa Llúcia, Barcelona, pessebres Palabras clave: Navidad, feria, santa Llúcia, Barcelona, belenes Keywords: Christmas, Christmas markets, Santa Llúcia, Barcelona, Nativity scenes

Santa Llúcia Market (1952). PROVENANCE: JOSEFINA MIR.

En este artículo nos preguntamos acerca de las características que definen la feria de Santa Llúcia a partir del relato creado por los propios protagonistas, los feriantes, y la paradoja con la realidad que describe el relato etnográfico. Cuestionamos si el imaginario de los usuarios es una construcción más propia del deseo que de la realidad. ¿Es posible que la feria de Santa Llúcia que cada uno de nosotros imaginamos no exista? ¿Es posible que nuestro imaginario nos proyecte una visión estereotipada? Posiblemente coexistan más de una feria a la vez, pero para vislumbrarlas han hecho falta cinco años de investigación.

In this article we ask about the characteristics that define the Santa Llúcia market, based on the story created by the protagonists, the stallholders, and the paradox with the reality that the ethnographic story describes. We ask if the imaginary view of the users is a construct more typical of desire than reality. Is it possible that the Santa Llúcia market that each of us imagines does not exist? Is it possible that our imaginary project is a stereotyped vision? Possibly more than one fair will coexist at the same time, but to look at them, five years of research have been necessary.

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Santa Llúcia Market. Stall in the figures sector (2012). AUTHOR: JORDI MONTLLÓ.

throughout the year, and then within the study of the market itself. In this article we will focus on the part of the work in which we reflect on the characteristics that define the object of study based on the story created by the protagonists, the stallholders, and the paradox with the reality described by the ethnographic story. We wonder whether the imaginary view of the users is a construct that is more typical of desire than reality. Is it possible that the Santa Llúcia Christmas Market that each of us imagines when we hear people speaking of it does not really exist? Is it possible that our imagination projects a stereotyped vision of the fair? Does the input that we receive from the market tell us a real story or does it sell us a sweetened fiction? Possibly more than one market coexist at the same time, but it’s taken five years of research to distinguish them with the relevant scientific methodology.

Just as the deconstruction of a cake will allow us to discover the ingredients (flour, sugar, egg, chocolate, oil, almonds, etc.), the deconstruction of the market has allowed us to solve all these doubts. The Santa Llúcia Christmas Market of Barcelona is a market for Christmas objects and nativity scene figures that is set up in front of the Cathedral during the month before Christmas. The first recorded mention of this market dates back to 1786. The Institute of Catalan Studies Dictionary of the Catalan Language defines fira (market) as the concurrence at a certain time and place of sellers with their merchandise and buyers. The celebration period takes place between the last week of November and December 23. The start date is variable, but the end of it, for many years, has been set as December 23. The designated place or the place

where it happens is Avinguda de la Catedral, Barcelona; between Carrer dels Arcs (off Avinguda del Portal de l’Àngel) and Via Laietana. If space and time are elements that characterise it, what makes it unique are the vendors and the merchandise. These have to do with the festive calendar and the celebration of Christmas. Therefore, the products we can find are all those that we need to celebrate Christmas, or almost. It is called Santa Llúcia because it was formerly celebrated on December 13, the saint’s dies natalis, in the chapel dedicated to her, next to the Cathedral. Since the first mention of this fair, in 1786 (Amat Cortada and Sanjust, R., 1769-1815; Barcelona City Council, 1940), we know that it was not the only one, nor the first market in which figures and houses were sold to make nativity scenes or cork, moss and other greenery related to the Christmas

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holiday. The first was on December 8, the feast of the Immaculate Conception. One was also documented on December 18, for the festivities in honour of Santa Maria de l’Esperança, around the churches of Santa Maria del Mar; Sant Cugat del Rec, on Carrer de Sant Cugat, and even at the Marcús chapel. And, finally, the Sant Tomàs market, between December 21 and 24, that was the market of markets in Barcelona, mainly for nativity scenes, around the Pi and Santa Maria del Mar churches. Since 1932, all the Christmas markets have been unified as one, under the name of Santa Llúcia.

Santa Llúcia Market. Stall in the handicrafts section (2012). AUTHOR: JORDI MONTLLÓ.

The basic purpose of any market is a commercial one and the need for certain products is its reason for being. But we agree with Danielle Provansal (1995: 98) when she says that fairs and markets have other functions that are not solely economic. She refers to social, recreational and symbolic functions.

In this case, these functions take on more prominence because it is a celebration as widespread as Christmas, with a highly symbolic component, as we will see, and with great social impact. Another element that distinguishes it is its long history. This baggage can lead

Santa Llúcia Market. Stall in the greenery sector (2012). AUTHOR: JORDI MONTLLÓ.

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us to picture an image of the market that no longer exists, or that has never existed, or that does exist, but only in a symbolic way. In reality, this has been a driving force behind the thesis. For this reason, in the interviews, which have been essential from a methodo-

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logical point of view, one of the fixed questions that the interviewees were asked was what they thought identified the fair and gave it a specific or unique character. The stallholders story according to the surveys What are the features that make Santa Llúcia a special market, if there really are any? Can we discern specific features or characteristics that make it unique? Are these traits perceived in the same way by everyone? Or are they blurry, variable, and therefore likely to change and disappear?

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It is possible that the stallholders’ vision does not coincide with that of the public and the users of the market. There have been no quantitative surveys, which are normally closed or behaviourist and that offer predetermined options. Neither has there ever been a valuation survey from the bodies governing the market, which are the Santa Llúcia Market Association and Barcelona City Council, through the Ciutat Vella district. What they did do however, was to create a survey for the stallholders, but we will not comment on that here (Barcelona City Council, 2008).

Santa Llúcia Market figure maker’s workshop (2012). AUTHOR: JORDI MONTLLÓ.

Santa Llúcia Market craftswoman’s workshop (2012). AUTHOR: JORDI MONTLLÓ.

Notwithstanding, the opinion of the interviewees, who are or have been stallholders, is of interest because of their perspective and direct link to the market over so many years of participation and experience. The question that they were asked was direct and open. The range of answers was not at all restrictive. On the contrary, far from the danger of focusing on stereotypes, the answers were quite broad and appropriate to the different interlocutors. With the interviewees’ answers we can see what they really value about the market, which after all is their modus vivendi for part of the year. They can be summarised in the following points: the space where it is held, the celebration dates, the tradition and the long history of the market, the types of stalls, the theme, the production methods and the uniqueness of the products. We have already seen in the definition of market that space and dates are two recurring and defining concepts in general terms of any market. For Santa Llúcia Market, the space, with slight but not harmless variations, has remained unchanged for more than 230 years. The Cathedral has been and is a symbolic feature of this market as a geographic, rather than spiritual centre. It is a social point of reference with a high added value for the location and, at the same time, the emotional and evocative weight of values such as history and tradition. But, also because it has demonstrated its strategic value from a demographic and, therefore, economic point of view. In this sense, stallholders Mari Carme and Josep, say that the market is: “at the nerve centre. If Santa Llúcia Market were to be moved away from the cathedral, they would kill it.”1 Regarding the dates, we have to bear in mind that Santa Llúcia is a temporary, seasonal market. It is a long-term market if compared to other similar

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fairs and markets, since it lasts almost for a month, but it is temporary nonetheless. The stalls are set up and remain in place from the first to the last day. Both the start and end days have changed over time and have led to discussions and conflicts, which have not always been resolved to everyone’s liking. Even so, it is necessary to link the holding of Santa Llúcia Market directly with the Christmas holiday and its dates. One of the most frequently mentioned concepts in the interviews is that of tradition or the traditional to define the market. But this concept is used in a double sense: as old and as family continuity. The first meaning is that which refers to the age of the market. This fact is often used as a legitimation and strong point of the market in the face of possible dangers or threats, but also as a source of pride, and is one of the few aspects of the group’s cohesion. The family continuity aspect of the stalls is highly valued among the interviewees, especially for those for whom it is family thing. For Francesc, it is very clear: “If I have to say something that characterises Santa Llúcia Market [...] It is the tradition of the people that are there. Ninety or ninety-five percent of the people that go there, have a father or grandfather that also went there.”2 For Isidre, what makes Santa Llúcia Market different from the other Christmas markets, is the tradition, “that has been passed down from parents to children, and that it is one of the oldest ones in existence.”3 Stalls have also entered this repertoire. Stalls are the unit by which the market is measured. Although we can find four or six-metre wide stalls, which often include two or three different permits, the standard regulation measurements of a stall is two metres by one metre. Many of the interviewees have indicated that, for them, the stall is an emblematic and identifying element

Santa Llúcia Market; greenery seller preparing fir trees (2012). AUTHOR: JORDI MONTLLÓ.

of the market. To what extent this perception can be a strength or weakness in the future of the market will be seen in time. But now I would like to show three different cases that can help us understand this statement and observe some contradictions. The first case is that of Josep Vidal,4 grandson, son and nephew of the same family of stallholders. They had a stall that Josep’s grandfather had made, in the 1930s. With age they had to leave it and Josep, who had another job, wanted to continue the family tradition. But that stall was too big to take on alone and he adapted it to his needs. In 2014 he decided to change it and make a new one, and with the advice of the nativity scene opinion, research and dissemination association El Bou i la Mula (the ox and the mule), he decided to make a donation to the Ethnological Museum of Barcelona (Montlló, Jordi, 2016).5 Gemma’s case 6 is different. She believes that the stalls themselves form part of the cultural heritage of the market. The fact is that the following year they abandoned the two stalls they had made and they made a new fourmetre one, which fell over with the first gust of wind, because it was not well balanced.

Finally, the last case is that of David.7 His mother, Rosa Borràs, began working at the market. After two generations and almost 50 years of family tradition, due to various issues he had to leave it. Every year spent at the market and the memories left behind led him to break the stall up into little pieces on the last day (Christmas 2013), and throw it into the skip at the market: “I didn’t even want to sell it. The stall was left to me by my father, and I didn’t want to see it there if I wasn’t there; I preferred to get rid of it.” So far we have seen some of the elements that are considered characteristic of the market, but they are either symbolic aspects, such as the concept of tradition, or more explicitly, space, dates or stalls. There are also references to what is behind these stalls, what is understood but not visible, related to the products that are sold. We have already seen that the central points of the definition of market are space, time (dates), sellers and merchandise. With regard to the sellers and the products they sell, the three points highlighted by the stallholders can be summarised in the method of production, the uniqueness of what

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is sold and the theme of the market. All indistinguishable from each other. But these lead us to talk about the type of stallholders. In the thesis, a classification has been made based on the method of production, the generation or whether the dedication is part or full-time. But in this case we can also see how a prototype or archetype of stallholder has been created in the collective imagination that can be found from the oldest records up to our fieldwork. The archetypal stallholder is a craftsman who works part time creating nativity scene figures or making little houses or objects from cork. This craftsman has another main job: carpenter, painter, electrician, etc. He uses his free time to pursue this other interest. He works from home or, at most, he has a small workshop or a small room specifically for this second activity. But often, more than one room fulfils a double purpose (dining

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room/workshop; corridor/storeroom; patio/oven). Often, but not always, there is more than one member of the family involved: partner, children, aunts and uncles or grandparents. In this archetype, the family tradition is an added value, and they usually have an ancestor that did it too. During the market season, it is necessary to organise the whole family so that each member takes on a specific role. There are only a few cases, but there are those in which the partner does not participate. Perhaps this is the main aspect that determines how the market is perceived. Letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s start with the production method. The market is formally divided into sectors: Figures, greenery, crafts and friction drums. Each section has regulations established regarding what may and may not be sold in it. This classification is the result of the historical development of the market and responds to criteria based on the

product being sold and not on the type of production or the uniqueness of the product. But when a stallholder explains that what makes the market distinctive is the production of the merchandise, what they mean is that these products are handmade. This statement is often a self-representation and, often, a desire to promote a sector, and to forget other considerations such as the subject matter, since in the sector of natural product sales it is hard to demand craftsmanship. Although, in reality, most of the stalls in this sector sell products that have been mass produced and are far from kilometre zero products. Of course, the more artisanal the product is, the more unique it will be and you will not be able to find it anywhere else. And that is what many claim to be a strong point. That people must come to the market specifically to find products that they will not find anywhere else. But some of these points

Composition of variety of products that can be found at Santa LlĂşcia Market. AUTHOR: JORDI MONTLLĂ&#x201C;.

Identifying features of the Santa Llúcia Christmas market in Barcelona, between aspiration and reality

are contradictory; and some concepts are not well defined. Here it is necessary to see what artisan means. In a very general way and leaving out a series of nuances that I gather in the general work, these are the features that the interviewees consider to be typical of the market. Analysis of the identifying elements from an external perspective Surveys and interviews are an important methodology for field work in anthropology, whether it is done from a quantitative or qualitative point of view, as is our case. But when it comes to aspects that have a direct relationship with the interviewees, especially if they are of an economic nature, we need to read between the lines. The interviewee often tells us what they think is correct or what the interviewer wants to hear. Other times, they simply hide information that they consider “not important”. But they always speak from experience and defend their interests. To avoid misinterpretation there is participant observation, or the contrast of data with other interviewees or other documentary sources. We have already seen, in the case of the stalls, how the facts provided by the interviewee contradicted their statements.

Finding out what the characteristic features of the object of study are is not futile. It has a dual purpose: getting to know the opinion of the protagonists of the study, getting valuable information to prepare the work; but also, to think about the market’s future. Not only knowing what it is now and how it became what it is, but also, and above all, learning about its trends and providing tools to plan actions aimed at establishing criteria and safeguarding its future; Which, ultimately, is also the main cause for concern for the stallholders. Let us analyse all these elements from the perspective of research methodologies and categories, though

with the logical limitations of the space we have. Of all the elements raised by the stallholders, there are some that are more relevant and other which are more con flicting. Not all reach the same conclusions and finding agreement on specific points is very difficult. The location of the market is one of the points that most agree on but with nuances that we cannot analyse now. The Cathedral space has been a permanent fixture since 1786. From 1932, all the nativity scene markets in Barcelona were unified and this space was chosen as the focal

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point. At that time, the market was held in front of the Cathedral and it spread through the streets around it, to Plaça Nova and Plaça de Sant Jaume. The demolition of part of the Cathedral district had not yet occurred. As of the fifties, with the disappearance of Carrer de la Corríbia and the annexes, the market opened on the northern slope. Since then, until 2008, the space has been the same, with the exception of some years in which it was altered due to the restoration of the façade of the Cathedral and the construction of a car park. But as of 2008, the stalls went down from the plaza to Avinguda de la Catedral,

Comparison of Santa Llúcia Market in 1939 and 2012. AUTHOR: JOSEP MARIA GARRUT AND JORDI MONTLLÓ.

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following safety regulations. The stallholders experience the advantages and disadvantages of this change in different ways, but beyond views based on the particular relocation of each stall, what it has caused is a visual change of the global body of the market. That is to say, the aesthetic shortcomings of the stalls were disguised better when they were grouped in a space as narrow as the Cathedral plaza. Now, the new distribution fails to create a calm and seductive space, and it shows a series of aesthetic anomalies of the stalls. In relation to the pedestrian traffic of the market, it has basically two entry or exit points: Via Laietana and Carrer dels Arcs, which is the continuation of Avinguda del Portal de l’Àngel. You can go from one end to the other without finding any obstacles, as the stalls are distributed on both sides of three avenues that connect these points. The feeling of coldness this produces may possibly increase for other reasons, such as the typology of stalls, lighting or other aesthetic shortcomings, but at this point it would be better to talk about the stalls from a physical point of view. For some, these structures, two metres wide by one metre, are part of the characteristic features of the market; although they are only widespread after the 1940s. In recent years, the Santa Llúcia Market Association, which brings together all the stallholders, has worked to improve the image of the market by implementing corrective measures at the stalls. “It has been defined that the image that the visitor should have of the market on arrival is as close as possible to a small mountain village in the Christmas season”. To achieve this, a series of modifications and obligations are defined, with regard to both the renovation of the existing stalls and all new ones. The standard size of the main body once closed must be 2 m x 1 m. The height may vary, but

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must not exceed three metres, leaving a margin of 35 or 40 cm for the decorative front, which “will simulate the front of a mountain house with its slopes and roof; windows can also be simulated, these will be optional. In order to achieve the necessary environment, white Christmas lighting will be placed on the front, or white LED lights”.8 Juny and Gemma9 think that these changes are positive to dignify the appearance of the stall without altering the format much, “it is still traditional but more elegant and it avoids the risk of it becoming a dull Christmas market like so many others, with prefabricated stalls, that would really destroy the market”. With these modifications we want to achieve a unifying effect of all the huts which, on the other hand, is perceived as a negative element, because it is associated with prefabricated models. Despite the efforts, the result has been uneven, and the market continues to have image problems, possibly related to what we said a while ago. But the type of stalls does not help. The latent fear that the City Council wants to introduce impersonal stalls like that of other markets in Barcelona can be overcome by getting to know other European models. This may entail a change in

the legal system; which increases the difficulty of finding a consensus and, therefore, the will in decision making. After talking about the location and the stalls, a third feature highlighted by the stallholders were the dates the market is held. At first sight, it may seem like one of the most obvious points and the most agreed upon, but that’s not the case. There is little room for manoeuvre, due to the seasonal theme of the market; but, nevertheless, it has led to important debates within the association after many years without significant changes. Apart from the historical modifications that it has undergone, since 2012 two options for the start of the market have been considered: those starting in the last week of November and those who want it to be shorter. Finally, an agreement has been reached that does not satisfy everyone, since the interests of greenery sellers and those of the rest clash, but it has been reached after strong disagreements and two votes by the association assembly. Starting a week before implies, for the greenery sector, having to acquire a natural product with an expiration date and that will not last a full month before the holidays. But there are other reasons than just the products for pre-

60 50 40 30 20 10 0

1r Figures

2n Greenery

4t Crafts

5è Friction drums

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Nuremberg Christmas Market (2012). AUTHOR: JOAN CLAPÉS.

ferring a short or long market, which we could call phenomenological. Many stallholders work part time. For them, the market is an exceptional period in which they sell the work they have done throughout the year. Parents or grandparents did it and it is extra money. The main source of family income comes from other work, which can be done by themselves or their spouse. At a market that administratively lasts for two months, the administrative requirements are doubled, even though there are only three or four days in one month. The municipal fees and the prices of additional services are increased. Balancing this with the main economic activity is much more difficult. Many people ask their company for days off coinciding with the market. In short, the difficulties in maintaining economic sustainability and, therefore, the continuity of many stallholders increase. We could say that until now the most immediate points have been dealt with. The next in line would be more structural and, therefore, more problematic: the concept of tradition or the generational continuity of families and everything related to the production and theme of the market, that is, what has to do with the merchandise and, therefore, with the sellers. Let’s start by talking about the double meaning they use to talk about tradition and by analysing what refers to the family tradition of selling at the market one

generation after another. The percentage that Francesc gave us on stallholders from families with a long tradition at the market does not match the reality; at least not the current one. Maybe it did reach 90% years ago. As you can see in the graph,10 there are differences according to the sector; but in the largest sectors, such as figures and greenery, we are talking about 67% and 70%, respectively. Owning a stall at Santa Llúcia Market is like owning a scarce asset. The person who gets the title is lucky. It is a means to make money that many want and few get. It is not available to everyone, because space is limited and demand is very high. At present, it is reserved for 287 people, which is the maximum number of planned stalls, but barely twenty years ago there were more than 400 stalls around the cathedral. The reduction to almost half makes the value of this gift rise, reserved for a privileged few. Tele Exprés once said: “A problem that is repeated this year and that will not be settled until next year is that of municipal permits to set up a stall in Santa Llúcia Market, monopolised by the same people for years. Next year, only the nativity scene makers will have the right to keep their place ‘because they start working on them at the beginning of the year,’ says Councillor Rafael Pradas. The Christmas tree stalls and products that are not strictly Christmas crafts will lose their privileges to make room for new craftsmen. 860 applications have been

made this year for an auction of only 25 places”.11 It seems that from the moment a person becomes the holder of a market stall, a special status can be obtained which must be preserved as a treasure and even become an asset that must be passed on as an inheritance. Francesc12 says that his uncle’s stall “was inherited from Grandfather Felix”. When Rosa Maria13 was 11 years old, her grandfather told her he would put the stall in her name, because of all the grandchildren, she was the one that was most fond of the market. For Yolanda it is important that the family is given priority in the continuity of a stall and, speaking of hers, she says that it is the inheritance “that my grandmother left me and I would love for my children to continue it”. But what do the rules say of this custom? Well, just recently, there is talk of the legal possibility of passing a stall from parents to children.14 The agreement does not speak of this possibility. Only in section 14.e is it said that neither the permit granted nor the right to use the stalls can be transferred nor can it be exploited by any person other than the permit holder. This ban has been found in the different regulations that the City Council published annually and made known to the stallholders. The oldest I saw says: “The successful bidder may not, under

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any circumstances lease, transfer or assign the stall granted by seniority or draw.”15 This prohibition is repeated annually in all other regulations, but in this same regulation of the year 1981 we find a very important article: “Those wishing to take advantage of the benefits of seniority must accredit it with documents, through the presentation of proof of payment of the permit obtained in previous years. For these purposes, seniority shall be deemed after having obtained a permit in the same name for three consecutive years or 5 alternate years, all immediately preceding the date of application. Those who have proven sufficient seniority will have the right to the same place and number as previous years without having to enter the draw. In the event of the death of the owner, their heirs shall be entitled to the stall and to seniority up to the third degree of kinship. If the heirs renounce their right in writing in favour of the assistant, the latter may have the same rights.” In fact, what this note does is it normalises a situation that should have been repeated in a customary way. This is one of the most conflicting points and an example of how a rule designed to protect a certain type of stallholder, which could be called archetypal, has become a structural blockage and has resulted in a situation that is difficult to resolve. What really happened, and I have been able to verify this in the interviews is that the stallholder who worked on crafts at home, as a financial supplement to their regular work, is the grandfather or grandmother of the current stallholder who has been given the benefit of occupying the place during the market, but what is now sold is bought from wholesalers. In this way, one can say that there is transfer of the stalls, but not of the knowledge. To such an extent that today, the main concern of the Santa Llúcia Market Association, as is natural, is the defence of its associates. Therefore, what they want is to be able to continue year after year, regardless of the products they sell and

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their type of production, topics that we discuss below. The market theme, production systems, quality and uniqueness of the products, are issues that are directly related. Obviously, at the current Santa Llúcia Market is not the same one spoken of by Baron de Maldà. As Ariño and Gómez (2012) say, in recent decades, as a result of a process of urban modernisation and economic servitisation on the one hand, and secularisation and globalisation on the other, the structure of the holiday calendar has changed significantly. Therefore, the market we find will be directly linked to the type of celebration. Here the problems analysed for the incorporation of new customs or the evolution of the meanings and symbols of each element (Lévi-Strauss, 1950) make sense. The supply of products is directly related to demand, and this demand is defined by the consumption of old and new customs. Only the confluence between these three variants will define the market and its essences. If a reductionist approach is taken, many variables would be excluded; if it becomes too broad, the reality of the market can become an oriental bazaar, with no particular element strong enough to attract people, and the uniqueness sought is lost. Recap by way of an epilogue What is set forth in this article is only a very small fraction of all the work that was intended to study, understand and provide the basis for the establishment of future measures for Santa Llúcia Market. The complexity of the object of study, due to its long history, the agents involved, the festivities it represents and its social impact, causes many parallel arguments or themes to remain unexamined.

Even so, I think that it has been possible to provide an outline that serves

to open the debate, if it is wanted and it is considered appropriate. There was no talk about the governing bodies of the market and the historical development and many other important aspects have been ignored, which serve to understand it all better. We were not able to spend time analysing the social, recreational and symbolic functions of the market (Provenzal, 1992), but, ultimately, it is the potential or decrease of these functions will mark the future of the market. When the interviewees speak of characteristic features, what they actually do is show what elements they believe make Santa Llúcia Market different, what makes it special. For them it is, because it is their market, because most of them have experienced it for many years, sometimes generations; because it is an economic incentive for the family, or because it is part of the person’s nature and has created a very strong emotional bond. But the market should also be analysed from a point of view looking more towards the future and less back at the past. The strength of this statement, especially from someone who has done an ethnohistorical study of the market, requires clarification. It is obvious that the present of the market is the result of the journey that has been made so far, so it is good to study the past; to help us understand the present and complete the information obtained from the field work done. But often, external changes and ones that do not depend on the subject of study happen more quickly and condition it. All changes produce a crisis, which according to performance theory (Turner, 1988) requires some readjustments and some time to take them on board. Sometimes the conflicts are resolved and sometimes they become entrenched. The lack of decisionmaking in the face of some problems causes others or extends the existing

Identifying features of the Santa Llúcia Christmas market in Barcelona, between aspiration and reality

ones. Some have emerged collaterally, while others have not been mentioned and are important. We have focused more on the stallholders view on the possible potential of the market; however, it would be necessary for the governing bodies to make a serious plan for the future, because what we have noted is negligence in decision-making. Even the simplest aspects, such as space, dates or stalls, have apparently caused

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Ariño, A. and Gómez, S. (2012). La festa mare. Les festes en una era postcristiana. Valencia: Valencian Museum of Ethnology – Valencia Provincial Council. Barcelona City Council. (2008). Enquestes Santa Llúcia 2008. [Unpublished].

unresolved tensions and conflicts. With regard to family continuity as a tradition of the market, it is one of the more problematic and continued issues. The interests are opposed, the defence of the associates by the association is to the detriment of possible improvement in aspects related to the uniqueness and the quality of the product.

D’Amat Cortada i Sanjust, R. (1769). Calaix de sastre (1769-1816). Manuscripts. Barcelona: Historic Archives of the City of Barcelona.

governing body does not think about what it wants the market to be, it will be the victim of external agents and social and market inertias which will take over it. n

NOTES

Mari Carme and Josep, age 63 and 66, respectively; Barcelona, 17 April 2013. Francesc, age 62; Barcelona, May 10, 2013.

3 4

Josep Vidal, age 42; Premià de Mar, March 17, 2012.

http://elpessebredelamula.blogspot. com/2016/02/la-caseta-de-la-nissaga-delsfiguraires.html

Levi-Strauss, C. (1950). Introduction à l’ouvre de Marcel Mauss. In M. Mauss, Sociologie et Anthropologie. Paris: PUF.

Montlló Bolart, J. (2016). La caseta de la nissaga dels figuraires Vidal, entra a formar part del fons del Museu Etnològic de Barcelona [online]. http://elpessebredelamula.blogspot. com/2016/02/la-caseta-de-la-nissaga-delsfiguraires.html

Montlló Bolart, J. (2017). La fira de Santa Llúcia de Barcelona: la primera fira de pessebres documentada (1786-2012). Barcelona: University of Barcelona. (Doctoral thesis)

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There are no evaluation procedures, unlike other European markets. If the

Isidre, age 74; Barcelona, September 9, 2013.

Barcelona City Council. Museum of Popular Arts and Industry. (1940). Noticias de belenes barceloneses: siglos xviii-xix. Barcelona: Historic Archives of the City.

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Gemma, age 38, Sant Just Desvern, September 26, 2013. David, age 50, Barcelona, March 21, 2014

Collaboration agreement between Barcelona City Council and the Santa Llúcia Market Association; approved by the Government Committee on June 18, 2014.

Gemma, age 38, Sant Just Desvern, September 26, 2013.

Provansal, D. (1992). Els mercats de Barcelona. Barcelona: Barcelona City Council.

Turner, V. (1988). The anthropology of performance. New York: PAJ Publications.

Data collected during fieldwork in the year 2012. Tele Expres,December 11, 1979, p. 8

Francesc, age 62; Barcelona, May 10, 2013.

Rosa Maria, age 56, Premià de Mar, September 19, 2013. When talking about passing a stall on it does not mean a physical stall, it means the right to the public space.

Regulation of the year 1981, article 7

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Journey to the Icària neighbourhood

The heritage of a forgotten industrial past María Gabriela Navas Perrone UNIVERSITY OF BARCELONA RESEARCH GROUP ON SOCIAL EXCLUSION AND CONTROL (GRECS-UB)

Founder of Formació Antiarq. Coordinator of the Catalan Institute of Anthropology Research Group on Anthropology and Architecture. PhD Social Anthropology from the University of Barcelona, MA in City Government from FLACSO-Ecuador and BA in Architecture from the Catholic University of Santiago de Guayaquil. Her line of research deals with the political economy of architectural production and the social impacts of urban renewal. Member of the University of Barcelona Research Group on Social Exclusion and Control (GRECS-UB), the Catalan Institute of Anthropology, the Observatory of Anthropology of Urban Conflict (OACU) and Formació Antiarq.

Paraules clau: Arxiu, memòria, barri, quotidianitat, urbanisme Palabras clave: Archivo, memoria, barrio, cotidianeidad, urbanismo Key words: Archive, memory, neighbourhood, everyday life, urban planning

The factory buildings were inventoried in order to record the existence of a

The operation was complete urban annihilation, which acted as if the land were uninhabited. Not even the

buildings and pieces that the specialists who carried out the pre-destruction study had listed as heritage survived. This inventory, which was aimed at detailing constructive aspects, does not mention its connection to preexisting means of socialising, nor did it affect the town planning criteria of the intervention. Caballé recognises that, unlike other significant demolitions of historical Barcelona landmarks, “the disappearance of what was the Icària neighbourhood has not been paid the slightest attention. It is as if the transformation were not extensive or traumatic. And, it was, at least as far as heritage is concerned” (Caballé, 2010: 6). Despite the impact of this

El barri d’Icària és el nom adjudicat al sector industrial que va ser enderrocat els anys vuitanta per concretar part de la reforma urbanística de Barcelona com a seu de les Olimpíades del 1992. Les edificacions es van inventariar per arxivar una mostra del patrimoni arquitectònic industrial. Aquest buidatge del territori per construir-hi la Vila Olímpica va significar la desarticulació de les formes de sociabilitat d’un barri, les quals s’han reconstruït a través de la memòria que els seus habitants conserven com a patrimoni personal.

El barrio de Icària es el nombre adjudicado al sector industrial que fue derribado en los años ochenta para concretar parte de la reforma urbanística de Barcelona como sede de las Olimpiadas de 1992. Las edificaciones fueron inventariadas para archivar una muestra del patrimonio arquitectónico industrial. Este vaciado del territorio para la construcción de la Vila Olímpica significó la desarticulación de formas de sociabilidad distintivas de un barrio que han sido reconstruidas a través de la memoria que sus habitantes conservan como patrimonio personal.

The district of Icària is the name given to the industrial sector that was demolished in the eighties to conclude part of the urban renewal of Barcelona as host of the 1992 Olympic Games. The buildings were inventoried in order to archive a proof of architectural industrial heritage. This emptying of the territory for the construction of the Olympic Village, meant the dismantling of the different means of socialising in the neighbourhood that have been reconstructed through the memory that its inhabitants hold as a personal heritage.

Introduction1

he Icària neighbourhood is the name given to the industrial area in the sector currently occupied by Vila Olímpica (the Olympic Village), before the urban renewal that took place in Barcelona prior to the 1992 Olympic Games. To promote the servitisation of the area, pre-existing facilities were demolished and the working residents were evicted.

varied sample of industrial architecture. This documentation is part of the historical-architectural Study of the Avinguda d’Icària-Passeig de Carles I area,2 which is currently located at the Documentation Centre of the Archaeology Service of the Institute of Culture and the Municipal Archive of the Sant Martí District.3 This study contains six volumes that describe the characteristics of the buildings, the historical creation of the area and fragments of interviews with residents and evicted business owners.

Journey to the Icària neighbourhood

town planning violence, it has not managed to eradicate the memories kept as individual heritage, which this research has tried to highlight. Retrieving the witness accounts of the real protagonists of this story implies restoring a part of the popular past of the city that the developers of the Vila Olímpica considered irrelevant.

became part of the material stock of a type of “archive memory” (Nora, 1984). Nora explains how the management of the past currently operates in the background as an authenticated memory transformed into history, with the intention of highlighting certain facts of the past, at the expense of those that are considered irrelevant.

Discovering the past at ground level The research presented here explores the existence of a living human history regarding a land that is difficult to know the past of; exploring it at ground level, accompanied by the survivors. With this premise, initial archive work was done to analyse the historical facts and the interviews kept as a documentary source in order to obtain indications for the following stages of field work. The study of the records was fundamental, as they “offer clues to understanding what was considered worth keeping at a particular point in time” (Muzzopappa and Villalta, 2011: 29). That is why it is valuable for rich ethnographic analysis (Gil, 2010), given the possibility of linking the production of files to the official historical discourse.

The servitisation of the sector acquired legitimacy through a policy on memory that is considered universal, and yet the silenced memories have managed to survive in the mind of its former inhabitants. To access their everyday stories, archival work was complemented with the “guided walks” method (Petiteau, 2006; Augoyard, 2007). It is a type of ethnography that is carried out by talking and walking with the interviewee and provides the opportunity to understand the meanings they attribute to the urban space they are travelling through. The walks serve as a means of listening, in which “the words articulated reflect a place that is travelled through” (Certeau, 2000) and thus this story of lived memory 4 became the script to reinterpret the interviews in the report “Historia y Vida Cotidiana. El Barrio de Icària, futura Vila Olímpica”5 (History and Everyday Life. The Icària neighbourhood, future Vila Olímpica). (Doncel, 1988).

The chimney of the Can Folch factory was the only architectural piece that was kept within Vila Olímpica, as “it represents quality building work, due to its size, and the number of activities and companies that have occupied the plot, it is one of the best examples of industrial architecture in Catalonia at the end of the century” (File 0106040011 “A”. In Caballé et al. 1988). This act is the result of a memory policy concerning the monumentalisation of factory ruins, which has served to “show the past of cities that were important industrial centres, as something that was overcome, left behind” (Delgado, 2011: 9). The rest of the buildings were demolished, but they were recorded in descriptive files that

The demolished homes were spread over four sectors: 1. Around Passeig Carles I; 2. Around Avinguda Icària; 3. Around Carrer d’Àlaba (Àlaba Street), and 4. RENFE houses (Doncel, 1988). In spite of the little contact between the inhabitants of each area, they talk about their surroundings as an authentic “neighbourhood”; this “is the word used by the inhabitants themselves to talk about their area” (Doncel, 1988: 31). In order to recover other neighbourhood memories, we contacted twelve people who attended the demolition of their homes, and yet

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only three of the evicted neighbours agreed to stroll through the streets of Vila Olímpica in order to use their memory to reconstruct the industrial landscape that disappeared.6 Carmen (age 73), Ramona (70) and Jordi (50), three Barcelona-born residents, had lived in one of the blocks of homes located on Carrer d’Àlaba since they were children. That is why this is the setting for the majority of shared experiences in the neighbourhood that they recalled during our walks. Historic and architectural information, but above all the content of the archived interviews, guided the conversation we had with Carmen, Ramona and Jordi while walking through the area. Contact with the hidden side of urban renewal, that starts with the decline of the industrial past, was possible through the recollection of memories that came to the surface in the landscape of Vila Olímpica, like situations anchored in a very specific geography, like marks that were literally being recognised as we went along. “What’s surprising here is that the places lived in are like the presence of an absence. What is on display indicates what is no longer there: ‘you see, it was here...’, but you can’t see it any more” (Certeau, 2000: 121). Historical background of urban renewal From Pla de la Ribera to Vila Olímpica The industrial group dates back to the nineteenth century, when the first entrepreneurs arrived and attracted local labour and immigrant workers from other regions of the country who settled in the homes attached to the factories and went on to establish one of the most important industrial zones in Catalonia, known as “Catalan Manchester” (Marrero, 2003). The land, which stretches between what

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Factories in Icària: the factories in the Avinguda d’Icària area, seen from Barceloneta. In the foreground, the facilities of Catalana de Gas (March1986). SOURCE: MARTÍ LLORENS PHOTOGRAPHIC ARCHIVE.

was then Passeig de Carles I and is now Carrer de la Marina, and Avinguda del Bogatell, was selected as the site of Vila Olímpica for a reason. The decision was made according to the first socialist city councils’ objectives during the democratic transition to adapt the city to the context of late capitalism. In this sense, the reclassification of an industrial area as a residential one was motivated by the economic revaluation of land that had ceased to be profitable for large industries and, once the Olympic Games arrived, this deterioration was the perfect justification for the development of new town planning that guaranteed renewal. The servitisation process involved the restructuring of the land ownership that, from the eighteenth century until deindustrialisation, was assigned to urban agents with bureaucratic ties. This tendency refers to the period of transition from military jurisdiction

to complete municipal jurisdiction from the demolition of the walls of Ciutadella in 1869 (Arranz, 1988), when the transfer of property took place, moving from the hands of the army to those of individuals engaged in industrial activity. This operation was carried out through the ownership of an “establishment” as a “formula for transferring the divided plots of land to build on them” (Tatjer, 1988: 166). The last stage of reuse of the land, driven by the Olympics, impacted on the transfer of ownership and with this, the final episode of privatisation took place. Although the local government acquired the land to have it as public property, the majority of the shareholders in the mixed management structure of Vila Olímpica SA (VOSA), created in 1986 as a municipal private company for the execution of the project, declined the balance of the usufruct of the land in favour of the

private sector. So, “the City Council, incapable of controlling urban development, served it up to other private real estate groups on a golden platter” (Martí i Moreno, 1991 [1974]: 53). This public and private management is symptomatic of the positioning of financial and real estate entities as key players in the development of the city during deindustrialisation (Tatjer, 1988). It is then that Barcelona makes the final leap from an industrial city to a city of consumption (Tello, 1993). This process of local servitisation immersed in the global change towards an informational and post-Fordist economy was a determining factor in the restructuring of land ownership, which gave excessive power to private partners. Consequently, the project was designed with a view to gain real estate profitability and directed at the upper middle class; “From the first day, Villa Olímpica has been thought of as

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a place to acquire quality housing to develop Poblenou and achieve a global impact on supply that can stabilise prices. But never as a social housing project”(Jordi Parpal, President of VOSA, Avui, October 11, 1989). In 1966 the owners of the factories closest to the sea developed the Ribera Plan, intended for the revaluation of their land. On March 18 of the same year, the companies involved formed the company Ribera, SA, to execute a large-scale real estate operation, at a time when companies such as Motor Ibérica and Foret had already been partially transferred to the area known as Zona Franca. “This fact led us to replace the simple idea of revaluation of that land with the idea of a great transformation plan for that part of Barcelona (...). That is where the idea of remodelling the 6 kilometres of seafront came from, from the Port to the Besòs River”(Bonet, 1966: 11). The Barcelona Urban Development Commission took over the initiative of the Pla de la Ribera in February 1971, and it named it a Project for the modification of the regional plan for urban orientation in Barcelona that affected the Eastern maritime sector. Its approval as a partial plan legislated for the conversion of land and changed the urban land use category from industrial and railway to intensive urban residential, covering the infrastructure deficit with public funds. This meant the delivery of the coastal strip to private speculation and losing the opportunity to recover the land to remove it from the speculative market and popularise the property. The plan was paralysed by the economic crisis of the 1970s and the 7,845 contestations7 that resulted from neighbourhood associations, business groups and professional entities that participated as a barrier of resistance. Twenty years later, the

financial flow brought by the Olympic Games permitted the servitisation of the area as an initiative of the City Council that was “easier to put into practice without any kind of opposition” (Martí i Moreno, 1991 [1974]: 118). It was promoted by the Socialist Party of Catalonia (PSC) during the transition, with the discourse of “opening the city to the sea”, facing the contradiction posed in the previous political period under the “urban developmentalism” (Ynfante, 1974) promoted by the Francoist mayor, Porcioles: “Open Barcelona to the sea or continue to open Barcelona to private land speculation?” (Solà-Morales et al., 1974: 3). Even before it was approved, some media recognised the inheritance that resonated in the Ribera Plan and publicised it as Villa de la Ribera (Avui, January 16, 1986). On July 26, 1986, a Special Plan was approved for the renovation of the seafront between Passeig de Carles I and Bogatell, which included the Vila Olímpica project, considered the emblematic work of the urban paradigm that would guarantee what Bohigas called, in the title of his book, the reconstruction of Barcelona (Bohigas, 1985). However, once the sporting event was finished, it began “to become apparent that Vila Olímpica had been a great speculative operation for the benefit of the companies that had been involved and that made the former Ribera Plan seem insignificant” (Martí i Moreno 1991 [1974]: 116). What is revealed in the non-explicit continuity of the two plans is the growing tendency towards neoliberal town planning that has given the city over to the leading urban agents of the market, with the consequent displacement of the remaining sectors of the process of accumulation of capital. The emptying of the area Vila Olímpica concluded a process of emptying of the territory that started

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with the first demolitions carried out in the sixties to complete the Ribera Plan. The municipal politics that promoted this plan continued a slum eradication campaign, “it has gone from the position of denying that such a phenomenon existed or ignoring it, to wanting to solve it at any cost but without worrying too much about the system used” (Campo et al., 1975: 36). In the forties and fifties, a municipal department had already been created, which was called Serveis de Repressió del Barraquisme (Slum Repression Services), which was responsible for getting rid of unauthorised buildings and executing a policy of forced return of “immigrants without housing or a work contract “ (Barcelona Informa, October 1972). In the five years from 1965 to 1970, the City Council had planned to continue Passeig Marítim to Passeig de Carles I, which is now Carrer de la Marina. In front of it was the Somorrostro quarter, considered an obstacle to the initiative of the then governor Acedo Colunga. A year later, on the occasion of Naval Week 1966, the selfbuilt homes located on the seafront were demolished and their inhabitants were expelled and sent to the new shanty towns that had been erected during the Franco regime, “La Mina, Pekín, San Roque (provisional shacks), etc.” (Signo, July 16, 1966. In Campo et al. 1975: 214). The next lot of forced demolitions in the area occurred within the limits of the industrial complex. The archived testimonies record the existence of temporary buildings located around Passeig Carles I and the Central Fish Market, which were demolished in the sixties; “There were shacks (...) next to the railway. These shacks were the first to be knocked down twenty years ago (...). After they’d been cast out, the people went to El Maresme “(Doncel, 1988: 35). A decade later,

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under the General Plan for the recovery of the coast and beaches, which was published in 1972, the Bogatell water treatment plant was built on the same plot as the Centre de la Vila (a shopping centre in Vila Olímpica). To build this water treatment plant, all the facilities of Crédito y Docks and the adjacent buildings were destroyed. The works were halted, however, so the homes on Ciervo, Vallgorguina and Sant Pol streets survived until 1978, the year in which it was all finally demolished and the City Council gave the land to Societat General de Aigües de Barcelona. Finally, the last episode of this series of demolitions was caused by the enormous sports event. The demolition lasted between August 1987 and December 1988, simultaneously with the expropriation of land that was implemented between January 1987 and May 1988, which generated conflict between the local authority and the families and the small business owners of the sector. One of the conclusions presented by Doncel (1988) is that the families did not consider demolition to be an outcome of institutional demands due to the Olympics, “but actually corresponded to a long-term strategy, and that is believed to date back to the days of Porcioles. They were already threatened under the Ribera Plan, which would later come to a halt” (Doncel, 1988: 29). The expropriation of the land was legislated by the Metropolitan Corporation, when “on June 4, it finally approved the Expropriation Project for Joint Taxation which since that date has allowed the payment and the taking possession of all the land affected”.8 VOSA purchased land, signing purchase agreements with the owners, taking unoccupied land, negotiating the transfer of premises, as well as relocating to apartments built

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by the Municipal Housing Board or applying the formula for compensation of the approximately 143 families affected. This procedure “permits urgent occupation of the affected properties, 72 properties occupied by 147 workshops and establishment; and 147 homes in cases where mutual agreement is not reached”.9 Despite all attempts to negotiate with Barcelona City Council, the eviction was imminent; while the families that lived in rental homes on Avinguda d’Icària were relocated to the new Council-funded apartments, a group of owners of properties on Carrer d’Àlaba resisted leaving the neighbourhood so as not to lose their property (Avui, January 8, 1987) and a retired railway worker, who was tenant of the RENFE homes, threatened to burn his home if he was evicted (El Pa ís, November 20, 1987). It was all useless, the objective had already been designed: Achieving an area that was free of constructions, businesses and workers, to be free to start the Vila Olímpica project. Doncel explains that this permanent threat of eviction “meant that no Negotiating Association was established, as some business owners did” (Doncel, 1988: 29). The business owners formed a front of 50 members gathered as an Association of Affected Business Owners of Poblenou to accuse the local Administration of deviation of power, “backed by the favourable judgements of the courts.”10 Despite this, time passed and the Olympic commitment was a priority for the new image of the city and the companies were relocated with compensation. One of the civil organisations that played a leading role as a critical voice during the construction of Vila Olímpica was the Icària Commission, which was established in 1986

and initiated allegations against the impact of the project, eminent in the eviction of the affected neighbours and foreseeable in the increase of the cost of living in Poblenou. Consequently, with the contradictions predicted by the Icària Commission, the name that represented this neighbourhood association ended up being the head of the real estate company Nova Icària, SA (NISA), created to sell the homes of Vila Olímpica. This sign was also proposed by the creators of the project to promote it: “Oriol Bohigas has given the name of Nova Icària to the urban development project in which Vila Olímpica is set, in honour of the neighbourhood that was close to the place where it will be built” (Diari de Barcelona, August 30, 1987). Bohigas was referring to the Icària that is marked in Poblenou within the “Plan of the environs of the city of Barcelona” created by Cerdà for his proposal of renewal and extension of Barcelona. Bohigas and the local authorities conceived Vila Olímpica as the Nova Icària of the twentieth century, that would see Cerdà’s proposal rise from the industrial ruins, which, in its time, received the influence of the Utopian socialist tendency led by Etienne Cabet.11 Almost a century and a half later, and due to the financial push generated by the Olympics, the objective was to extend the structure of the Eixample towards the seafront and give continue the renewal that the Catalan bourgeoisie began in the nineteenth century with the Cerdà Plan. The Eixample, understood as the “reserve or imagination of the space of the city of the bourgeoisie” (SolàMorales et al., 1974: 35), was adopted by Bohigas to design Vila Olímpica. So, the construction of Nova Icària “would emulate and intertwine with the epitome of the rational dream of social utopia in Barcelona: Cerdà’s Eixample” (Colmeiro, 2007: 191).

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Ildefons Cerdà’s topographical plan. Icària in Poblenou. Surroundings of the city of Barcelona created by order of the Government for the formation of the Barcelona Eixample project (1855). SOURCE: CERDÀ ARCHIVE.

Nova Icària materialised with all the violence involved in spatially reorganising a fragment of the territory built on the ruins of the industrial past to establish a “place of memory” (Nora, 1984) that guarantees the heritagisation of the oblivion of the workingclass city. The consequent incorporation of infrastructure services and administrative decrees, that were inseparable from the Cerdà spatial model, was a determining factor in guaranteeing the revaluation of the land. This rise in urban income consolidated Vila Olímpica as a segregated residential complex that functioned as a parody of the Icària colony, inhabited by upper-middle-class citizens isolated from the rest of Poblenou, a reality that did not go unnoticed by the Icària Commission: Today, here, they will build a private ‘Copacabana’ based on luxury, busi-

ness and speculation. If the developers had any decency, they would not suggest giving it the name of ‘Nova Icària’. Oh! If Narcís Monturiol were here to see what they were doing with his dream!12 Reconstruction of lived heritage The destroyed workers’ district also appears with the name Icària in the volume “Historia y Vida Cotidiana. El Barrio de Icària, futura Vila Olímpica” (Doncel, 1988). The author uses this heading to refer “to the sector destined to be the ‘Olympic Village’ for the 1992 Games, and that is delimited by P. Carlos I/ C. Alava / Bogatell and the sea” (Doncel, 1988: 3). This is a title chosen arbitrarily with reference to the history of the sector, since, according to the inhabitants, the name Icària is fictitious, since the areas recognised

as part of the territory which Vila Olímpica is in include: Poblenou. That has been a modern thing: “The Icària neighbourhood”. This has been used lately, but we didn’t use this to refer to it ourselves, we were from Poblenou, the Avinguda d’Icària area yes, but it was not a neighbourhood that was called Icària (...). The name Icària neighbourhood started to be used when they started studying us, this has been a modern baptism, for me, eh? I had never heard it, never. Guided walk with Jordi, December 2017, Barcelona Despite the disagreement of the title of this report, the interviews that it contains coincide with the memories obtained during the trips made in the company of three of the evicted neighbours. The guided walks method, as

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mentioned, was intended to reconstruct their experiences linked to an absent industrial landscape, through Vila Olímpica. Movement through the place encourages the walker to express his or her story during the journey, on a journey to the past, as a return to moments that were fundamental to their lives. This discovery of the buried past in the area, made of traces collected at ground level, is organised through involuntary memories, capable of setting out places that communicate with each other via meanings that alter the readability of the urban landscape. In this sense, the symbolic surplus value of a memory policy that monumentalised the vestiges of industrial architecture, according to a chronology that supposedly forgot the past, is contrasted with the stories of the disappeared neighbourhood. “It is as if that part of the city’s past were hiding; I don’t understand why; but it is hiding, but sooner or later it always reveals itself. The city has changed a lot in a short space of time” (Guided walk with Jordi, December 2017, Barcelona). Jean-Yves Petiteau (2006) explains that this phenomenon is not a simple superposition between past and present, it is the route that interrogates a cultural context that challenges the reading of space and time. The images of the past appear as the narrative arises during the walk and as the histories kept as personal heritage are remembered. The memory of the neighbours who lived in the area before the Olympics is covered by different memories of the space and bring to life important parts of the route that reveal spatial practices that have disappeared and were part of everyday life. The walks were concentrated along the main road of the area, Avinguda d’Icària, and then dispersed around Carrer d’Àlaba, which was the neighbourhood where these three people

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lived. “I was born here, I was born on these streets”, Jordi told us while he recalled the industries that used to be along the avenue: “this was all factories: Motor Ibérica, Titan, Macaya...” (Jordi, December 2017, Barcelona). This factory landscape was replaced by the new designer constructions built in a rectangular grid that establishes the extension of the Cerdà path to the coast. The brick façades of the buildings of Vila Olímpica imitate the appearance of the industrial architecture conserved in the Can Folch chimney, located like a crown at one end. The whole set looks like a large redesigned and improved workers’ factory, to allow new residents to adapt to the renovated environment, as if it were a factory of proper citizens, willing to contribute unconditionally to sustaining the image of a regenerated Barcelona. Its formal design is a tribute “to the old demolished industrial district, whose main buildings were built with the traditional techniques of brick walls and vaults” (Bohigas et al., 1991: 115). This stage setting of the past contrasts with the memory of a different pace of life, marked by the working day that elapsed inside and outside the Poblenou factories. “The pace was different, it was marked by the world of work and everything

was... the workers’ surroundings, the clothes, they were blue overalls. They came out at one, they went for lunch, they returned at two-thirty or three, or at two, it depends. Everything was overalls, sirens, very proud people, you know? “ (Walk with Jordi, December 2017, Barcelona). At times on the walk with Carmen, memories were activated that reveal the names or the specific location of the missing streets: Everything was very industrialised and there were people, but not many (...) many people had already left. This was Carrer de Pamplona, which is not Pamplona now, it has another name13 (...). On this street there were stables, there was transportation, there was always the same thing, little factories, and then on that side there was the Amatller Chocolate factory, it had a wonderful smell (...) Poblenou, every corner had a different smell (...). Here was the car factory, the... what was it called... the one for those big trucks (...) and now they have “Clothing and Accessories”.14 Walk with Carmen, October 2017, Barcelona

Brick façade copying the Can Folch chimney (August 1992). SOURCE: MARTÍ LLORENS PHOTOGRAPHIC ARCHIVE.

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Walking through Vila Olímpica means walking past metres of brick façades that circumscribe the interior gardens of each block of flats, which has visual access from the outside, despite the architectural barriers that block the entrance. The absence of people in these spaces is a distinctive feature of this urban environment, except when children play sporadically in these private gardens. This is shown by the posters that are arranged in each entry duly monitored by concierges, sensors and surveillance cameras, which make it obvious that it is “Private property. Residents only”. The infrequency of use is also noticeable in the public space and it is possible that anyone travelling around the area of Avinguda d’Icària can see it. Occasionally we were not the only people on the main avenue, when the wooden benches placed under the pergola designed by Enric Miralles became

a temporary resting place for a cyclist or pedestrian who took advantage of the seats to rest or think for a moment before setting off again. This pergola carved with pieces of the old railway line is part of the visual memory of the industrial past: “Miralles had the sensitivity to pay tribute to the train that passed through Avinguda d’Icària (...) he is one of the few who made a kind of homage, it is something that people do not like, but I have always liked it a lot “(Walk with Jordi, December 2017, Barcelona). When crossing this semi-open walkway, passers-by or tourists passing through the area are few and far between and almost imperceptible, but also, coincidentally, we encountered other neighbours in the area who stopped our walk for a moment to talk about a past that was shared in these streets: Hey! (someone calls from afar), how are you? (Jordi finds a friend) I am here explaining what Poblenou

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used to be like and as I am a native, (...), an escaped native... she is doing some work on what Poblenou was like, so I’m taking her on a walk to show her what it was like back in the day, and here I am, shamelessly, like king of the neighbourhood (...). I’m a son of Avinguda Icària, Goddammit!, can’t get more native, more indigenous than that!: 222, la galleta que se pide por su número, de solsona” (singing an advert for Can Solsona) (...). Right mates, let’s talk soon! because with this guy, I’ll tell you something, we used to party like nobody’s business (...) we met in the old Soler Pharmacy, there you have natives, a Zulu Indian from Poblenou: Total danger! Jordi Boronat, December 19, 2017, Barcelona The streets of Poblenou where the epicentre of this kind of interaction among neighbours, which contrasts

Pergolas in the Avinguda d’Icària area, designed by Enric Miralles (December 2015, Barcelona). OWN PHOTOGRAPHY.

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Bar on Carrer d’Àlaba (1988). SOURCE: MUNICIPAL ARCHIVE OF THE SANT MARTÍ DISTRICT.

with the spatial practices currently observed in Vila Olímpica,15 turned into a place to pass through, at the expense of other kinds of meeting or belonging. It has been established as a private residential complex which is quite the opposite of the type of “neighbourhood” which the local administration and the developers of the project promoted. In this sense, the urban life hosted by Vila Olímpica is far from fostering close social relationships such as those that took place in the streets of the industrial complex and that are inseparable from what the essence of neighbourhood life means.

“When I go to Vila Olímpica, I just don’t see neighbourhood life, I don’t see it (...) I see it as a residential neighbourhood near the beach (...) I see a sad neighbourhood; It’s residential the people who live there go to work, come back from work, private garden, private surveillance, beware of the dog” (Walk with Jordi, December 2017, Barcelona). According to the stories that the neighbours told on the walks, the streets were a kind of extension of the homes and were the scene of recreational and leisure activities that made

Sant Joan festivities on Carrer d’Àlaba (1980). SOURCE: RAMONA FAMILY ALBUM.

them more than just a place to move around. Sometimes it was used as an outdoor living room or as a meeting place; “I remember that I was very small, it was autumn and everyone was sat outside on chairs (...), it was a very family-friendly street” (Doncel, 1988: 86). The street was even used to celebrate parties, such as the St. John’s Eve dinner and burning of the bonfire. In this area of Poblenou bonfires were made, at least, on the corner of Carrer d’Àvila and what was then Avinguda Capità López Varela, now Avinguda d’Icària, and on the esplanade between it and Bogatell (Contijoch and Fabré, 2016: 103). The use of the streets was also marked by the bars that opened according to the working hours of the factories and the transport companies. They worked “according to the rhythms demanded by the activity of the neighbourhood (...), especially that derived from the activity of the transporters, who came to the area knowing that there they could find a place to eat at any time of day or in the early hours of the morning “(Doncel, 1988: 61). The street was our place to play, you came out on the street with a rope, or went out to fight wars, to see who won more and that is what we had (...). For Sant Joan, when we picked up the firewood, the guards took it off us, and then under this house there was a lady who had a very large store and kept the firewood for us (...). You went there and you said, look, there’s a table and picked up bits, then my mother made the dolls for Sant Joan (...) and then we took the firewood and put it there to make the fire, because before there weren’t so many cars passing by, we put earth there and the fire on top of it. Guided walk with Ramona, December 2017, Barcelona The houses were shit, they were old, but we lived with a lot of freedom, it was as if we didn’t live in Barcelona.

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Bicycles in the street, we lived in the street, that’s something I remember: We lived in the street, lived in the street (...). If you were close in some way, you were more connected, all together, there was no other way, you felt very close to your people, you felt very close to your group, like a tribe, you know? (...). And we were a tribe, where do you live?: “In Poblenou, on Avinguda Icària”; It seemed like we were the coolest and we just a bunch of losers. Walk with Jordi, December 2017, Barcelona The memory of this childhood makes an active mark during these journeys; “I will always see it with the eyes of a child, as a very working-class neighbourhood” (Walk with Jordi, December 2017, Barcelona). Their memories reflect the existence of a “street neighbourhood” (Jacobs, [20] 11 1961), characterised by the appropriation of the residential environment and the self-management of social relations through networks of solidarity. This permanent interaction between the street and the private environment led to a discreet surveillance on the part of the adults that guaranteed that the streets were used by children as a playground. “Because the children came out of school there, with their bicycles, with a ball, the pavements were wide, they were all there playing and of course, it was entertainment for the old folk, who’d say: Look at him, or look at her (...) Otherwise they’d have nothing to look at” (Doncel, 1988: 99). As well as the street, other places they remember as the favourite setting for everyday life during childhood are the beach and the cemetery. The activities carried out on the seafront and in the cemetery, show a negotiation of meanings, through practices that give the space an unintended purpose. This is exactly the way we went to the beach, it was open here (...) and

Children playing in the street (1975 approx.). SOURCE: RAMONA’S FAMILY ALBUM.

all this bit was a wide area of sand and through the middle went all the dirty water that ended up at the beach, I mean, how we didn’t get sick I don’t know, because the hospital also emptied water at the beach, the factories that made dye and starch, also threw out water down at the beach. And then here, for the summer, here was the mouth, here was a bit, this was a bridge. (...) We had to cross the metal bridge that the train went over and I used to be scared to death when the train came, and they said

run, run, before the train comes, and everyone ran. Walk with Carmen, October 2017, Barcelona And here is a place that I’ve always liked a lot: Poblenou cemetery. It has always had something, I don’t know why I like it, of course we used to play here on our bikes, you had a bike and the dead just over there in the drawer, life with death, and it’s no big deal. (...) The beach was different; The beach was steep, dirty, full of rub-

Carrer d’Àlaba (1965 approx.). SOURCE: RAMONA’S FAMILY ALBUM.

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ble, because Barcelona wanted to reclaim land from the sea and all the rubbish from the works were thrown on the beach. (...) The beaches were regenerated but savagely, thousands and thousands of cubic metres of rubble were removed, but the beach was different, it was dirty. But we went there anyway, because when you are a child, you see everything differently, don’t you? We had a tractor tyre. We went to the beach, the one that was a little better was the Mar Bella bit. (...) Walk with Jordi, December 2017, Barcelona The stories told when returning to the streets of his old neighbourhood not only reveal personal experiences, but also family anecdotes from other generations who occupied the same homes and which state the origin of a working-class population “closely linked to a past with rural memories”

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(Doncel, 1988: 33). Even some of the archived photos show members of their families posing in front of a house in Carrer d’Àlaba with the horses in their charge. “Álaba 11-13 and 15. Yes, I was born here (...). At home we had horse-drawn carts (...) I don’t know if we were a bit unusual, but until 1971 there were horse-drawn carts.” (Walk with Jordi, December 2017, Barcelona). As we cross the “urban community vegetable garden”16 on the corner of Carrer d’Àlaba, Ramona reconstructs memories that reflect the mix between agricultural activities and industrial buildings that existed at the beginning of the twentieth century. “Oh, this has changed so much. When they threw us out, we asked for this land to make our homes and they wouldn’t let us (...). And when my grandmother was around, that was a field, and they used to let the chickens loose (...). And like the dogs, every chicken went back to its home, it was amazing!” (Walk

with Ramona, December 2017, Barcelona). For his part, when Jordi walks in front of the tennis court that has replaced the house he grew up in, he remembers the traumatic eviction process; “I hadn’t been around here for a long time and now I’m here with you and it’s the same, my heart always sinks, my hair stands on end when I walk by here, like a cat, but, well, it is my life, it’s like salmon that return to where they were born.” (Walk with Jordi, December 2017, Barcelona). The violence of the town-planning machinery that was the driving force for the emptying of the area to build Vila Olímpica, made the displacement of the working population invisible. “The first time I came after they had demolished the houses, I cried bitterly (...) a neighbour came up with the brilliant idea and said: ‘I’m going to see how they knock them down’; I said: ‘Don’t go Pascual’ and he went to see it. The man came back in pieces when he saw all the ruins

Appearance of the beach before the start of coastal recovery work (February 1986). SOURCE: MARTÍ LLORENS PHOTOGRAPHIC ARCHIVE.

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there” (Walk with Jordi, December 2017, Barcelona). Recovered witness accounts show that close ties were affected greatly as they had to adapt to the conditioning factors of the new housing blocks located on Gran Via and Carrer de Bilbao. In this sense, the destruction of their homes not only implied the disappearance of the built environment, but also represented the collapse of the social fabric that we have tried to reconstruct by walking through the area. The neighbours knew each other better, and then there is one thing, the lift, the lift is very good because people go up without getting tired, but before there were neighbours who lived on the third floor and had to go through all the floors, you saw all your friends and all your enemies, I imagine there must have been some of those too. But we were just a few families and it was a radical change, I have always thought, especially for the elderly when it

ended. I don’t know if a medical study has been done, but it must have affected their health, I’m sure. There was a lady who said: ‘the walls talk to me, my father was born here, my mother, these walls talk to me, where are we going to go?’. Walk with Jordi, December 19, 2017, Barcelona Conclusions The most radical consequence of urban renewal known to Barcelona as a result of the 1992 Olympic Games has been the commercialisation of space with a predatory effect on life in the city, that is, the proliferation of areas based on monetary value to the detriment of its value of use. The Vila Olímpica case illustrates the impact of implementing business criteria in urban management, which is evident in the privatisation of municipal administration and in town planning operations based on the real dispossession of the common good, working against those

Ruins of the demolished houses on Carrer d’Àlaba (1988). SOURCE: RAMONA’S FAMILY ALBUM.

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that capitalism has made its victims, that is, classes that have no economic or social power. The capitalist appropriation of the city and the permanent demand for the construction of physical and social infrastructures subjected in a cyclical and permanent manner to the process of “creative destruction” (Harvey, 2007: 365) legitimised the emptying of the area as an original condition of this land to activate its servitisation. The construction of an “urban void” to start the job of regeneration meant breaking with the industrial past, to be colonised by the creation of Nova Icària as a “place of memory”. The monumentalisation of industrial architecture that is preserved as part of the Vila Olímpica landscape marks a turning point that normalised the eviction of residents and workers, whose stories were filed as vestiges of stories that did not deserve to be preserved.

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This “urban void” created artificially by the developers of the project has been filled thanks to the memories recovered twenty years after the eviction through the walks through the streets that retain the memory of the neighbourhood in which their lives took place. The forms of socialising that were illustrated by the stories obtained during these walks demonstrate the appropriation of the streets surrounding their homes as a direct expression of the network of solidarity and the “face to face” communication that formed part of a pattern of practices pertaining

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to a daily life that takes place in the neighbourhood. The disappearance of this neighbourhood life responds to the crushing of the past to make reality, without apparent contradictions, the objectives of the classes founding Nova Icària in Poblenou. The highlighting of memories that have been made invisible has allowed us to understand the impact of the demolition of the built environment on the annihilation of a social interaction forged by appropriations that were established on the street. Its replacement by a residential complex

that stimulates practices conditioned by the private defence of public space is the product of the neoliberal urban policy that promoted the servitisation of Poblenou, and that is still in force in the renewal processes of other sectors in post-Olympic Barcelona. Based on this specific example, we wish to contribute to a reflection on the social cost of large urban transformations. n

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Aisa, F. (2012). Utopia: del somni igualitari al pensament únic. Barcelona: Icaria. Augoyard, J. (2007). Step by step. United States: University of Minnesota. Arranz, M. (1988). Icària: la Formació d’un Barri Industrial. Plecs d’Història Local, 14, p. 210-213. Bohigas, O. (1985). Reconstrucció de Barcelona. Barcelona: Edicions 62. Bohigas, O., Mackay, M. and Puigdomènech, A. (1991). La Vila Olímpica. Barcelona 92. Arquitectura. Parques. Puerto deportivo. Barcelona: Gustavo Gili, SA. Caballé, F. (2010). Desaparece el barrio Icària, nave la Vila Olímpica. Barcelona. Barcelona: Revista Bibliográfica de Geografía y Ciencias Sociales. Retrieved from: http://www.ub.edu/ geocrit/b3w-895/b3w-895-9.htm. [Consulted on 28 February 2018] Cabet, É. (1999 [1848]). Viaje por Icària, I (Francisco J. Orellana i Narcís Monturiol, trad.). Barcelona: Ediciones Folio, SA. Campo, M., Giral, E., Jospe, M. A., Jospe, M. H., Tarragó, S. and Pradas, R. (1975). La Barcelona de Porcioles. Barcelona: Laia. Certeau, M. (2000). La Invensión de lo cotidiano I. Artes de hacer. Mexico: Western Institute of Technology and Higher Education , A.C.; IberoAmerican University.

Colmeiro, J. (2007). Manuel Vázquez Montalbán: el compromiso con la memoria. Monografías, serie A. Woodbridge: Tamesis. Contijoch, M. and Fabré, H. (2016). La ciutat de les fogueres. Els focs de Sant Joan i la cultura popular infantil de carrer a Barcelona. Barcelona: Pol·len. Delgado, M. (2011). Memoria, ideología y lugar en Barcelona. Encrucijadas. Revista Crítica de Ciencias Sociales, 2, p. 7-10. Harvey, D. (2007). Espacios del capital. Hacia una geografía crítica. Madrid: Akal. Gil, G. (2010). Etnografía, archivos y expertos. Apuntes para un estudio antropológico del pasado reciente. Revista Colombiana de Antropología, 46(2), p. 249-278, July-December. Bogotá: ICANH. Jacobs, J. (2011 [1961]). Muerte y vida de las grandes ciudades. Madrid: Capitán Swing. Marrero, I. (2003). ¿Del Manchester catalán al Soho Barcelonés? La renovación del barrio del Poblenou en Barcelona y la cuestión de la vivienda. Barcelona: Scripta Nova. Revista electrónica de Geografía y Ciencias Sociales. Retrieved from: http://www.ub.edu/geocrit/sn/ sn-146(137).htm. [Consulted on 28 February 2018] Martí, F. and Moreno, E. (1991 [1974]). Barcelona. ¿A dónde vas?. Barcelona: Ediciones de la Tempestad. Muzzopappa, E. and Villalta, C. (2011). Los documentos como campo. Reflexiones teórico-

metodológicas sobre un enfoque etnográfico de archivos y documentos estatales. Revista Colombiana de Antropología, 47(1), p. 11-42. Colombia: Colombian Institute of Anthropology and History. Navas, M. (2016). Utopía y privatopía en la Vila Olímpica de Barcelona. Los impactos sociales de un barrio de autor. Barcelona: University of Barcelona. (Doctoral thesis) Nora, P. (1984). Les Lieux de Mémoire; 1: La République. Paris: Gallimard. Petiteau, J. (2006). La methode des itineraires ou la memoire involontaire. In A. Berque, A. de Biase and P. Bonnin (ed.). Colloque L’habiter dans sa poétique première, 1-8 September, Cerisy-La-Salle. France: Éditions Donner Lieu. Solà-Morales, M., Busquets, J., Font, A., Domingo, M., i Gómez, J. (1974). Barcelona. Remodelación capitalista o desarrollo urbano en el sector de la ribera oriental. Barcelona: Gustavo Gili, SA. Tatjer, M. (1988). Burgueses, inquilinos y rentistas. Mercado inmobiliario, propiedad y morfología en el centro histórico de Barcelona: la Barceloneta (1753-1982). Madrid: Spanish National Research Council. Tello, R. (1993). Barcelona post-olímpica: de ciudad industrial a escenario de consumo. Estudios Geográficos, 54(212), p. 507-522, July-September. Madrid: Spanish National Research Council. Ynfante, J. (1974). Los negocios de Porcioles. Las Sagradas Familias de Barcelona. Paris: Monipodio.

Journey to the Icària neighbourhood

DOCUMENTS FROM THE CENTRAL DOCUMENTATION ARCHIVE OF THE ARCHAEOLOGY SERVICE IN THE CULTURE INSTITUTE

Arranz i Herreno, M. and Güell i Guix, X. (coord.). (1988). Estudi històric. In Estudi Històric-Arquitectònic del sector Avinguda Icària-Passeig Carles I. Poblenou, 8. Barcelona: Barcelona City Council, Vila Olímpica, SA. Caballé i Esteve, F., Gonzàlez i Garcia, R. and Navas i Ferrer. T. (1988). Inventari catàleg. In Estudi Històric-Arquitectònic del sector Avinguda Icària-Passeig Carles I. Poblenou, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Barcelona: Barcelona City Council, Vila Olímpica, SA . Doncel, M. C. (1988). Historia y Vida Cotidiana. El Barrio de Icària futura Vila Olímpica. In Estudi Històric-Arquitectònic del sector Avinguda Icària-Passeig Carles I. Poblenou, 9. Barcelona: Barcelona City Council, Vila Olímpica, SA. Güell i Giux, X. (coord.). (1988). Arquitectura. In Estudi Històric-Arquitectònic del sector Avinguda Icària-Passeig Carles I. Poblenou, 7. Barcelona: Barcelona City Council, Vila Olímpica, SA.

CONTEMPORARY MUNICIPAL ARCHIVES (BARCELONA CITY COUNCIL)

Bonet, A. (1966). Plan de la Ribera Barcelona. Avance del Plan Parcial de Ordenación Urbana. Memoria Descriptiva. In Expediente relativo al Plan parcial de Ordenación de La Ribera y el proyecto de compensación. Department of Town Planning Management.

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NOTES

This research was carried out within the framework of the XII Institut Ramon Muntaner Call for grants for research projects or cultural dissemination and the Subsidy for activities that promote the research, conservation and dissemination of Ethnological Heritage of Catalonia/2017. The organisations responsible are the Observatory for the Anthropology of Urban Conflict (OACU) and the Catalan Institute of Anthropology (ICA). Collaborating institutions were: the Research Group on Social Exclusion and Control (GRECS) and the Documentation Centre of the Archaeology Service. The research team was composed of Manuel Delgado (Principal Investigator), Gabriela Navas (coordinator), Marta Contijoch and Helena Fabré (research team members).

The task of documentation was an initiative of the Archaeological Activities Service, which proposed the financed classification of the VOSA (Vila Olímpica, SA) property to the Monumental Heritage Protection Service of Barcelona City Council. The historical documentation was carried out by Manuel Arranz, Reinald González, Teresa Navas, Marta Puchal and Francesc Caballé; The everyday life report was prepared by María Concepción Doncel; and the architectural survey was carried out by Xavier Güell, Montserrat Pàmies, Francesc Rabat and Alfons Llorens.

In December 2017 the Municipal Archive of the District of Sant Martí announced the digitisation of archived records to facilitate public consultation, which until then had been in printed version and made invisible. There is a copy of the six volumes of the study in the Archaeology Service Documentation Centre, where the sound recording is also kept.

The audio was incorporated into an audiovisual recording that gathers the memories obtained during the guided walks. See: https://observatoricon flicteurba.org/2018/04/25/viatge-al-barri-dicariael-patrimoni-viscut-dun-passat-industrial-arxivat/

Although the author claims that the report is endorsed by “30 hours of recorded interviews, with narration from about 18 people (...) consisting of 20 tapes each lasting one and a half hours” (Doncel, 1988: 11), there are currently only 8 cassette tapes with 7 testimonials, kept in the Archaeology Service Documentation Centre. Because of the low audio quality, the main source are those recorded in the report.

Also at the time of the eighties eviction, Doncel warns of the “reluctance of some people to be interviewed due to tiredness and the harassment for interviews conducted by journalists, students, and others. Distrustful of what the information provided would be used for” (Doncel, 1988: 9).

“5,054 of a single cyclostyle type, 1,486 of another cyclostyle type, 290 of another type, 167 of another type, 813 by partners and supporters of the Alliance of Poble Nou and 35 by individuals, one of which represents the 80 people affected via a court attorney” (Urban Planning Commission and Common Services of Barcelona and other Municipalities, 1972). Source: Catalonia Regional Department of Land Policy and Public Works.

The document was found with no registration reference in the Intermediate Archive of the Contemporary Municipal Archive (Barcelona City Council).

Remodelling of the seafront of Poble Nou, Barcelona: report on the project (1988). Barcelona City Council, p. 7. Source: Intermediate Archive of the Contemporary Municipal Archive (Barcelona City Council).

Sanz de la Ayala. EPOCA 50 Magazine. Source: Historic Archive of Poblenou.

Cabet’s postulates embodied in Viatge per Icària (Cabet, 1999 [1848]), which opted for social reconstruction in accordance with the ideals of equality and fraternity, announcing a new form of life and eventually a new type of world, were welcomed by a group of Icarians in Barcelona, including, among others: “Narcís Monturiol, Pere and Ignasi Montaldo, Joan Rovira, Francesc Suñer i Capdevila, Pau Alsina, Francisco J. Orellana, Pere Cardenyas, Ildefons Cerdà and Antoni and Josep Anselm Clavé “(Aisa, 2012: 132-133).

Source: Historic Archive of Poblenou.

The current street name is Carrer d’Arquitecte Sert.

Name of the shop in Vila Olímpica that sells items of clothing.

Regarding the consolidation of the Vila Olímpica as a private residential complex, see Navas (2016).

This allotment is part of the Municipal Plan for Empty Urban Spaces with Territorial and Social Implications (Plan BUITS) which “aims to stimulate disused land in the city of Barcelona, through activities of public interest of a provisional nature”. See: http://ajuntament.barcelona. cat/ecologiaurbana/ca/pla-buits

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Juniper oil production, a pioneering trade in Riba-roja d’Ebre Marina Orobitg Ávalos

Judit Vidal Bonavila

FRIENDS OF RIBA-ROJA D’EBRE ASSOCIATION

ROVIRA I VIRGILI UNIVERSITY (URV)

Bachelor’s degree in Social and Cultural Anthropology from the University of Barcelona. She has taken part in cultural projects such as the Terres de l’Ebre Inventory of Intangible Cultural Heritage and the travelling exhibition “Building the territory. Traditional architecture and landscape in Catalonia”. She is currently a specialist with El Priorat Regional Council.

Bachelor’s degree and PhD in History from URV, specialist in Modern Era. She presented her doctoral thesis in June 2015. While studying for her PhD, she worked in the international sector and took part in several research projects which resulted in various articles, participations in congresses and conferences. She is currently associate professor at URV and course instructor at the UOC.

T Introduction

he exploitation of the forest, like that of most natural resources, is an ancient activity that has remained practically to this day. In the last century industrial processes have made extraordinary progress, which has led to the fact that many artisanal techniques that were carried out to take advantage of these resources have been lost, to the extent that trades that took place in our forests for centuries have now been forgotten. Recovering them is not at all easy, since most of the people who did it are no longer alive, and only their children or grandchildren remember details, which are sometimes scarce and confusing. The importance of these trades is undeniable, since, along with their uses, they managed to contribute to the economy of families that worked mainly in agriculture; and even, in some cases, it was their main source of income. Oral sources, the scarce documentation that has been preserved and the archaeological remains that have been left in the area allow us to reinforce these activities so that they do not end up being lost altogether.

Cade juniper berries. PHOTO: 29 AUGUST 2017, FRIENDS OF RIBA-ROJA D’EBRE

Until a few decades ago, older people, especially in country homes and in more rural areas, had a great knowledge of natural resources, especially medicinal plants and their properties. A unique and representative case of this is the obtaining of a large variety of plant resins, and their application, processing and sale. The exceptional qualities of these substances in medicine, pharmacotherapy and balsamic uses have made them irreplaceable for a long time. These resins include juniper oil, an oil that is obtained from the dry distillation of the juniper stumps,1 and used to cure and heal, especially animals.

Juniper is a perennial shrub of the genus Juniperus, of the cupressaceae family (Muntané, 2002), which has several varieties depending on the area and altitude where it is found. Common juniper, or simply juniper, refers to the species Juniperus communis, which must be differentiated from the cade (cade juniper), Juniperus oxycedrus. Regarding geographic location, Juniperus are plants from the northern hemisphere, where the climate is more humid and variable. We find them in almost all of Europe, North America and Asia. In gen-

Juniper oil production, a pioneering trade in Riba-roja d’Ebre

eral, they are abundant in mountain landscapes: cade is found at about 800-1,000 metres altitude, while the junipers are above 1,000-1,100 metres and up to 2,400 metres. They are mainly found in wooded areas, meadows and oak woods, but the juniper does not appear in areas with a lot of drought and warm weather, unlike cade. The two subspecies are differentiated by the colour of their fruit; in the case of the cade they are reddish, however, those of juniper are of a darker blue. In addition, two fine white lines can be distinguished on the back of the leaves of the cade, while the juniper leaves have only one. The shrub that was used for distillation was mostly the cade, but the name juniper oil was most commonly used. In some places, like Les Garrigues, it is quite logical, since cade is known by the name juniper. The use of juniper oil has been well documented since ancient times and has been used for both people and animals (Fàbrega, 2006). For millennia it has been used in the form of an ointment, poultice or compound. The oil is mainly characterised by being sweat inducing, purifying, stimulant, bronchodilator, antiseptic, anti-inflammatory and disinfectant. Over the centuries, it has been present in medicine and pharmacology, but, Els forns d’oli de ginebre de Riba-roja d’Ebre són unes construccions de pedra seca que servien per obtenir l’oli de ginebre, un líquid dens, de color fosc i amb una forta aroma balsàmica. Aquest oli, durant mil·lennis, s’ha utilitzat en forma d’ungüent, cataplasma o composició, sobretot en veterinària, medicina i perfumeria. Riba-roja d’Ebre, a partir del segle xvi i fins ben entrat el segle xx, va ser un gran productor i comercialitzador d’aquest oli, cosa que queda demostrada pel gran nombre de forns de grans dimensions que s’han trobat al territori.

above all, it was used for veterinary purposes, until quite recently. We must bear in mind that it is a slightly toxic oil, and this gives it its healing properties. Farmers used it to cure animal wounds, to prevent colds or diseases of the skin such as mange and also to strengthen their legs or to relieve pain from giving birth, among many other uses. In humans, it has mainly been used externally: It was mostly used against parasites, such as lice, for knocks, muscle or circulatory problems, and also for baldness and toothache. As a disinfectant, it has been used in agriculture, but also for many other uses such as oiling doors and windows to prevent scorpions and vipers entering. It was useful for cleaning, purifying and disinfecting the environment, a historical use of this oil and particularly common in times of strong epidemics such as plague. At the moment we can still find it as a component of creams and oils for knocks and massages and it is still used in pharmacy. Juniper oil ovens The juniper oil ovens served to obtain the oil from the stumps and trunks of cade and juniper. The oil was obtained through dry distillation. As we have seen, the final product had many healing properties, especially for veterinary purposes, but also for Los hornos de aceite de enebro de Ribaroja de Ebro son unas construcciones de piedra seca que sirven para fabricar aceite de enebro, un líquido denso, de color oscuro y con un fuerte aroma balsámico. Este aceite, durante milenios, se ha utilizado en forma de ungüento, cataplasma o composición, sobre todo en veterinaria, medicina y perfumería. Riba-roja d’Ebre, a partir del siglo xvi hasta el siglo xx, fue un gran productor y comercializador de este aceite, algo que queda demostrado al haberse encontrado en el territorio un gran número de hornos de grandes dimensiones.

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Paraules clau: forn, ginebre, oli, producció, comerç Palabras clave: horno, enebro, aceite, producción, comercio Keywords: oven, juniper, oil, production, sale

medicine, cosmetics, aromatherapy and perfumery. Ovens for distilling juniper have been found in many places, but mainly in the Mediterranean basin, which is the natural habitat of juniper and cade, and as a result, where they are most present. They were very important in the south of France, and there are many distributed throughout Catalonia and in various parts of the Iberian Peninsula. However, in certain places, there is a significant number of these ovens. This is the case of Riba-roja d’Ebre where, as well as a notable concentration, 16 found and 6 more identified, some are large and are kept in a good state of conservation. We also have to include those located in a nearby radius, such as in the municipalities of Flix, Palma d’Ebre, Fatarella, Vilalba dels Arcs, Bovera, Granadella, La Pobla de Cérvoles or Nonasp, among others. All these municipalities, with similar characteristics,2 represent the largest collection of this type of construction in the Iberian Peninsula. In this region most ovens are dry stone conThe juniper oil ovens of Riba-roja d’Ebre are dry stone constructions that are very old. They are used to make juniper oil, a dense liquid with a dark colour and a strong smell. For thousands of years, this oil has been used in ointment form, as a poultice or in solid form, especially in veterinary medicine and perfumery. Ribaroja d’Ebre, from the sixteenth century until the twentieth century, was a great producer and vendor of this oil, demonstrated by the fact that a large number of juniper oil ovens are found in the area.

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structions3 and also of a considerable size, between 4 and 7 metres high and with a diameter at the base of 4 to 8.5 metres.

Juniper oil oven, Cadolles de Carlets, Riba-roja d’Ebre. PHOTO: 15 APRIL 2018, FRIENDS OF RIBA-ROJA

These ovens, with a roughly circular base, are set on a smooth rock, have a bucket shape and a semi-circular dome-shaped roof. Inside we find the pan or the pot that acts as a receptacle. The juniper trunks were put in this pot for dry distillation. After applying heat, the trunks emitted a substance that came out through a hole and was collected outside. After this simple dehydration process, juniper oil was obtained, as well as charcoal as a residual product of distillation. The ovens were located near main roads to facilitate the transport of both raw material and fuel, as well as to take away the final product: juniper oil. These ovens are currently hidden, since they were not normally built near the town centres and many of the old roads that led to agricultural farms have been abandoned or even lost.

Juniper oil oven, Valldeporcs, Riba-roja d’Ebre. PHOTO: 29 JULY 2017, EDGAR PALLEJÀ

Marian Balances’ juniper oil oven. PHOTO: 29 JULY 2017, FRIENDS OF RIBA-ROJA

The first indispensable step for building the ovens was to find the right location. It had to be a place close to the main raw material, that is, a wooded area where juniper was abundant, but also with other materials available: stone, mud and wood for fuel. This was important to avoid having to transport material over long distances. It was common for these ovens to be built on private estates where the owners had farmland and the houses they were staying in. Once the approximate site was chosen, a smooth, flat rock was sought with the appropriate slant so the oil could run out. It was necessary to consider that stumps were a solid raw material, but the final product

Juniper oil production, a pioneering trade in Riba-roja d’Ebre

was liquid, therefore, the rock had to be impermeable so it slid over it more easily; it also had to be resistant to withstand the high temperatures to which it would be subjected. Next, the diameter of the oven was chosen and a roughly circular space was marked. To do this, a central pillar was placed and the circumference of the desired measurement was drawn using a rope.4 Then, on the rock, the channels were drawn in the form of branches or leaves, which would carry all the oil to the outer bowl, which would act as a container. The engraving, which was generally circular, had a diameter of between 1.50 and 4 metres, with a central line with the branches drawn coming from it. These lines were cut into the rock as far as the outlet, where a pool of the appropriate size was dug to collect the oil and where a container was probably placed. This same container would be used to carry out the separation, from a decanting process, of pure juniper oil and water, which the stumps also contained. The next step was to get the stones that were to form the outer layer of the oven, which were then cut in the desired shape and sizes.

with that of the outer wall, which was built later. This door had to be placed perpendicularly to the prevailing winds, which was very important to favour the combustion and the firing of the oven. In addition, the position, whenever possible, should be on the opposite side from the oil output, therefore, on the highest part of the slope. However, in some of the ovens found, this door was placed at a 90-degree angle with respect to the oil outlet, that is, on the side of the oven. This was done to prevent unwanted burning of juniper oil, as it is very flammable. Next, this huge ceramic jar had to be fired to vitrify it and to make it refractory so it could be used as an oven. Once fired, and leaving a separation corridor, the external part of the oven could be built. The thickest stones were put down first; very well squared ashlars, and it rose in a cone shape balanced around the walls of the container.6 In addition, between the container and the outer wall, on the upper part, a kind of abutments called llates, stone blocks, were arranged in a staggered spiral form. In this way, the container was reinforced and, at the same time,

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protected by the external wall. Once the wall was raised, at the top, in the opening, slabs were arranged forming a circle, where a flat stone could be placed when the oven was working in order to close the opening and regulate the fire. Finally, an outdoor stone sink was needed to collect juniper oil. This sink was carved into the same slope, just at the oil outlet hole, or it was a stone sink that was added to that same hole. As previously mentioned, the obtaining of juniper oil was based on the dry distillation of the cade stumps,7 which consisted in obtaining water and the oil from the stumps by applying heat to them. First of all, a lot of stumps had to be collected; this process could last for many months and was probably carried out throughout the year alongside agricultural work. Most likely the stumps were also broken up as they were stacked, so as not to have to carry out this task just before the distillation. Once they had all the necessary stumps, when it was the right time of the year,8 they were put into the container. The stumps were placed vertically, from bottom to top and from the walls to the cen-

Jaume Florensa explains how: “I still remember when I was a kid how we loaded donkey carts from a scarp that was near the farmhouse and went to collect limestone rocks, because cement was very expensive”.5 The construction of the oven, as it were, began by raising the walls of the container. To do this, it was essential to build a dry pine scaffold covering the entire space that the oven was to occupy; this way, they could build the walls to the desired height. While the wall of the container was built, the orientation of the door had to be taken into account, which had to coincide

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Juniper stumps. PHOTO: 3 MARCH 2017, FRIENDS OF RIBA-ROJA D’EBRE

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tre. Rocks were possibly sometimes used as the central pillar, in order to make circles around it and hold the stumps in the correct position,9 like in charcoal ovens, where a great central pole was placed.10 Given that these industrial ovens could contain a large number of stumps, they had to be very well placed so that the heat was evenly distributed. The vertical position of the stumps ensured that the oil could easily run to the bottom of the container. To do this, someone would probably first enter the oven from the lower door and, once the first layers were placed, the rest were placed from the top opening. Once it had reached the height of the door of the container, it had to be sealed carefully from the outside, probably with clay and straw, so that the opening could hardly be distinguished. Placing the rest of the stumps required at least two people: one was inside the container and the other dropped the stumps in from above, possibly with a pulley system or a basket. At this point, there is some controversy regarding how the ovens worked, with two operational hypotheses. The first hypothesis supports the idea that the container was

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filled with cade stumps to the top or the opening and that the chamber between the container and the outer wall of the oven acted as a combustion chamber, while the second, at this point in the process in which the container had been filled with stumps until just under half way, maintains that it was covered with a good layer of clay and that the upper part acted as a combustion chamber (Monesma, 2017). The second option presents more disadvantages, since lighting the fire from the upper opening is more difficult; conversely, it could be useful in the case of not having enough raw material to fill it completely. Therefore, both options could be complementary or the same oven could work with both systems as necessary. In both cases the oven burned for at least two or three days, in order to achieve a slow distillation, which provided better quality oil, as it did not smell of smoke. Once all the oil was obtained, it was separated from the water and stored in the containers that were used for sale. For its part, the oven had to be left to cool completely before it could be opened, drained and cleaned to prepare it for

Diagram of first hypothesis. DRAWING: ODÍN BLÁZQUEZ, 2017.

the next batch. The charcoal that was left inside was also sold, either as fuel or to make ink. Other types of oven Juniper oil ovens have been categorised into four types that indicate a chronological evolution, but also geographic and utilitarian factors. Even so, if we consider that we are talking about an evolution of about twenty centuries, in fact the variations are minimal, since they all start from the same idea: heat the cade stumps avoiding direct contact with the fire in order to achieve a slow distillation. For categorisation, it is based on the classification that was made by Gusi, Barranchina and Aguilellain 2009 (Gusi et al., 2009), which has been reviewed, updated and adapted in this study, with the contribution and descriptions of other authors (Esquerda et al.; 2015, Monesma, 2017), including its interviewees, but, above all, with new interviews and a careful comparative analysis of the ovens identified in the Riba-roja d’Ebre region, which have been categorised as type IV and respond to the description and operation described so far. Even so, other types intended for the same purpose must be examined.

Diagram of second hypothesis. DRAWING: ODÍN BLÁZQUEZ, 2017.

Juniper oil production, a pioneering trade in Riba-roja d’Ebre

Type I The first type involved use of a pitcher, or a similar container, which was placed upside down, that is, with the mouth in the jar of another container or fitting directly on a flat base on the stone surface. The container, where the oil was placed, could be buried. The stumps and roots of the juniper were placed inside the pitcher, tightly enough to take advantage of space; a stump was placed across the opening so as not to let the rest of the load fall out. If necessary, the openings of the two containers were sealed with clay to prevent oxygen from entering. Next, the two containers would be covered with a good layer of clay. The firewood to light the fire was placed either in the space that remained between the containers and the layer of clay or outside the covering. In the second case, clay served as protection for the two containers. This fire had to burn slowly so that the cade stumps distilled water and oil into the bottom container. With a 50-litre pitcher, between 1.5 and 2 litres of oil would be obtained (Gusi et al., 2009).

The same system was explained by Juan Baselga de Nogueruelas (Teruel) in an interview with Eugenio Monesma in 1997. Baselga used an old pitcher and covered it with clay to prevent it from cracking. Because it was small-scale combustion, the product could be obtained in a few hours. He pointed out that he used this technique to obtain oil for personal use (Monesma, 2017). Josep Olivas, an interviewee of Roquetes, farmer and great connoisseur of Els Ports of Tortosa-Beseit, explained that he knew a farmer from the area who also used this technique to obtain juniper oil for cattle. It was made from a small variation: it also consisted of making a hole in the ground where the pitcher was

placed upside down with the opening in the pot where the juniper oil would be made, but then it was covered with fermented manure. This fuel caused the very slow distillation of the stumps.11 Albert Fàbrega describes a variant of this type of oven by using metal drums with a 30 to 60-litre capacity. The shredded pieces were placed in one of the drums, they were filled completely and placed vertically, longitudinally in the drum. Once full, the container was closed with a piece of metal. Next, the other drum was buried so that the upper edge was left flush to the surface. Once the first drum was in place, it was turned upside down, fitting onto the one in the ground so that the two drums formed the two halves of a cylindrical oven, with only the upper drum sticking out, which contained the juniper. The contact line between the two drums was sealed with clay, then the outside was covered with firewood and a fire was set on the outside; everything was covered with tin sheets or clay, so that it burned slowly. After a couple of days, the juniper oil mixed with water would be in the lower drum (Fàbrega, 2006). Joan Cavallé, in his work on medicine in Alcover, described a similar technique in which two containers were put openings together separated by a ceramic sieve. The bottom pot was put in a hole and the top was exposed. The juniper stumps were placed in the upper one and, when it was tightly closed, the surrounding wood was set on fire (Cavallé, 1979). Joan, born in 1916 near Cardona, explained the manufacture of juniper oil with the same technique as a drum, full of stumps, on a slab with a little slope, covered with mud. In this case, Joan and his family made glue but, at the same time, in one go they

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could make up to ten litres of juniper oil, as a complement to the glue.12 All of these latter cases describe a more recent variation on type I ovens, since, as it is the simplest, it is possible that it is the type that has lasted longest. It could have quite an archaic origin, dating back to the protohistoric era and would have subsisted and evolved with little variation until the Middle Ages (Fàbrega, 2006). At that time, obviously, what was not used was a metal drum; the clay containers that contained the juniper roots and branches were covered with layers of mud (Gusi et al., 2009). During the nineteenth century, in Bages, we can confirm that this system was carried out with a metallic drum (Fàbrega, 2006), an innovation that was bound to have reached other places. Subsequently, it has continued to evolve up to the present day, since an advanced form of this model is the one that is used currently in the diverse demonstrations given all over.13 This type must have been the most basic and could be used at home. Mostly it should be used to obtain juniper oil for family use, since it did not produce enough for sale. No archaeological remains have been found of these ovens, but it is clear that, due to their characteristics, they were disassembled once the product was obtained, that is, they were disposable14 and, therefore, it makes sense that they are only preserved in oral memory. Type II The second type requires a superior infrastructure, but at the same time it can be even simpler. A rocky and slightly sloping support was required, such as a sandy slope. More or less deep channels were engraved by marking a circumference, with a central vertical line, which was used

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to join the various points on the rock on which the container of the oven was built, with clay covering the stumps. All the lines met up in the lower part of the rock, so that the distilled oil came together at this point and deposited in the recipient located at the bottom. The lines that were engraved were drawn in the shape of leaves or branches. Well-stacked juniper stumps were placed on the engravings and they were covered with a good layer of stones and clay to protect them from the fire. The size of the container depended on the amount of wood that was stacked, therefore, the amount of oil that could be obtained with this system was very variable. In this case, the fire was lit around the clay tower that covered the stumps; In some places it was usual to build another layer on the wood to maintain the heat and control the flames. Sometimes, if the second layer of clay was not placed between the oven and the container that collected the product, a protective wall was built; in this way, it prevented the flames reaching the oil and getting inside the container. This type was used in a vast area and we could say that it is the most widespread. It is surely the most archaic and widely used one, like the first, during the classical period and the whole medieval period (Gusi et al., 2009). For this same reason, we see certain details that differentiate the same type, with or without a wall, different shapes, that respond to the chronological and local peculiarities of the same idea. The erosion caused by this activity, as well as the passage of time and climatic conditions, have meant that these ovens have not been well preserved (Esquerda et al., 2015). First of all, because it is likely that, as with the

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first model, use was temporary. They were not difficult to build, therefore, in large part, they were destroyed when the process was finished in order to remove the charcoal that had been left in the interior. Conversely, it is possible that the same slab was used in the next batch, with the engraving on the rock and, even, the protective wall. This has meant that this wall and the furrows on the rock are the only part preserved in many cases. Domingo Saura, resident in the municipality of MĂłra de Rubielos (Teruel), explained that the distillation was carried out without the need to previously build an oven (Monesma, 2017). It required a good sloping stone in which the incisions were made in the form of a leaf or herringbone and the stumps were positioned vertically on top of them, thus forming a conical shape. Next, it was covered with stone slabs that gave it consistency and covered with a good layer of clay. On top of that came the wood that would serve as fuel, so that the fire slowly distilled the juniper oil. When finished, the only remains were the marks on the rock (Guadalajara and VĂŠlez, 2014; Monesma, 2017). This example shows an evolution of type II that, in some regions, has remained in use up to the present. Type III Type three involves a similar operation, but with a more complex structure. A chamber one metre deep, with an oval or circular base, was dug in the natural rock. The hole had an approximate diameter of 2.5 x 2 metres (Gusi et al., 2009). The inner walls of the hole were covered with clay and stone blocks that, with the heat, were sealed according to the shape of the hole. This step was necessary to maintain the heat and protect the rock and avoid explosion. Then, the juniper stumps were

placed in the hole and the opening was covered with slabs and clay. A fire burned on top of it, which gradually distilled the sap of the stumps. The structure had an outlet hole at the bottom where oil was extracted, which was put in a container. This type of oven has been found in the Baix AragĂł region: at Alcorisa and Alloza (Martinez, 1981). Most of the ovens found in Provence, France, are a variant of this type, which is a mix of type III and type IV; however, the many ovens in this region also show many peculiarities.15 These are dry stone constructions with an interior container made with the stone itself or with bricks. They consist of a rectangular central door where the oil came out, which was collected in a container, and at the same time was used to empty the oven once the process had finished. The fire was fuelled from the other side door, located in a chamber on the opposite side of the oil outlet. The main difference lies in the base of the container, which could also be dug in the rock, but no slab with engraved incisions was used, rather the slope was built from the same materials as the oven. The size varied between 5 and 7 metres long, about 3 metres wide and 2.5 to 3 metres high.16 These ovens held between 150 and 200 kilos of stumps, up to 250 kilos in the largest and 15 to 20 litres of oil (Porte, 1994) could be introduced. These types of ovens are known mainly by the studies of Laurent Porte, with a focus mainly on ovens built during the nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth century.17 Type IV The fourth and last category is what Gusi et al. consider the most industrial, which we agree with (Gusi et al., 2009). In this case, they analyse this

Juniper oil production, a pioneering trade in Riba-roja d’Ebre

type in depth and give few details, since it is not represented in the area of Castellón, where they work, but we clearly have it in Riba-roja d’Ebre and environs. It is considered industrial mainly due to the size, which allowed a large amount of oil to be obtained in a single batch. The large quantities would be associated with the sale of the product. These ovens could have a capacity for up to 3,500 kilos of juniper stumps, which could produce about 300-400 litres (Lillo, 1994);18 therefore, a big difference compared to the first type, which produced between 1.5 and 2 litres. The second feature would be the structure, which was solid and designed to be hard-wearing, so it wouldn’t fall apart after each batch, but rather the opposite. The constructive complexity would be beyond just any agricultural worker, requiring more specific prior knowledge. As described, these ovens were placed on a flat rock, with a slight slope, where the grooves were drawn that were to carry the oil to the recipient. The clay container was placed on the rock and, leaving a chamber, it was completely covered with a dry-stone structure or, sometimes, reinforced with clay. We can consider that the first two types, I and II, were designed for small-scale production in the domestic sphere. They are probably the most commonly used types during the classical and medieval period, although they remained in use and have evolved up to the present. Due to its characteristics, few material remains are preserved. Types III and IV are much more complex and, especially IV, were designed for greater production and, consequently, for the sale of the product. The documentary references found make us think that type IV ovens began to become popular after the sixteenth

century and operated up to the last decades of the nineteenth.19 The existence of these more complex types did not mean the disappearance of the previous ones, which have continued to evolve up until today. This is explained by the fact that they were used more for home production and for family use. At the same time, since they required few materials, they were useful for this particular function, or even in case of need or in regions not covered by commercial routes. The majority of interviewees explain how these two types of ovens worked, while very few people remember seeing type IV work, partly because types I and II were more widespread, but also because type IV stopped working when the oil began to lose market power due to the increased use of other products. Consequently, the industrial ovens stopped being profitable before those used for home production. Therefore, the different types respond not only to chronology, but also to the region and, mainly, to the

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use of the product. For distillation for personal and family use, simpler temporary ovens were made. Conversely, in Riba-roja d’Ebre we have the example of true industrial ovens designed to make oil for sale across a significant network. We can tell this from the number of ovens, although they probably did not work at the same time, and therefore the number of ovens is also a consequence of an activity that took place for centuries. Oil in Riba-roja d’Ebre In the Riba-roja d’Ebre region, juniper oil was clearly produced for commercial purposes. Once the oil was obtained, it was packed in leather containers for transport to nearby towns and distributed in bulk via an extensive network. Part of this production likely remained in the village, but, in the case of large ovens, the percentage of oil sold in the local network must have been very small, taking into account the number of litres obtained from a batch.

Juniper oil. PHOTO: 3 MARCH 2017, FRIENDS OF RIBA-ROJA D’EBRE

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From the beginning of the seventeenth century, oil from Riba-roja d’Ebre reached at least as far as Lleida and probably beyond. At the end of the nineteenth century we can be sure that it was found in the Pyrenees, thanks in part to turpentine oil pedlars, which helped distribute the product over a large area (Gausachs, 2008; Frigolé, 2004). During this period juniper oil was indispensable for shepherds. It was a basic necessity, almost as much as salt. Those interviewed, especially those in the Riba-roja d’Ebre region, point out that the oil was sold in the Pyrenees, even beyond Andorra, especially at the large livestock fair in Salàs de Pallars.20 The concentration of ovens in the area suggests a fairly broad distribution, much more complex than solely at the Salàs fair, although in the nineteenth century and early twentieth century, this market was an important event for producers and merchants, since much of the production was sold there. They travelled from Riba-roja as a group for protection on the trip. The production of juniper oil on a large scale was expensive, from the building of the oven to the hours of work involved in collecting the stumps, it was a job that could last for months. Consequently, oil was

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not a cheap product and not everyone could afford it. According to Jaume Florensa, two pitchers of oil (1 to 2 litres) could cost about a hundred pesetas,21 a high price at the beginning of the last century. In the Ribar-roja region, much of the population made this product for centuries. It is a fairly arid area, where agriculture yielded very little; on the other hand, given the terrain, bushes such as juniper abound. The production of juniper oil thus became a good supplementary income, even an indispensable income for the family economy. The industrial purpose of these ovens makes us think that there were several families that collected stumps for much of the year. The batches were most likely made during the cold season, which coincided with the there being less agricultural work, and then a member of the family was in charge of selling. This implies the involvement of many people, and even the specialisation of the region in this product, which surely led to a certain prestige in the quality of the product.

1994). Therefore, we are talking about a trade with a long history. At least, from the sixteenth century onwards we find production to market it on a large scale, which meant an important change in the construction of ovens, which had to be adapted to a clear increase in demand.22 Even so, this historic trade gradually disappeared, especially due to the acceleration and improvement of chemical and phytosanitary products, until, finally, this traditional trade disappeared completely. Finally, we can conclude that juniper oil has been part of the everyday life of many people, either as builders of ovens, oil producers, traders, pedlars or, above all, shepherds who needed to buy the product to treat their animals. Understanding and maintaining the legacy of this production is interesting to preserve this aspect of local and family history, which, although it is often unknown, was a means of survival in places such as Riba-roja d’Ebre. n

Conclusions The system of artisanal juniper oil production was in operation at least from the Hellenistic era to the first third of the twentieth century (Lillo,

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Anguera, M. and Casadó, V. (1993). La vegetació de les vores de l’Ebre entre Flix i Riba-roja. Miscel·lània del Centre d’Estudis de la Ribera d’Ebre, 9, p. 59-75. Anguera, M. and Casadó, V. (1999). Arbres i arbusts de les reserves naturals de la Ribera d’Ebre. Miscel·lània del Centre d’Estudis de la Ribera d’Ebre, 13, p. 97-120.

Anguera, M. and Casadó, V. (2010a). Ribaroja d’Ebre. Miscel·lània del CERE, 21, p. 2542.

Cavallé, J. (1979). Medicina popular a Alcover: les plantes medicinals. Butlletí del Centre d’Estudis Alcoverencs, 6, p. 32-38.

Anguera, M. and Casadó, V. (2010b). Els espais naturals de Riba-roja d’Ebre. Miscel·lània del CERE, 21, p. 45-92.

Esquerda, M., Gallart, J. and Manresa, L. (2015). Els forns d’oli de ginebre a les Garrigues. Etnologia, X Trobada d’Estudiosos de les Garrigues, 1, p. 335-356.

Cabré, D. (1974). Riba-roja d’Ebre i el seu terme municipal: geografia, història, economia, onomàstica. Tarragona: Llibreria Guardias.

Fàbrega, A. (2006). La pega vegetal. Producció i pluriactivitat pagesa. Revista d’història agrària, 19, p. 69-104.

Juniper oil production, a pioneering trade in Riba-roja d’Ebre

Frigolé, J. (2004). Les trementinaires de la Vall de la Vansa i Tuixén, entre el local i el global. Revista d’etnologia de Catalunya, 24, p. 144-146. Frigolé, J. (2005). Dones que anaven pel món. Barcelona: Temes d’Etnologia de Catalunya. Barcelona: Government of Catalonia. Gausachs, R. (2008). Les herbes remeieres: de la cultura popular al fàrmac: una aproximació etnobotànica. Barcelona: Rafael Dalmau. Guadalajara, E. and Vélez, I. (2014). La mierera de La Varga de Alcantud. Revista de Folklore, 386, p. 4-11. Gusi, F., Barrachina, A. and Aguilella, G. (2009). Petroglifos ’ramiformes’ y Hornos de aceite de enebro en Castellón. Interpretación etnoarqueológica de una farmacopea rural intemporal. Quaderns de prehistòria i arqueologia de Castelló, 27, p. 257-278. Lillo, P. (1994). Pix y Oleum Ligni, Productos Industriales básicos en la antigüedad y su pervivencia. Revista Murciana de Antropología, 1, p. 109-119. Martínez, M. (1981). Nota sobre unos hornos de “ginebró” de Alcorisa (Teruel). Revista del Instituto de Estudios Turolenses, 66, p. 183188. Monesma, E. (1997). El aceite de enebro. Vida Rural, 56, p. 60-61. Monesma, E. (2017). El aceite de enebro. Temas de Antropología Aragonesa, 23, p. 77-136. Muntané, J. (2002). Tresor de la saviesa popular de les herbes, remeis i creences de Cerdanya del temps antic. Puigcerdà: Institut d’Estudis Ceretans. Porte, L. (1994). Fours à cade, fours à poix dans la Provence littorale. Forcalquier: Les Alpes de Lumiére. Rebés, X. (2003). La pedra en sec a la Fatarella. La Fatarella: Fundació el Solà. Sunyer, J. M. and Rebés, X. (1999). Forns d’oli de ginebre a la vall de Sant Francisco. Butlletí del Centre d’Estudis de la Terra Alta, 29, p. 23-26.

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NOTES

Another similar resin is the glue, made by a process of distillation that is very similar to that of juniper oil, but in this case from the pine and with a combustion that allows a denser product than juniper oil to be obtained.

In all these towns we talk about type IV ovens, as we see in the types section, while in the rest of Catalonia, most of the ovens found are of type I and II.

Dry stone is a traditional building technique that is made from stones of varying shapes and sizes, without any type of mortar to bond them. Only sand can be used to fill the gaps left between the stones (Rebés, 2003).

It has been noted that most of the containers studied were oval, either because the outline was not marked with great precision or because it was deformed over time and due to the heat.

J. Florensa (personal communication, 14 July 2017). Literal transcript of the interview, although we know that, in fact, the stones used were sandy, since the limestone degraded rapidly with heat.

J. Florensa (personal communication, 14 July 2017).

Popularly, the name juniper oil has been used for years, although normally the oil was obtained from the distillation of cade stumps which, as we have seen, is a plant in the same family.

We do not know exactly when batches were made, but it was most likely at the beginning of winter, when it was not so hot and the crop season had finished. What’s more, there was more demand for the product at this time of year.

These rocks have only been found inside one of the Riba-roja ovens. They could serve to keep the juniper stumps vertical, although it would be necessary to dig out the entire oven, to the rock, to ensure that these stones were placed on the rock or they were placed in it later on for some other reason.

This opinion is based on the experience of Eugenio Monesma in this type of construction (Monesma, 2017).

J. Olivas (personal communication, 27 July 2017).

Joan was interviewed in 1997 by the Museu de les Trementinaires (Oil Pedlars Museum) (Frigolé, 2005).

Demonstration carried out, for example, in Ribaroja d’Ebre at the 1st Juniper Oil Festival held in March 2017 (and likely to be held annually) or other demonstrations made in Prats de Lluçanès or the Museu de les Trementinaires by Pere Tardà.

In Alcantud, people with knowledge of the ovens were interviewed who confirmed that the ovens were assembled and disassembled with each batch (Guadalajara, Vélez, 2014).

For more details about ovens in the French region, see Porte, 1994.

Tournier, M. Des fours à cade. [Consulted on 25 July 2017]. <http://randojp.free.fr/0Diaporamas/Fours/Fours2.html>

Despite the careful study by Laurent Porte to publicise the fours à cade built in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, there are few references to the ovens of earlier times, although we have proof that they were in existence at least in the sixteenth century.

J. Agustí (personal communication, 22 July 2017).

Municipal Archive of Lleida (AML). Butchers’ shop Administration; Butchers’ shop Administration account books: entries 202 (1600-1601) to 239 (1695-1703).

The solid-hoofed livestock fair, which was held the first week of Lent, was a benchmark: it was one of the most important in the Catalan Pyrenees in terms of livestock sales. The Salàs fair was at its height during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, due to population growth and the construction of the threshing grounds. Even so, the first document that mentions the fair dates back to the year 1380. Although it disappeared more than 30 years ago, the fair continues to be the historical, urban and symbolic reference for the town.

F. Florensa (personal communication, 14 July 2017).

The increase in the demand for juniper oil throughout the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries could be closely linked to the height of transhumance and the large number of animals that were bred as much for the consumption of meat as for the sale of wool.

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The complete social act: a necessary viewpoint when working with intangible heritage. The case of the Sant Roc festival in Paüls

n the last ten years the concept of intangible heritage has been consolidated as a tool for research and the updating of local knowledge of our land and for the building and definition of identities. This consolidation becomes clear if we take the development of inventories in the Catalan-speaking region as a reference. From the Montseny Inventory of Intangible Heritage to the present day, in 2018, six different inventories have been made, or are underway.1 Although legislative regulatory processes began earlier, the UNESCO Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage dates from 2003. On a national level in Catalonia, the turning point came in 1993

Marc Ballester Torrents COL·LECTIU ANANT

Graduate in History (2000) and Anthropology (2002) from the University of Barcelona, in 2010 he carried out the research De la Axarquía a la Aharquía. Proposal for sound ethnography. He works in the field of ethnological and intangible heritage, and among other projects and research he has participated in the Atlas of the Intangible Heritage of Andalusia (2008-2012), the Terres de l’Ebre Inventory of Intangible Heritage (2015-2017) and the Penedès Inventory of Intangible Heritage (2017-2018). Currently, along with Rosa Rodríguez, he is developing the project The Central Market of Tortosa. An ethnographic research for recognition of the intangible heritage. He is a co-founder member of Col·lectiu Anant.

with Law 2/1993, on the promotion and protection of popular and traditional culture and the cultural association movement, and Law 9/1993 on Catalan cultural heritage (Costa, and Folch, 2014), since the commitment to draw up territorially specific inventories (Montseny, Terres de l’Ebre, Gavarres, Penedès, Vallés) introduced a new work strategy, a boundary that up to that

Musicians on the wall with the jota dancers in the square (2015). MARC BALLESTER TORRENTS / IPCITE

moment had not been explicitly used by the Ethnological Heritage Inventory of Catalonia (DGCPAC), although it worked with the organisations in the region (Ethnological and Intangible Heritage Observatory Antennas). This fact is determined partly by the same idiosyncrasies that differentiate ethnological heritage from intangible

The complete social act: a necessary viewpoint when working with intangible heritage. The case of the Sant Roc festival in Paüls

heritage. Far from the false synonym that is often established between ethnological heritage and intangible heritage, they are not built in the same way. Ethnological heritage is the result of a methodology and an analytical process, which emphasises the method of understanding this heritage. On the other hand, intangible heritage, although it normally uses the same descriptive methodology, is the result of a community selection process2 that defines what its intangible heritage is. Furthermore, ethnological heritage, as a tool for understanding and analysing, does not determine a singular or identifying fact,3 which conversely intangible heritage does define. The construction of ethnological heritage has an implicit holistic and relational understanding, but intangible heritage depends on whoever observes it and describes it. Another important aspect is that intangible heritage is explicitly given this differentiating territorial character. This is because of the relationship that is understood to exist4 between the environment, the natural surroundings and the construction of this heritage (UNESCO, 2003), which in the case of ethnological heritage, in the descriptive process, is taken into account to Les festes continuen sent una de les estratègies de la comunitat per definir i reafirmar les relacions que l’estructuren. És per això que són, contenidors permeables i mutables, tot i la falsa aparença d’invariabilitat, de contingut que permet comprendre els marcs interpretatius que regeix la comunitat que la reprodueix. És en aquest sentit un fet social complet. Partint de la descripció de la celebració del romiatge a l’ermita de Sant Roc a Paüls el 16 d’agost, identifiquem les unitats d’anàlisi del ritual com a fet social complet i mostrem les línies de treball necessàries en el reconeixement del patrimoni immaterial. La proposta és el resultat del treball de camp dels anys 2015 i 2016 a l’IPCITE (Inventari del Patrimoni Cultural Immaterial de les Terres de l’Ebre).

understand it, but not to delimit it. This relationship becomes more evident in the inventories made within the framework of the Biosphere Reserve.5 Finally, it should be made clear that the appearance of inventories is closely related to the need defined by UNESCO to develop inventories as a safeguarding strategy (Estrada, and Del Mármol, 2014). Inventories extend and help consolidate a concept while spreading it, that of intangible heritage, which is increasingly becoming an identity construction tool and, therefore, of political use. The political and ideological nature adopted by intangible heritage and its inventories (Carrera, 2017; Bortoloto, 2014) makes inventory development processes understandable, prioritising not the construction of a homogeneous identity, but identities that oscillate between the recognition of diversity and the search for exotic cultural features (Santamarina, 2013). Intangible heritage and inventory in Les Terres de l’Ebre In this context, in 2015, with the participation of the Institut Ramon Muntaner and the Museu de les Terres de l’Ebre, promoted by the Directorate-General for Popular Culture, Las fiestas continúan siendo una estrategia de la comunidad para definir y reafirmar las relaciones que la estructuran; son por ello, contenedores permeables y mutables, a pesar de la falsa apariencia de invariabilidad, de contenido que permite comprender los marcos interpretativos que rigen a la comunidad que los reproduce. Es desde este marco un hecho social completo. Tomando como referencia la descripción de la celebración en la ermita de Sant Roc en Paüls el 16 de agosto, identificamos las unidades de análisis del ritual como hecho social completo y definimos las líneas de trabajo necesarias en el reconocimiento del patrimonio inmaterial. La propuesta es el resultado del trabajo de campo entre los años 2015 y 2016 en el IPCITE (Inventario del Patrimonio Cultural Inmaterial de las Tierras del Ebro).

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Associations and Cultural Action, the preparation began of the Terres de l’Ebre Inventory of Intangible Cultural Heritage (IPCITE), an inventory that, along with the motivation to know, safeguard and energise, also makes two motivations evident: the relationship between heritage and a defined and recognised natural environment –the Terres de l’Ebre Biosphere Reserve – declared as such by UNESCO in 2013, and the reaffirmation and recovery, in the political and territorial discourse, of the vegueria of Les Terres de l’Ebre. The inventory includes the four counties that make up the vegueria of Les Terres de l’Ebre: La Terra Alta, La Ribera d’Ebre, El Montsià and El Baix Ebre.6 This tool aims, among other aspects,7 to give value to the characteristics of the territory and recognise its diversity as something unique, that is to say, diversity understood not only from Paraules clau: Romeria, fet social complet, patrimoni immaterial, Terres de l’Ebre Palabras clave: Romería, hecho social completo, patrimonio inmaterial, Tierras del Ebro Keywords: pilgrimage, total social fact, intangible heritage, Terres de l’Ebre

The Festival continues to be one of the strategies used by the community to define and reaffirm the relationships around which it is organised; because of this they are permeable and mutable containers, despite the false appearance of invariability, of contents that enable us to understand the interpretative structure that governs the community that replays it. It is in this sense a total social fact. Following the description of the celebration of the pilgrimage to the hermitage of Sant Roc (Paüls) on the 16th August, we identify the units of analysis of the ritual as a total social fact and we determine the lines of work needed to identify the intangible heritage. This proposal is the result of fieldwork carried out between 2015 and 2016 in IPCITE (Terres de l’Ebre Intangible Culture Inventory).

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the point of view of a natural landscape, but also from a cultural point of view. In this case, the cultural diversity of the territory is the criterion from the start, not as an exotic element, but as recognition that allows and subtly obliges it to become palpable in the different fields of intangible heritage. A resource is built which, although it makes the use of intangible heritage as a political tool obvious, offers the community content that favours the knowledge and promotion of actions of a territorial nature, in this case, Les Terres de l’Ebre. The total social fact, a concept to complement intangible heritage Intangible heritage that uses ethnological heritage methodology inherits analytical work and an understanding that is specific to social sciences and brings us closer to a conclusion that

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has served different authors (Moreno, 197; Moreno, and Agudo 2012; Ariño, and García, 2006; Homobo, 2004) to define and analyse festive rituals, we refer to the total social fact. This concept implies a relational and dynamic view of heritage, of the ritual that moves away from heritage understood to be static and immutable. In this sense, cultural heritage, due to the methodological inheritance of other types of heritage, has often identified tangible, static and invariant objects as heritage, and has omitted processes and implicit relationships. The object has continued ahead of the action. We still find how some of the intangible heritage inventories drawn up continue to reproduce this objectrelated work of inventories of other types of heritage (Estrada, and Del Mármol, 2014). Heritagisation that objectifies movement.8

Therefore, attending to heritage from a holistic and relational perspective involves not only doing so in the descriptive aspect, but also during field work, making the intangible heritage coherent. This relational idea is based on this concept that emerged at the beginning of the twentieth century thanks to the French ethnologist, Marcel Mauss, described as fait social total, the total social fact. The starting point is that the facts are relational events, integrated in a whole, that is, integrated into a system that makes them understandable. This system is constituted by the social and cultural context in which it is developed and allows us to understand the dynamics of the element. It is the context and the relationships that build it that make the signs and actions of the observed fact understandable (semiotic context). This capacity for comprehension provides knowledge that

Musicians sitting on the stone walls playing during the races (2015). MARC BALLESTER TORRENTS / IPCITE

The complete social act: a necessary viewpoint when working with intangible heritage. The case of the Sant Roc festival in PaĂźls

enables one to intervene, participate and experience the event without the need for interpreters and, therefore, it often becomes one of the aspects that marks the belonging to the group or community. (Mauss, 1979) Signs, behaviours and actions, in this case in the festive context, are transmitted through shared practice and are the aspects that allow us to participate in the ritual. The codes within the dance, the relationships between groups and gender, consumption of food and the act of eating together and the occupation or use of space are several examples of how the festival is built as a whole. Conversely, from the analysis of the social context in which the social event is configured and developed, the ritual can also be understood by how it works, that is, the celebration is the reflection and the point of confluence of the different elements that construct the narrative and explanatory thread of the community. Talking about the narrative thread that enables us to understand the community allows us to return to Marcel Mauss and the concept of the â&#x20AC;&#x153;total social factâ&#x20AC;?. Mauss mentions9 elements of a physical, physiological, psychological and social nature that we must transform into understandable elements, in this case, within the logic of intangible heritage, and that allow us to understand and transmit the idea of the relational entity configured by the social and cultural system in which the fact is developed (Mauss, 1979). Observing the social fact, which exists as part of a system, makes the relationships and dynamics of the community and the social system that governs it understandable. In this sense, according to the author (Mauss, 1979, p. 260), this type of fact happens and is identified when:

1. Different modalities of social reality (political, economic, religious, recreational, physical, etc.) are reflected. 2. They affect different moments in the life of the individual or express different phenomena. 3. Events occur, both unconscious and conscious, of the collective and individual representation. The analysis involves both the synchronous and the diachronic perspective, but above all it involves the ability to identify the different types of relationship that make up the community and, therefore, make it understandable. Understanding heritage as a process under construction conditions ethnographic work. It is in fieldwork that the cross-sectional view is exercised in which the object of study becomes of secondary importance. Observing the relationships that permit an understanding of the total social fact from field work often means not asking about the object of study; knowing the codes that allow you to intervene during participative observation and be aware of the different levels of understanding of the reality observed. In this sense, the festive event is the social fact which best allows us to observe community dynamics. This is partly due to its public nature, although when we say public nature we are not referring exclusively to what is evident, but also to that which is absent or omitted (tangible or intangible) in the public space. These festivities are revealing of the social reality, both for what they show and what they hide or invert (Moreno, 1997). Prohibitions generated by absences or consensus become evident and, thus, after the party everything continues to work in the same way, as the community has established. The festive ritual makes the plots visible and shows different levels of analysis that the anthropologist must perceive

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in the ethnographic work making the whole social fact understandable. Being aware of the implicit dynamics and relationships in the fact understood as heritage makes it possible to identify the strategies that lead the community to present a specific fact as a differentiated heritage element. We understand not only what it is, but why it is, and thus reinforce the idea that any fact within a system is understandable in relation to the context in which it is developed. The festival as a complete social event allows us to take into account some of the most obvious aspects, the units of analysis, which are knowledge transmitters as they transmit information and make the system in which the festivals and the community are integrated understandable. They are: 1. Space. How it is used, distribution of spaces, possible community hierarchies between one place and another, relationship of the community with the space, mythology and related symbols. Definition of ownership, common/private. 2. Symbolic and religious element. Construction of the relationship between the community and what is sacred, attributed values, characteristics that are associated with the sacred image or deity, origin and continuity of this relationship of protection and worship. 3. Time frame. The relationship with the productive system in contrast to the free time and celebration and work, changes of dates and changes in the productive system of the community. Time and chronology of the celebration as a fact, structured by itself. 4. The organisational model. Who organises the celebration. The organisational fact and the roles that each group in the community or indi-

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vidual fulfils work simultaneously to understand roles and social positioning and also within the celebration. 5. The act of eating together and consumption of food. The transformations and the perdurance of food consumption and the relationship with products produced by the community as well as those consumed that come from elsewhere. The hierarchy between the consumption of one product or another, the preparation and who prepared it. The reflection

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of family life in festive behaviour and the action of production and consumption. 6. Dance, music, performances. Both in the characteristics of the music itself and in its development, the practice and interpretation, the relationships that are defined, who participates and how. 7. Games. As one of the key elements in such celebrations, the variants and participants, the types of games that are represented and the community’s participation.

8. Participation and development of the celebration. How all these elements are present and develop in the celebration as a whole. The narrative thread that makes the celebration itself understandable as well as the celebration becoming a container for all these meanings. Each of these elements enables us to understand the whole combination in some way that is built, reproduced and perpetuated by the festive event and the community, and that can also be considered intangible heritage themselves.10 Using the case of the Sant Roc festival in Paüls, we will make the value of ethnographic description evident as well as the relational and holistic conception that contributes to the consideration of a total social fact in the construction of recognition as intangible heritage. In this case, the Sant Roc festival in Paüls has been considered to be part of one of the 100 elements included on the Terres de l’Ebre Inventory of the Intangible Cultural Heritage. The reason for this inclusion is that once the fieldwork was carried out, its value as a total social fact became obvious, by this we mean that it enabled us to understand what was behind the celebration itself.

The Chapel of Sant Roc, after Mass (2015). MARC BALLESTER TORRENTS / IPCITE

Ethnography of a total social fact. The case of the Sant Roc chapel festival in Paüls11 The fieldwork and participant observation for this celebration were carried out within the framework of the Terres de l’Ebre Inventory of Intangible Heritage. Although it is part of an inventory, where fieldwork has the usual time limitations of these types of projects, it should be noted that, throughout the whole project, fieldwork was prioritised with emphasis on participant observation. The objective was to prioritise understanding, the current state, the

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The musicians parade through the streets of Paüls announcing the beginning of the festivities (2015). MARC BALLESTER TORRENTS / IPCITE

roots and the relationship of the community with the different elements identified. In this way, ethnographic research is prioritised to identify the elements that, being recognised by the community as their own, need urgent safeguarding action. Priority was given to inventory elements that were active and continued to be relevant and representative for the community.12 In the case of the Sant Roc festival in Paüls, participation and fieldwork took place in 2015 and 2016. Semistructured interviews were carried out with village residents of different ages13 before the event took place. The first year we took part in the annual village festival (festa major) and Sant Roc’s Day and, the following year, we did not participate in the whole celebration, just on Sant Roc’s Day in order to complete the work. The result is the following ethnography that shares part of the text

and the structure with the description of the IPCITE. The feast of Sant Roc is celebrated in Paüls every year from August 14 to 17, when the annual village festivals are held, La Vespra (14), the Assumption of Mary or Our Lady of Angels, (15) Sant Roc (16) and Sant Roquet (17). Villagers decorate the streets and join in the bull activities in the square and in the street, and in the afternoon and at night, they dance with orchestras and the municipal band, which parades around the town. A celebration that, despite the fun and festive events, continues to feature Sant Roc’s Day as a key element, when the pilgrimage, or romeria as it is known locally, to the chapel of Sant Roc is held. The chapel, on the north-eastern edge of Els Ports Natural Park, that dates

back to the fourteenth century14 and has undergone subsequent renovations. Today, it stands amongst holm oaks, cypresses and maples with dry stone terraces that are the inheritance of agricultural and livestock farming. This space is known as the “Sant Roc recreation area”. In this place we find the three key elements of this celebration, the corros (areas with stone tables and chairs),15 Sant Roc spring and Sant Roc chapel. The days before the pilgrimage, the village festivals have a common scheme that is repeated every year. The first act of the festival is the presentation of the pubilles (eldest daughter and heir to the family estate in the absence of a brother) and the town crier, accompanied by the ringing of bells that announce the festivities. On August 14, the Vespra is celebrated with the main act, which

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This preparation of the food contrasts with the model of celebration in which the preparations involved killing the animal and taking the utensils to cook the rabbit or the lamb in the chapel on the day of the festival.

The corros in the Sant Roc recreation area are the meeting place on pilgrimage day (2015). MARC BALLESTER TORRENTS / IPCITE

is the night dance that is started off by the pubilles wearing garlands. On August 15, the Assumption, the celebration takes place in the town centre. The local authorities and the pubilles, accompanied by the band of Paüls, parade through the streets to the church to attend the religious ceremony that precedes the dance. The dance in the main square and the tardes de bous (afternoons of bulls) begin on the 15th and last all week. These are the activities that take place every year in the days leading up to Sant Roc. The community enjoys

these days while preparing the day at the chapel. The main people in charge of the preparations, shopping and cooking if necessary and finding out who will come to the corro or not, are the women of each family unit. For their part, men are responsible for the necessary infrastructure and the conditioning of space, although these are minimal, because nowadays the corros have permanent tables and benches made of stone and the food is not made at the chapel, but is barbecued by the men.

August 16 is the key day of the celebration, residents, guests and old neighbours who come back for the festival go to the chapel to celebrate Saint Roc’s Day. Some neighbours set off early on foot, following the “Camí de Dalt” (high road) (approximately 5 kilometres). Traditionally, the chapel was reached by this “camí de Dalt”, with donkey carts carrying all that was needed to spend the day at the chapel: “An altar boy leaves the church, holding a cross; behind him are the other altar boys accompanying the rector, then followed by the authorities and the village band, and then the town’s faithful followers. [...] The altar boy with the cross continues down the streets to the Canal and climbs the path that leads to Sant Roc chapel.” (Francesc Basco Gracià. Des del Cor. Celebrations of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary and Glorious St Roc, 2011, p. 23) Today, this road is complemented by a track you can drive on which is known as the “camí de Baix” (low road), by which most participants arrive. Most people who walk there have a relative who goes by car. They take everything necessary for the celebration.

Sant Roc spring with its sixteen water spouts (2016). MARC BALLESTER TORRENTS / IPCITE

So, during the morning, the chapel and the corros begin to fill with the food and utensils that the participants bring to spend the day there. Many of the participants, especially the elderly and most devout, will arrive before the start of mass, at 11:00 a.m., to take part and have breakfast.

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The older people interviewed say that prior to generalised access by car, it was common to arrive before the mass began and breakfast was made on site. Breakfast was made with the lights (lungs) and fried blood of the lamb that had been killed the day before. Currently, only a few people attend the breakfast before the mass and lamb lights are no longer prepared.16 The day begins with a Mass in the chapel of Sant Roc, which is small and rectangular, but although the mass is only attended by around one hundred people, the building fills up. Inside, the front pews are reserved for the municipal authorities, the pubilles and heirs of that year, while the rest of the space is filled with people attending Mass and singing the goigs – songs for Sant Roc, either seated or standing. The celebration follows Catholic liturgy and the Sant Roc goigs songs at the end of the mass are an important feature. Goigs sung by the people function as a community anthem in these acts of collective celebration. At the end of the mass we can see how neighbours grouped by families are arranged throughout the corros. The eating area is organised by families; The hostess, with some help, organises the corros, the space where they move their home for the day. At the same time, a large part of the attendees are grouped in the square, as it is the meeting place. It is time to greet and share the first drink of the day, the goal is to be there before the games begin. The local authorities and the pubilles also gather once the mass is over. Each family owning a house in the town is assigned a corro in the Sant Roc recreation area for the day.17 That day, if another family or stranger takes up the assigned corro, they may be made to go to a vacant one. According to the inhabitants of Paüls, each corro has been passed down from generation to gen-

Races in the square (2015). MARC BALLESTER TORRENTS / IPCITE

eration and is associated with a house in the village. This oral transmission of the space was formalised in a municipal agreement in 1994. This agreement also stipulates that the Town Council must transfer a space or corro in the chapel area to the new homes that arise. In the case of the sale of a house, the buyer has the right to occupy the assigned corro. The people of Paül make the corro their home on the 16th and they do it explicitly, not only because it means having a home and a place to spend the day, but also because it reinforces the evidence of belonging to the community, although during the year they live outside the village. Therefore, while the corro is organised for lunch, the public activities take place on the square. Once the pubilles and the heirs with the municipal authorities have left the chapel accompanied by the band they go to the edge of the square, where they preside over the activities that take place in the square and the races begin. The corres or races consist of running a certain number of laps of a previously defined circuit that it is always the same. The circuit starts in front of the square, climbs up to the door of the chapel, turns and

follows the terrace, which is parallel to the square, then goes down the opposite end and back to the entrance of the square, where the finish line is placed. This is the circuit for the little ones; the adults leave from the same spot, but when they come down from the upper terrace they continue along the ramp towards the barbecue area. When they reach the lower part, they go up again towards the square, where the finish line is. These are the two routes, and depending on the category, they are repeated a certain number of times. The age categories are: 3-4 years, 5-6 years, 7-8 years, 9-11 years, 12-16 years, these go around the short circuit. The over 16s, who, as the programme says, must be “from Paüls or have family ties to the town”, do six laps of the long route. The last one is a race for professionals, who do 15 laps. Although there are currently more children participating and very few adults, the races are a key part of the celebration. The collective memory is that whenever the festival has taken place, the races have also been held. The oldest interviewees remember and talk about the races attracting the best runners in the region and beyond. They were a point of reference and even today runners from out of town are

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encouraged to take part, in the case of the adult category. The dynamics of the race coincide with the models of games and races held in the region.18 With the band starting the race. Each time a runner passes them, the band plays to let the public know that the runners have gone past. During the race, in those consisting of more than one lap, the first one to arrive on each lap gets a prize. This means that you can get a prize for coming first in lap 2 and 4 without winning the whole race. The prizes are gifts that one of the townâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s company or shops donates: a voucher or a specific object. It is a way

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of promoting business, but mainly collaborating in the festival activities and making involvement with the celebration and the community visible. In the course of the race, one of the organisers, with a microphone, announces the prize given for each lap, as well as advertising the company that donated it. At the end, the Town Hall presents the winners with cash prizes and drinks. During the races there are tables strategically placed with jugs of spring water for the runners. This water, along with the band when the runners pass and when they arrive, are distinctive features of the Sant Roc races.

Sant Roc pitcher and spring (2016). MARC BALLESTER TORRENTS / IPCITE

Then, once the races have finished, the square empties and each group goes to their corro for lunch. Because the celebration is in August and the place is in the Els Ports Natural Park, it is forbidden to make fire on the ground to cook food. This has been one of the elements that has influenced the change of consumption of one product or another, according to the participants themselves. In the past there was a fire to grill meat, mainly lamb, with its lights being eaten for breakfast. Currently, despite the fact that there is a protected area for grilling, there is no particular way of eating or typical dish associated with the festival. The changes in food consumption models become evident, in this case and in others, such as those mentioned in the region, in what is consumed during the festival, which is less homogeneous, although it is homemade or has been bought ready-made. It is common to see how the family brings together several generations in each corro. Despite the diversity of contexts, according to age and family relationships, it is standard for grandparents to meet their children and grandchildren at the corro. Therefore, we can see corros occupied by a nuclear family or an extended family. The case of corros occupied by extended families is often the result of a close family that has house in the town which the children and other relatives return to for the festival and all share the corro. What is apparent is that everyone eats at the corro of the mother or grandmother, who is also responsible for preparing the food or the main part of the meal. The fact that the family gathering is maintained as a basis for eating together means that the day of the Sant Roc pilgrimage is, for many, the opportunity to make official presentations or to give news. It was not possible to clearly define the system by which a new family decides to go to

The complete social act: a necessary viewpoint when working with intangible heritage. The case of the Sant Roc festival in Paüls

one corro or another, this will depend on the relationships within each family. The day passes and the participants take the opportunity to go to the chapel and light a candle, pray or simply sit in silence. This happens throughout the whole day until the procession begins. Devotion to Sant Roc, although it is linked to the fact that he saved the town from the plague, is also associated with other elements. On the one hand, at Paüls this devotion was traditionally believed to favour marriage. For both boys and girls, especially for girls, who were old enough to marry and took part in the pilgrimage, it was said they would find a boyfriend or get engaged before the year was out. This fact is also related to the belief that Sant Roc and the celebration in the chapel favour maternity. Even today it is said, as a sign of happiness, “may Sant Roc keep a fair child for you”. This adage is complemented by the fact that once the baby is born, it is also said that they know which of spring’s sixteen water jets it came from. It is also a place where many couples get married. After lunch and before the procession there are more visits to the chapel, but it is also common to see the neighbours going from one corro to another to greet each other. In this sense, the day at the chapel enables and encourages meetings with neighbours who live elsewhere and return for the festivities or neighbours who do not see each other in the village during the year. This ritual has a common feature in most corros, offering the visitor a casquete, the typical Paüls pastry.19 The casquetes, coquetes, ametllats and homemade eau-de-vie are all common at the corro tables. They are products that used to be homemade and that are usually shop bought today. It is a time when absences are noticed, as demonstrated by the custom that a family in mourning for someone who has died that year do not go up to the chapel. This fact is common and known

by the neighbours who comment on the missing person and the reason why the corro is empty. This interval between the after dinner conversation and the start of the procession is when it becomes clear that the day at the chapel is a space to reinforce community ties and the community itself, by gathering, chatting and organising card games, mainly el guinyot,20 while some people wait for the start of the procession and, mainly, for the dance to begin. The beginning of the procession and the dance that follows it, make the

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importance of being in one corro or another clear, as was the case in the morning when the races took place in the square. The corros, which are on the terraces near the square where the spring is located and where the communal activities take place enable members to sit and enjoy the celebration and watch the dance or the races. Although it has not been possible to determine how the distribution of space is carried out, in comparison with other pilgrimages in the area where it is not regulated, the regulation and determination of the spaces is a way to limit conflict both within the community and with outsiders. Space management,

The bouquet of rosemary with the holy water to spray the participants (2016). MARC BALLESTER TORRENTS / IPCITE

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as it is understood today, is the way to avoid conflict. Examples can be found in pilgrimages in Pinell de Brai to the chapel of Santa Magdalena in Garcia, in which this agreement is not explicit and helps avoid conflicts regarding space while everyone respects the implicit agreements of the community, who used the space the previous year, but, if a stranger arrives or a person wants to change it, there can be conflict between families in relatively small towns. At 5:30 pm, the local authorities, the pubilles and the heirs, the band and the neighbours go to the chapel, where the procession starts. The pedestal with Sant Roc is now simply carried by devoted women, but it used to be carried by the girls of the town who were turning 18. Guided by an altar boy carrying the cross and followed by the band, Sant Roc on his stand leaves the chapel and takes the same route every year. It passes the terrace above the square and the spring, and enters from the opposite side, stopping just in front of the spring. The participants who have a corro on the top edge can sit there, because from there they can see the image of Sant Roc, but the rest of the neighbours gather in the square to see the procession. Once in the square where the spring is, the local authorities and the pubilles, following the saint, stand in front of the image and leave a space for the priest. The priest does “the sermon of the spring”, on no particular subject, which therefore changes, and blesses the water from the spring is in the pail. Using a bouquet of rosemary, the attendees are sprinkled with the water as a sign of blessing and protection of Sant Roc. Next, the goigs of Sant Roc are sung again and the attendees go to kiss the saint’s feet. This is an invariable ritual that ends with the return of the saint to the chapel. Once the band returns to the square, on the upper edge overlooking the square, the jota dances begin. It is a community event and with

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added identity value for the participants and the residents of Paüls. The dance begins when the Paüls Municipal Band plays the Paüls jota. The first to dance are the pubilles21 and, little by little, people form circles of three, four or more people who join the dance. One of the peculiarities of the Paüls jota, with regard to other jotas in the area, is that it is danced in a circle and not in pairs. The dancers form a circle and all face inwards. All the parts of the jota, the valset and the mudança with clapping are danced in a circle facing inwards. After the first jota, a sardana: Camí de l’ermita is played and danced There is evidence that this has been danced since 1958 (Basco, 2012). Then the musicians add what are considered popular dances, such as pasodoble or the waltz. Of all the dances, the jota is the one that the most people join in and the one that recreates the festive atmosphere of the day with the participation of almost everyone in the square. Over the last thirty years, regardless of the songs that are played, the dance starts and ends with the Paüls jota. In the last jota that is danced, the musicians descend from the terrace where they were playing and come down to move between the dancers, they are increasingly surrounded by dancers with a dance that progressively increases the rhythm. In this last jota, which is the one that lasts longest, at the end only the trumpets play and the other instruments stop playing. The trumpeters repeat the section for the mudança and clapping repeatedly, which progressively increases the rhythm and makes it more frantic. This way they get the whole square dancing the jota, which with the last note of the trumpet will mark the end of the Sant Roc’s Day pilgrimage. The jota is the last act of the celebration. A celebration that, over the years, has been reinforced as the key celebration for the community, due to the impor-

tance of identity that is attributed to it and because it includes many differentiating and cohesive features of the community and, in this case, because certain historically defined structures, such as the occupation of space, are also involved. Some points for analysis, the evidence of the holistic viewpoint By observing the development of the festive ritual as a total social fact, we approach the comprehensive value that ethnology brings, and thus we can identify the elements that make up the ritual and which, at the same time, allow us to categorise it as intangible heritage. These units of analysis are: the space, the symbolic and religious content, the time frame, the organisation, the act of eating together, the dance, the playful element or the game and participation. Worked on horizontally, these units of analysis evidence different types of relationship, those related to reproductions of gender roles, those of an intergenerational nature or those defined by intra-community socio-economic differences.

Space. The use and arrangement of space becomes an intrinsic part of the festive event, since the relationship of belonging is defined by the way it is occupied. This fact allows you to observe the relationships between the community and those that are outside the community, as well as the internal relationships of the community through the distribution of space during the celebration. In the San Roc recreation area these features are visible through three tangible elements. The corros are an element in which different comprehensive meanings come together. On the one hand, as a meeting place that makes a sense of belonging to the community evident, and, on the other, in terms of landscape, under-

The complete social act: a necessary viewpoint when working with intangible heritage. The case of the Sant Roc festival in Paüls

standing of the appropriation and the productive use of space. In the community sense, the use of corros is a consensual appropriation, historically informal, but today recognised and regulated, of a communal space, which has been passed on and learned in the reproduction and celebration of the festival. The use of the corros defines the internal relations of the community, since it is not the same to occupy the corro overlooking the square as it is to have one that is further away, since it is not the same in terms of presence at the party nor in terms of social position. It also prioritises the use of a public space by the community rather than outsiders. This way the community keeps what they consider to be theirs and makes sure they can use it when they need to and conflict is also avoided. In the area of historical use of space, the corro, according to the Diccionari català-valencià-balear (DCVB), by A. M. Alcover and F. de B. Moll, means “pen where the oxen that run are kept”. This definition in the local context takes on more meaning as it is an area with livestock that used the area around the spring as a resting point. This allows us to link it to a model of use that has almost disappeared in the Ports area. Another key element of space is the presence of the water source. A spring with 16 jets, from which water flows and which has supplied the town of Paüls since 1886 through a tank and system of channels. It is also a point of reference in the area and it is common for locals to drive to it and fill bottles with water to take it home. It is an important place, therefore, since the spring is a significant place for community life, but it is also a place that is used by those outside the community. The third significant element of this space is the chapel of Sant Roc. The Town Hall is in charge of maintain-

ing the space and the chapel and it is the religious community, in the case of the chapel. It is a point of reference for the community and the locals who get married in this space. The symbolic and religious element. The aspects that stand out and relate to the image and the space are the relationship with maternity that is expressed in the saying “may Sant Roc give you a fair child” or the fact that when a child is born in the community it is common to hear the expression “I know which jet this little boy or girl came from.” This last expression also refers to the fact that couples take advantage of the pilgrimage party to escape and begin love affairs. All in all, without forgetting that water has traditionally been seen as an element of fertility, although it is often associated more with the marededéus trobades (statues of Our Lady) (Prat, 1983). Other phrases related to the image of Sant Roc are: “When the pot is on the fire, Sant Roc takes care of it”, so that the fire does not go out or, also, but with the opposite meaning so a fire doesn’t start, the following is said “Glorious Sant Roc, keep us from the plague and fire”. There are, along with these expressions, two legends related to the arrival of Sant Roc in the village: in both, Sant Roc has a healing and protective role for the community which leads this same community to recognise the saint as a protector, although it wasn’t until the 1970s that he was declared the patron saint. The time frame. Although the village of Paüls has a different production model now, and therefore it is no longer the agricultural cycle that determines daily life. The fact that from the second fortnight in August traditionally the almond harvest begins, followed by the vine and then the rice harvest (for the population that moved to the shore) and then the olive, meant that this time on 15 and 16 August was time for a break or pause with regard

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to the relationship with agricultural work. Furthermore, as a preliminary complementary work, the interviewees introduce one of the major tasks undertaken by women in the region, basketmaking (Subirats, 2006). Basketmaking allowed the women of the town to earn extra money to buy products like sugar (for the casquetes) or fabric for a dress for the dance. Currently, the celebration during the month of August makes it more participatory, although it is a different production cycle, as opposed to other celebrations, such as Sant Antoni in winter. The widespread model of summer holidays has made it easier for many of the residents who live away to return around this time and join in the celebration, thus reinforcing the feeling of belonging and also of ownership. The organisational model. The current role of the Town Council as the sole organiser contrasts with the historical figure of the Majorals,22 present in the area and that we can still find in an organisational role in the pilgrimage to Santa Magdalena in Garcia, or the festivities of Fatarella and Ascó (IPCITE, 2016). The disappearance23 of the Majorals reinforces other organisational models, such as the Town Council and, in the liturgical sense, the religious community or the parish group. Another organisation is the corros, as a representation of the house, in this case it is the family that is the organisational entity. It is the core of the celebration and reproduces the roles of gender and age within each family, as well as intrafamily relationships. The celebration highlights conflicts and intra-community relations, given the visits made between corros, that is, between families. Eating together and festival food. Eating together is an intrinsic part of the celebration, as it takes place around the table, in the corro where the community

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is represented. Outsiders, in-laws and friends are invited to share a table, and neighbours are invited to sit and share a glass of home-made liqueur, a coffee and try some pastries or casquetes. The festivities involve drinking and eating, while the celebration progresses and hospitality around the corro shapes the day and reinforces intercommunity and intracommunity relationships with the guests or others. Eating together shows how eating habits vary. Traditional products, such as grilled lamb and its lights and fried blood, are given up for dishes that are prepared in advance and bought prioritising exogenous food models for ease of consumption and acquisition. In this sense, as well as other pilgrimages in the area, certain dishes or meals are promoted, such as Clotxa or the preparing of a shared dish for all participants, such as paella (IPCITE. 2016). This is not promoted in Paüls. However, this culinary identity is reinforced with the pastries. Making homemade casquetes, mainly by older women, is the defining feature. This sweet pastry can be made or bought in the village bakery. In this case, the fact that it is bought or made at home

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evokes the transformation in the transfer and fulfilment of specific social and family roles.

and the transformations of the rituals and the changing collective points of reference.

Dance and music. The Paüls jota as a dance, and not as a dance, because it has lost the ritualised framework in the way it takes place, is today one of the main features of the identity of the community. Loss of the practice and generalised knowledge is avoided, beyond the schools that represent it or groups of semi-professionals In Paüls, the locals know how to dance their own jota, and this, as the interviewees express, is a reason for pride that differentiates them from other towns in the region where there have been more directed recovery processes, as we can see in nearby towns such as Rasquera. But this identity trait has been reactive in the last thirty years and, as noted in the local magazine El Xiprer, in October 1986, the sardana was then the community’s point of reference, and it says so explicitly with the sentence: “[...] the sardanas that the Junevil Paulsenca Band played were not to be missed.” The dance and the music played highlight the vitality

Games and recreation. The races are, for their practice and survival in the collective memory, a fixed point of reference in terms of recreation in the celebration. Despite the degree of adult competition, it has a playful side, given the relationship between the spectators and local runners, that is visible in the way in which people encourage one or another. Apart from these organised games, the day enables others to come about. Guinyot, after lunch, which is mainly played by the men and is part of one of the recreational aspects of the celebration; or others that the surroundings lend themselves to, both among children and between adolescents and youths. Informal games that favour meetings and relationships, beyond the corro, of the younger generations, both for playful and for romantic reasons.

Musicians and jota dancers in the square (2016). MARC BALLESTER TORRENTS / IPCITE

Participation. The celebration of pilgrimages is a typical context in which, due to the playful and festive environment, the consolidation or the begin-

The complete social act: a necessary viewpoint when working with intangible heritage. The case of the Sant Roc festival in Paüls

ning of relationships between generations and groups is encouraged, as well as being a catalyst for conflicts, due to the fact that it seeks to promote the essence of community. Also, the presence of families facilitates relations between them and reinforces and favours the definition of family ties and those between families and the corresponding social relationships. For residents who live outside the village participation is the space for reunion and reinforcement of belonging to the community, which in this case is complemented, if they still have a house in the town, by a corro reserved that confirms them, despite being out of town for years, as members of the community. In this case, maintaining

property is what gives the right to space. Participation in the ritual reinforces the community while allowing understanding of the way it works. Noting what allows us to identify each of the units of analysis, we return to the idea of a total social fact. It is from the holistic and relational viewpoint that we understand why the festival takes place and its processes are carried out, but we also understand the community that reproduces it, the productive, political, and symbolic system, along with the various relationships intrinsic to the community. Therefore, if the festival does not allow understanding of the community that reproduces it beyond the festive event, it cannot

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be understood as intangible heritage. The symbiotic relationship between the festival and the community allows it to be understood as a total social fact and, therefore, recognised as intangible heritage. This highlights the need to describe and think of the festival as a total social fact in the process of recognition as intangible heritage if we want it, beyond a political and safeguarding tool, to be a tool for understanding and use by the community that recognises it. n

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Agudo Torrico, J. and Moreno Navarro, I. (2012). Las fiestas andaluzas. In I. Moreno Navarro, i J. Agudo Torrico (coord.), Expresiones culturales andaluzas, p. 165-217. Ariño Villaroya, A. and García Pilan, P. (2006). Apuntes para el estudio social de la fiesta en España. Anduli. Revista Andaluza de Ciencias Sociales, 6. Basco Gracia, F. (2011). Des del cor: festes de l’Assumpció de la Verge Maria i Sant Roc gloriós. Tortosa: Gràfica Dertosense. Bortolotto, C. (2014). La problemática del patrimonio cultural inmaterial. Revista de Gestión Cultural, 1, p. 1-22. Carrera Díaz, G. (2017). Patrimonio Inmaterial: Reduccionismos, Instrumentalizaciones político i económicas y conflictos de apropiación simbólica. Revista Andaluza de Antropología, 12, p. 1-30. Retrieved from: http://www. revistaandaluzadeantropologia.org/index. php?page=sumario-12. [Consulted on 2 April 2018] Costa Solé, R. and Folch Monclús, R. (2014). El Patrimoni cultural immaterial a Catalunya. Legislació, actualitat i reptes de futur. Catalonian Journal of Ethnology, 39, p. 57-72. Delgado Ruíz, M. Fiesta y espacio público. Retrieved from: http://barcelona.indymedia. org/usermedia/application/5/Fiesta_y_

espacio_p%C3%BAblico.pdf. [Consulted on: 2 April 2018]

article/viewFile/124902/123650. [Consulted on: 2 April 2018]

Estrada Bonell, F. and Del Mármol Cartañà, C. (2014). Inventaris de PCI. L’aplicació de la Convenció de la UNESCO. Catalonian Journal of Ethnology, 39, p. 41-56.

Santamarina Campos, B. (2013). Los mapas geopolíticos de la Unesco: entre la distinción y la diferencia están las asimetrías. El éxito (exótico) del patrimonio inmaterial. Revista de Antropología Social, 22, p. 263-286. Retrieved from: http://dx.doi.org/10.5209/rev_RASO.2013. v22.43191. [Consulted on 2 April 2018]

Homobono Martínez, J. I. (2004). Fiesta, ritual y símbolo: epifanías de las identidades. Zainak. Cuadernos de Antropología i Etnografía, 26, p. 33-76. Retrieved from: http://www.euskomedia. org/PDFAnlt/zainak/26/26033076.pdf. [Consulted on 2 April 2018] Mascaró Pons, J. (2016). L’Inventari del Patrimoni Cultural Immaterial de Menorca. Una oportunitat de dinamització cultural. In El Patrimoni Immaterial. Entre la revisió i la descoberta. XXXIV Jornades d’estudis històrics locals. Mallorca: Institut d’Estudis Baleàrics. Mauss, M. (1979). Sociología y antropología. (Precedido de una Introducción de la obra por Claude Lévi-Strauss). Madrid: Ed. Tecnos. Moreno Navarro, I. (1997). La vitalidad actual de la semana santa andaluza: modernidad y rituales festivos religiosos populares. Demófilo. Revista de cultura tradicional de Andalucía, 23, p. 175-192. Prat, J. (1983). Les verges trobades: ¿cristianització de cultes a la fecunditat?. Revista de l’Institut d’Estudis Catalans, 3 (April). Retrieved from: http://revistes.iec.cat/index.php/ciencia2/

Subirats Rosiñol, P. (2006). El treball de la pauma. Recuperat de http://www.cdrmuseu delapauma.cat/documents/arxius_adjunts/ category/66/El%20treball%20de%20la%20 pauma.%20RIDEC%202006.pdf. [Consulted on 2 April 2018] UNESCO. (2003). Convenció per a la Salvaguarda del Patrimoni Cultural Immaterial. Paris: UNESCO. Various authors (1986). El Xiprer. Revista d’informació local de Paüls.

WEBSITES REFERENCED

Inventari del Patrimoni Cultural Immaterial de les Terres de l’Ebre. www.ipcite.cat [Consulted on 2 April 2018] Inventari del Patrimoni Cultural Immaterial del Penedès. www.immaterialpenedes. cat [Consulted on 2 April 2018]

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Inventari del Patrimoni Cultural del Montseny. https://parcs.diba.cat/web/el-patrimonicultural-immaterial-del-montseny/introduccio [Consulted on 2 April 2018]

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Inventari del Patrimoni Arquitectònic de Catalunya. http://invarquit.cultura.gencat.cat/ cerca [Consulted on 2 April 2018]

ReservadelaBiosferadelesTerresdel’Ebre. http://www.copate.cat/sections/reservade-la-biosfera-terres-ebre/default.aspx [Consulted on 2 April 2018]

Mauss, M. (1979). Sociology and anthropology (with an introduction by Claude Lévi-Strauss) Madrid: Editorial Tecnos.

lights, the Majorcan frit is the example, in Les Terres de l’Ebre, it is difficult to find lamb lights and, therefore, to consume them. It has now disappeared as a daily dish, unlike frit in Majorca.

NOTES Inventory of Intangible Heritage of Les Terres de l’Ebre, El Penedès, El Vallès, Les Gavarres and Minorca. Although the community is, in theory, the carrier and the reproducer of its own heritage, the scientific community and researchers also define it. Here, anthropology has much to say as a discipline, as a framework of knowledge that helps build identities through classification as intangible heritage.

Despite this statement, the fact that the study of one element or another, a process or action, is favoured with subsidies or other aids, is also a reflection of a model of construction of collective knowledge, even though it is categorised as ethnological. However, the main difference is that ethnological heritage is not granted any explicit capacity to define identity and intangible heritage, as the community is.

Although ethnological heritage cannot be understood without taking the environment into account, the differentiating trait is that ethnology is itself a discipline that builds knowledge. Although when it accompanies the concept of heritage it has a descriptive value; in the concept of intangibility it is exclusively a descriptive category. The common feature is that they share a working methodology.

The Intangible Cultural Heritage inventories of Montseny, Les Terres de l’Ebre and, currently, Minorca, which is being prepared.

In the case of Ribera d’Ebre, not all of the region is part of the Terres de l’Ebre Biosphere Reserve, since the Ascó nuclear power station area is excluded.

The whole project is explained on the inventory website (www.ipcite.cat) and can be visited.

The most obvious case can be found in some of the studies on dance in the context of intangible heritage. When it is described exclusively with the steps, the choreography with music or the clothing, it can tend to objectify an action that cannot be understood in isolation and that is intrinsically changing.

The different categories that define intangible heritage, both those of UNESCO and those of the National Plan for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Heritage and those that are defined in the framework of the IPCITE, take into account what is used here as a descriptive unit, although they do not mention them in the same way. Jaume Mascaró shows them in a presentation given at the XXXIV Local Historic Studies Congress on intangible heritage: Between review and discovery, in Formentera in 2016 (Mascaró, 2016).

This means that there is no restriction throughout the rest of the year.

See the IPCITE, Traditional Races.

Casquetes is the name given to the pastries in Paüls. Although formerly they were not exactly the same (casquetes and pastries), they are now the same thing and only the name differs. They are a sweet made with a dough of egg, oil and flour, aniseed or muscatel, which is half moon shaped or rectangular filled with pumpkin, typically, and then baked and sprinkled with sugar. See: Sweet pumpkin pastries, an element on the IPCITE.

The content is the result of fieldwork and interviews held during the celebration of the festival in 2015 and 2016, when the author was part of the IPCITE team of anthropologists. Part of the text set out here is part of the ethnographic description published in the “General Description” field of the element The celebration at the chapel of Sant Roc in Paüls, inventoried and available for consultation on the IPCITE website.

Card game common in the Ebro region, for four players and that follows the logic of pair games and with one suit that’s trumps (triumfu). See: Botifarra and guinyot card games, an element on the IPCITE.

Among the conditions that define intangible heritage there is one that indicates that the element or the knowledge must continue to be reproduced or, as they say in other cases, living. We prefer not to use the concept of living or dead heritage, because we think that it does not allow us to understand the reality of the heritage processes, or it hides it.

The objective was both to be able to describe the transformations undergone by the celebration, perceived from the participants’ oral memory, as well as the generations that build a new celebration based on this transmitted memory.

Source: http://invarquit.cultura.gencat.cat/

Corro is the name given to a stone table. They can be circular or rectangular; they are not all the same size or the same shape. They are surrounded by benches that are also made of stone. Each corro defines a group occupation space.

Although in other parts of the Catalan-speaking regions, such as Majorca, they still eat lamb

A symbolic, festive character, represented by village girls aged 17 and 18. Although it is a model of festive representation with different nuances according to the community or the village.

Informal organisational institution linked to the celebration and organisation of the festival. See: Els Majorals, on the IPCITE.

The interviewees were unable to specify the reasons why nor the time this institution disappeared.

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MUSEUMS AND ETHNOLOGICAL HERITAGE –– The Ogassa Coal Mine Museum: a technical and social museum –– Network of Interest in Ethnological Heritage (XIP Etnològic)

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CONFERENCES AND ASSEMBLIES –– Popular Memory – Chronicle of the 4th National Ethnological Heritage Conference –– The 1st Assembly on the Jota in Catalan-speaking regions

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BIBLIOGRAPHIC REVIEWS –– Jordi Moreras (coord.), Marta Alonso Cabré, Khalid Ghali, Alberto López Bargados & Ariadna Solé. Dispersion and rituals.

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OBITUARY –– Fragments of an interrupted conversation

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Museums and Ethnological Heritage

The Ogassa Coal Mine Museum: a technical and social museum

Friends of Ogassa Museum

he municipality of Ogassa lies at the heart of the county of Ripollès; at an elevation of 951 metres, it covers an extensive area of 45.22 km2. The capital, in the centre of Surroca de Baix, is home to the museum’s headquarters. Use of the Surroca coal mines began at the end of the eighteenth century: the first mine was opened in the municipality in 1838, its continuity proving key to the railway arriving at Ripollès in 1880 to quickly transfer the mineral to Barcelona. Coal was transported by wagon to the Toralles station (Sant Joan de les Abadesses) by means of several sloping planes, which can be noticed throughout the town, and it was loaded in the old station of Sant Joan de les Abadesses in a train that

operated until the 1980s. Numerous architectural vestiges of this industrial era remain, including an old cement factory, a charcoal bread factory and several workshops for the repair of mining tools. These reached their maximum splendour between the end of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth, with a peak in terms of economic prosperity at the turn of the century: in 1890 the town had 1,578 inhabitants. Although coal production was gradually reduced, the mines were active until 1967. Its closure caused an exodus from the town, with the population diminishing to current figures, with 225 inhabitants in 2016, which has remained fairly stable since the 1980s. In 1996, Ogassa Town Council purchased the properties that Minas Barruelo had in the village. Currently, the main economic activities are livestock and tourism.

Bread Factory. Current interpretation centre of the Coal Mine Museum. PHOTO: JOSEP MERCADER COMA.

Ogassa now contains valuable industrial heritage that the museum is trying to recover. In terms of material, a total of thirteen mines spread throughout the municipal area had been opened, some of which were far from the centre of operation, centralised in Plaça Dolça. At the same time, to extract the material, three wells associated with the most important mines and six inclined planes were also built to move the material to lower levels than where it was extracted from. Meanwhile, other facilities that were necessary for the work and the life of the colony were built: the carpentry and blacksmith workshop; the bread factory; the washing places, of which there is evidence of at least two; the decant ponds; the air cable; the air cable and the Toralles stations; the Tower, or House, of Engineers; the offices; the workers’ houses, which were mainly concentrated in the villages of Surroca de Baix and Prat del Pinter and where the homes of the married and single miners are clearly differentiated; the Caja de Socorros (which played a duel role as pharmacy and hospital); the prison; the cooperative, and the chapel of Santa Barbara (patron of the miners). The old schools (the boys’ school and girls’ school) are also preserved, featuring the set of essential elements for the operation of the great machine that was the industrial area of Surroca-Ogassa. Together with the mines, it forms an industrial complex that provides evidence of the coal mining techniques and the socioeconomic relations present in a mining basin at the turn of the in the midst of industrial revolution; this is of valuable historical, cultural and socioeconomic heritage for Catalonia.

Museums and Ethnological Heritage

The story has been heard before: towns in Catalonia that relied on mining during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries were forgotten after the industrial revolution. With this in mind, finding resources that demonstrate their importance in the history of industrialisation in our country becomes a crucial task. Many of these towns have recovered historical industrial memory thanks to the inventory, valuation and recovery of tangible and intangible heritage, and spaces have been converted for new uses. Anglès, Bellmunt de Priorat, Cercs, Cardona, Esparraguera and Castellar de n’Hug have done this recovery work, thus bringing their towns back to life. In addition, the geological specificity of the area greatly increases its value as it is unique to Catalonia. Ogassa Town Council proposed the creation of a museum in order to educate people on the history, social and cultural heritage, geography, geology and technology of the town and to create a space that provides visitors with information about the region. The Council has been developing the project for years and is carrying out work on the recovery of material remains related to the coal mines, with the end goal of creating the Ogassa Coal Mine Museum. The museum is situated in the recently restored building of the Fàbrica de Pans (Bread Factory), a part of the industrial complex of the former mining colony of Surroca-Ogassa located in the centre of the town. Several phases of the project have been developed since 2006, such as the consolidation of the Mina Dolça, the renovation of the Fàbrica de Pans building and the creation of information signage for some of its elements; likewise, the first and second phases of the museum’s creation are underway. The museum comprises the Information Centre, the Press Room, the Coal Room, the Boiler Room and the Mine

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Room, which constitutes a recreation of the interior space. The museum currently has some models displaying technical aspects of mining production; these were created by volunteers, using images and documents from the mining period collected by local historians as well as objects of the material culture of the mines donated by the townspeople. In 2017, the documentation of the social life of the mine began with a team of interviewers and the collaboration of an audiovisual productions company that recorded the interviews. The objective was to simultaneously document tangible and intangible heritage and Wagon at a tunnel for a downward slopping plane path. offer visitors the possibil- PHOTO: MARTÍ MERCADER SUÑÉ. ity of interactively accessing the voices and images of people ing of the old coal bread factory has who have lived the mining life, while been recovered, and they continue to explaining the objects that form the the outside so that visitors can get an overall idea of the mining complex and material exhibition. what life would have been like there. The Museum is an example of collab- This life was marked by the agendas of orative work. The difficulty so far in the mining companies having operated accessing funding is made up for by it and by the incorporation of working the enthusiasm and successful work populations from different parts of the of a large group of volunteers, among county and the country over a range of which we find model production spe- periods. However, this life has always cialists, scholars of material culture revolved around the inseparable rural related to mining heritage, local histo- foundations of the agricultural life of rians and a field team for ethnological a pre-Pyrenean valley. research dedicated to gathering the oral memory and voices of the last witnesses The proximity of the centre of Sant Joan of the town’s mining life. Naturally, it de les Abadesses and Ripoll, with their includes collaboration by the people respective museums, makes the Ogassa who have provided witness accounts, Museum an additional space for anyone and finally, and very importantly, the interested in the history of the region, help of a group of local volunteers who but also a place of interest in itself to offer complete expert guided tours understand the history of the country every week. Guided tours begin at the and the meeting point between rural museum building, where the build- and industrial life. n

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Network of Interest in Ethnological Heritage (XIP Etnològic) Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology – Autonomous University of Barcelona

esearchers at the Autonomous University of Barcelona’s Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology work side by side studying ethnological heritage and its construction processes, both individually and in the framework of research groups, whether implicitly or explicitly. For this reason, the Network of Interest in Ethnological Heritage was created in June 2017 with the aim of bringing together anthropologists associated with the Department who have done or are currently doing research in this

field. The objective is to form a meeting point for scientists to propose new lines of research and to support teaching. It is also intended as a space that can be approached by institutions or entities that require academic research to study, support or disseminate dynamics or specific heritage elements. In this sense, it is also a space for the dissemination of knowledge that reinforces the link between the university and society. We understand ethnological heritage to be both tangible and intangible manifestations of traditional and contemporary culture produced and shared by human societies. We take the definition

Pere de les gambines (Roses, Costa Brava). PHOTO: MARIA VELASCO BECH. RESEARCH: SILVIA GOMEZ

from UNESCO’s 2003 Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage, which understands “intangible cultural heritage” to mean the “practices, representations, expressions, knowledge, skills – as well as the instruments, objects, artefacts and cultural spaces associated therewith – that communities, groups and, in some cases, individuals recognise as part of their cultural heritage. This intangible cultural heritage, transmitted from generation to generation, is constantly recreated by communities and groups in response to their environment, their interaction with nature and their history, and provides them with a sense of

Museums and Ethnological Heritage

identity and continuity, thus promoting respect for cultural diversity and human creativity”. We believe that these tangible and intangible manifestations of traditional and contemporary culture, as well as their connection, are, in fact, the source of interest of ethnology from its origins. What differentiates the classic way of dealing with these elements with regard to the object of study par excellence in anthropology is that, in the inventories which heritage traditionally emerges from, elements often appear as discontinuous and out of context. In our Network of Interest in Ethnological Heritage, however, we prioritise the relationships between the elements, which are often very dynamic. In doing so, the specificity of classical heritage studies could be blurred. This network will also give priority to the social consequences this added value will have on the towns that are the protagonists or witnesses of this heritage. Consequently, we understand heritagisation acts as the actions aimed at documenting, recognising and ultimately giving value to and safeguarding certain ethnological heritage assets, whether tangible and intangible, as well as the effects that these tasks have on the local world (subject to heritagisation) and the impact they may have on a wider and more global scale. The Network was founded by researchers who work in a diverse array of fields, including fishing heritage and its impact on marine conservation on the Costa Brava (Silvia Gómez); festive and industrial heritage and the historical construction of symbolic and ritual elements, both in Anoia and the rest of the country (Jordi Castellví); traditional expressions of tangible culture (ECT) in Catalonia as expressions of identity within a framework of globalisation (Montserrat Clua); oral sources, historical memory and museums (Isabel Graupera & Montserrat Ventura); analysis of rituals (Jordi Castellví, Virgínia Fons & Montserrat Ventura); ethnological heritage, school and education in the

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Interview with Palmira Badell Farigola, informant of the doctoral thesis in audiovisual anthropology of Isabel Graupera Gargallo. PHOTO BY LLUÍS BURILLO TOLEDANO | 17 JULY 2013 | UAB HUMANITIES LIBRARY

high-mountain counties (Pepi Soto); heritagisation of socio-ecosystems and very particularly those that imply collective management of natural resources (Pablo Domínguez); representation of nature and incorporation of the natural landscape in high-mountain societies (valleys of Àneu and Pallars Sobirà) and in Scandinavia, especially for the case of Norway (Irina Casado); and in Ecuador, projects aimed at enhancing the archaeological and ethnological heritage of museums and local populations (Silvia Álvarez) as well as cultural and linguistic documentation in indigenous societies (Montserrat Ventura), which is also being studied in other communities (Virgínia Fons). The Network aims to establish a space for communication, collaboration and joint work between the professionals of the Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology interested in the research, promotion and dissemination of heritage, and the establishment of a database of research on this field at the Autonomous University of Barcelona (UAB). It includes both teaching and research staff associated with the UAB

as well as students and former students linked to the centre who are carrying out or have done research in matters of heritage. This is why the Network is seeking to grow through collaboration among its members, as well as with other institutions and organisations within this framework, and via the organisation of related activities. In this sense, as soon as it began, a collaboration agreement was signed with the Bosch i Cardellach Foundation for guidance on the Inventory of the Ethnological Heritage of El Vallès, which has allowed a student of the bachelor’s degree in Social and Cultural Anthropology, Mireia Guil, to contribute to the implementation of this project together with the people responsible for the Foundation. A first analysis of that experience has been published in the UAB magazine Perifèria: “A reflection on regional inventories in Catalonia. The case of the Inventory of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of El Vallès”, in 2017: http://revistes.uab. cat/periferia/article/view/v22-n2-guil. Among its most immediate projects, this year the Network is launching

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an Inventory of Rituals as a result of years of research carried out by students on the old undergraduate degree and the current bachelor’s degree in Social and Cultural Anthropology at the UAB. This is an inventory that will systematise a wide range of rituals from different places that involve religion, festivities, the passing of the individual and collective life cycle, both urban and rural, confirmation and rebellion, among many other old and new categories that help place rituals within their social context. It is also about gathering the dynamic interests of emerging anthropology since the 1990s to the 2020s, as well as starting to compile some examples of analysis of ritual structures and their symbolic elements. When it is finished, the Network will make it public and will offer it to the community by digital means. The Network of Interest in Ethnological Heritage is part of the UAB’s Digital Humanities Network, which falls within the framework of the Strategic Research Community (CORE) in Cultural Heritage: http://www.uab. cat/web/investigar/cores-uab/core-en-

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‘Agdal’ Cemetery in the High Atlas of Morocco, 2004. PHOTO: ASSOCIATION DES AMIS DU ZAT. RESEARCH: PABLO DOMÍNGUEZ

cultural heritage / groups-of-researchuab-1345696772279.html. The Network of Interest in Ethnological Heritage (XIP Etnològic) will be presented publicly between the spring and autumn of 2018 with a conference with students, researchers and experts and the desire to join forces with other established heritage research groups in

Correfoc (Fire-run). Celebrations of the Mercè, Barcelona, 2012. PHOTO: VIRGINIA FONS.

the country. We have other projects underway that we will disseminate conveniently through the websites of the Catalan Institute of Anthropology and Etnologia.cat blog. More information: http://www.uab. cat/web/la-docencia/xarxa-d-interesen-el-patrimonio-1345740128612. html. n

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Conferences and Assemblies

Popular Memory – Chronicle of the 4th National Ethnological Heritage Conference Joanna Guijarro and Xavier Busquets

n 9 and 10 November 2018, the 4th National Ethnological Heritage Conference was held at La Roca Cultural Centre in La Roca del Vallès. The conference focused on popular memory, which was the title and the theme for the two-day event. Popular memory is an essential form of cultural transmission (of stories, experiences and, ultimately, oral memory), in terms of giving a voice to the greatest number of people, both from the past and the present. Above all, it is a tool for the empowerment of minority groups and individuals that are made invisible, such as women, migrant groups or victims of a reprisal during the Civil War, for example. These groups had to hide and keep all these memories secret (in the form of a diary, letters, images, postcards, etc.); thanks to this secrecy, we are able to recover their stories today. However, a large part of the popular memory of the past feeds on oral memories; that is, the witness accounts and stories of people who did not have the opportunity to learn to write, thus leading to their stories dying with them. Faced with this situation, the need to recover objects and popular memory tales is obvious; carrying out such a task we find popular memory archives, private companies, museums and municipalities or neighbourhoods that do not simply recover and keep documents and objects. To this we must add the work of analysis and

4es Jornades nacionals de patrimoni etnològic La memòria popular

9 i 10 de novembre

Centre Cultural La Roca Lope de Vega, 4

2018

La Roca del Vallès

https://goo.gl/nD9Qbe

#jornadesetno18

Poster from the 4th National Ethnological Heritage Conference. CENTRE OF DOCUMENTATION OF POPULAR CULTURE (DGCPAC)

study required to put heritage assets into context via the history/story in which they are enveloped, as well as to link them to other documents, objects, stories and tales. The tasks of recovery and processing are not limited to the field of anthropology; in fact, interdis-

ciplinary teams comprising archivists, historians, philologists and others are required to work properly with collected materials. Interdisciplinarity supported by the Directorate-General of Popular Culture and Cultural Associations, which has a collection of more

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than 3,000 interviews that, along with other materials from the ethnological research funded by this entity, make up a large collection of “popular memory”. During the two-day event, the different tasks being carried out were presented and new proposals were made to put the recovered materials and stories of popular memory together and work on them as a whole. On Friday 9 November, the conference was inaugurated by the Director-General of Popular Culture and Cultural Associations from the Government of Catalonia’s Ministry of Culture, Maria Àngels Blasco i Rovira and the mayor of Roca del Vallès, Carles Fernández, who welcomed and reaffirmed the need for the work of researchers and the gathering of popular memory from the memories of individuals. Next, co-coordinator of Italy’s Archivo Dia-

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ristico Nazionale di Pieve Santo Stefano, Massimiliano Bruni, made an inaugural speech. He presented the Archivo Diaristico Nazionale and explained the work he performs in compilation, conservation, enjoyment, valuation and promotion of documentary heritage. Through different projects and programmes he enables anyone, rather than researchers alone, to see and participate in the archive. Finally, he highlighted the benefits he has achieved by opening the archive to the public and allowing people to make contributions and participate more in the popular memory of their surroundings. The first block of talks revolved around the work of the archives in the management of popular memory. The first talk was given by Joan Soler, expert from the Terrassa Historical Archive, who explained that individuals, from

the time they are born, are a potential source of popular memory. However, this memory cannot simply be transmitted; it needs to be preserved correctly, which is why the work of archives is so essential. Laura Solanilla, professor at the Universitat Oberta de Catalunya (UOC) and specialist in the field of culture and heritage management and the potential of ICT in the world of heritage and museums, explained the importance of knowing how we use ICT when processing documents for the management of popular memories and individual witness accounts. Àlex Peña, member and founder of the development team for Dédalo, a programme for the management of collections of intangible heritage and sound archives created by the company Render, proposed a new thesaurus for processing, cataloguing, preserving and disseminating

Members of the Roca del Vallès Popular Memory Archive during the 4th National Ethnological Heritage Conference (4JNPE). RAFEL FOLCH

Conferences and Assemblies

interviews and materials in the best possible way. Itziar Luri, of Navarra-based Labrit Patrimoni, explained the methodology used by Labrit. They work on their different projects in the closest way possible, especially when conducting interviews, where the most important thing is that the interviewees feel comfortable, since they will achieve a much more intimate, open and personal result. To round out the block, Nelo Vilar, PhD in Fine Arts, showed us his work, reflected on different websites (Artanapèdia, Nulespèdia, lesAlqueriespèdia), which aim to gather the popular memory of a place and make it available to anyone who wants to consult it, which can be done digitally through these websites. Finally, in the questions and debate time, the main conclusion was reached that we cannot allow ourselves to lose sight of the fact that we are dealing with individual and personal materials (stories, memories, interviews, photographs, and so on) and therefore, it is necessary to address or take into account the laws that surround data protection, privacy, the right to be forgotten, etc. As well as the fact that we have to be extremely careful where we deposit the materials obtained from this work, whether it is for processing, data collection or interviewing, given the danger that certain companies may appropriate stories and personal information for commercial purposes. The second block of the conference focused on the experiences of entities that work in local communities. One of the intentions of the blog was to capture popular memory as an essential resource to complement the more institutional history. Associations such as the Llibre de la Vida (Book of Life) or entities such as Carrutxa give rise to experiences and stories that were buried until now and that convey local perspectives through historical events. One of the other aspects mentioned in the blog

was the need to activate communities with the intention of generating a sense of belonging and identity. Dolors Pujols of the Arada Cooperative, based in the counties of Bages and El Solsonès, and Miquel Martí, from the Palamós Fishing Museum, agreed on the need to establish research plans and oral memory tasks as a bastion to preserve community identities. In this regard, Roser Grau of the CERCA group (Research Group in Social Sciences), stated the need to give oral archives their due historical value as heritage. Finally, Jordi Suïls, PhD in Catalan Philology from the University of Lleida, went further by showing research into oral sources and toponymy, where the link between language and territory configured the spatial perception of the landscape of its inhabitants. In short, popular memory can be conceived as a tool capable of enhancing and giving value to local identities. Saturday 10 November was the last day of the conference, with the presentation of the third block, which centred on the personal dimension of memory. It hoped to show work groups, associations and foundations where the work of memory implies the liberation and empowerment of invisible individuals and groups. The lectures by Judith Barbacil, “Workshop on History in Our Hands. Women with Memory”, and Roser Miarnau, from the Urgell County Museum, laid out the process of shedding light on the role of mid-nineteenth-century women in Vilanova i la Geltrú and in Urgell, respectively. Along similar lines, Anna Jarque explained how the project Univers d’Històries (Universe of Histories) intends to transfer knowledge and experiences by leaning towards a transgenerational model. Even the therapeutic importance of memory work in the care of diseases such as Alzheimer’s was brought up by the Maragall Foundation. Both Ricard Martínez and Susanna Muriel, mem-

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bers of the group Arqueologia del Punt de vista (Point-of-View Archaeology), as well as Mar Sánchez, from Vilanova i la Geltrú’s Espai Far, exhibited other ways of expressing and exposing popular memory, either with photography or through the association of a story and an object. The last talk of the conference was carried out by the Archive of the People’s Memory of La Roca del Vallès, who expressed the need to make popular memory archives more dynamic by offering prizes or calling for publications, while always working towards the aim of expanding the collection and making it known, making the archive a stronghold in the custody of popular memory. We can draw on the conference to see what future challenges will be associated with the preservation of popular memory. From the need to manage the data generated and view them on websites, especially if they are part of private management and visualisation platforms, to the importance of understanding popular memory, not only as a collection of unconnected stories, but as a fundamental part in completing the history of a place and territory, and to understanding the dynamic and empowering capacity that is the fruit of the construction process. In short, all the people and organisations present at the conferences agreed that it is essential to create a network or similar formula for entities and people who are dedicated to the management of popular memory in Catalonia. Most of the projects are scattered throughout the territory and are, to some extent, isolated. Creating a network would entail the unification of certain management standards, the resolution of methodological problems and, above all, an exchange of information to develop a national archive of popular memory. n

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The 1st Assembly on the Jota in Catalan-speaking regions Joaquim Manyós Balanzó Head of the Traditional Music Library – DirectorateGeneral of Popular Culture and Cultural Associations

n 19, 20 and 21 October, the 1st Assembly on the Jota in the Catalan-speaking territories, held in Falset Castle, was organised by the Institut Ramon Muntaner, Falset Town Council and the Government of Catalonia’s Ministry of Culture. The project was driven by Lluís Puig i Gordi when he was direc-

tor-general of Popular Culture, Cultural Associations and Action. The Scientific Committee, made up by Lídia De Mena, Pau Benavent, Josep Vicent Frechina, Jordi Cloquell and Joan F. Vidal Arasa proposed four central themes: i) Historical aspects, ii) Identity and heritage aspects of the Jota, iii) Uses and functions and iv) Forms of transmission of the Jota. Each session consisted of a talk, four messages and a debate among the attendees and the members of the board. The range of themes was very wide and the quality of the exhibitions was high. Some top-

ics were viewed from the perspective of musicological and historical studies and the evolutionary processes of the Jota and its uses; others were related to instrumental interpretation and formal diversity, and some took on the current state of the Jota and future projects, dissemination, education. Finally, other, more conceptual topics looked at new ways of understanding and conceiving the Jota, opening it to new fields of experimentation. In summary, the assembly served to demonstrate the richness of popular music culture, while also diving into the complexity of current contexts that support it and, in this

Dancing Jotas on Plaça de la Quartera de Falset. October 2018. DIRECTORATE-GENERAL OF POPULAR CULTURE AND CULTURAL ASSOCIATIONS

Conferences and Assemblies

roig Studies Center; The Jota. Passion of Passions, produced by Los Dulzaineros del Bajo Aragón; and the ExpoJota, produced by the Interpretation Centre of the Jota of Terres de l’Ebre, the Casa de la Jota, the Directorate-General of Popular Culture and Cultural Associations of the Ministry of Culture of the Government of Catalonia and the Ramon Muntaner Institute.

Poster from the 1st Assembly on the Jota in Catalan-speaking regions

case, specifically those of the world of the Jota. Each part was closed with a set of Cantclusiones, (i.e. ‘sung conclusions’), an original and very suitable format for the theme, in which a singer sang the concepts, ideas and the general atmosphere that had been generated during each session as a conclusion (Mateu Matas “Xurí”, of Mallorca), or as an improvised Jota (Guardet lo Cantador and Sílvia Ampolla, with the respective instrumental accompaniments of Terres de l’Ebre). Participation was high, with 233 registered attendees from various points of the Catalan-speaking regions. Participants attended the sessions and activities of the assembly alternately, which also generated great interest among the people of Falset and nearby areas, who participated actively in the most recreational and popular acts. The closing ceremony of the assembly was chaired by the Minister for Culture, Laura Borrás i Castanyer and the mayor of Falset, Jaume Domènech i Jordà, and was attended by the Director-General of Popular Culture and Cultural Association, Maria Àngels Blasco i Rovira. Parallel to the assembly sessions were three exhibitions held during over the course of the three-day event, one at the castle and two at the Teatre de l’Artesana: The tambourine of Masroig, produced by the Ethnological Museum of Barcelona, Masroig Town Council and the Mas-

There were also two points of sale of books, magazines and records, specifically the tables of the magazines Caramella and Tradillibreria, both of which specialise in subjects of popular culture, installed in the same room of the castle where the sessions were held. In the Teatre de l’Artesana, two great shows were open to the public, both bold but of highly variant styles: Música & Dansa Antiga & Tradicional (Music & Ancient & Traditional Dance) by Xuriach and A vore, with Sonia Gómez, Ramon Balagué, Astrio, Carme Balagué and Pau Puig. These proposals complemented the main objectives of the assembly by opening it to the people of Falset. And as a more direct example of the variety of interpretative forms of the Jota

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in the Catalan-speaking regions and their validity as a positive and rooted manifestation, an entertainment session was organised on Plaça de la Artesana at night, which consisted of a meeting of musicians, with popular songs and dances of Jotas and fandangos, where several groups from Menorca, Mallorca, Valencia and Terres de l’Ebre offered a selection of their repertoire until the late hours of the evening. The festival was enlivened with food provided by various entities from Falset, offering an al fresco dinner to those attending the party. Sunday, the last day of the assembly, was devoted to the presentation of various projects related to the field of the Jota, publications, audiovisual projects, exhibitions, specific initiatives, etc., and there was a public parade that passed between the castle and Plaça de la Quartera, and a dance in the square with the participation of various entities and associations of Falset. The interest that the assembly roused and the fact that the Jota, with all its varieties, is very much alive in many of the Catalan-speaking regions and elsewhere has connotations that are still to be discovered, meaning that a second edition of the assembly is possible in the not too distant future. n

Image of one of the work sessions during the assembly. October 2018. DIRECTORATE-GENERAL OF POPULAR CULTURE AND CULTURAL ASSOCIATIONS

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Bibliographic Reviews

Jordi Moreras (coord.), Marta Alonso Cabré, Khalid Ghali, Alberto López Bargados & Ariadna Solé. Dispersion and rituals. The Muslim festival cycle in Catalonia Barcelona, Government of Catalonia, 2017 Laura Mijares

Cultura Tradicional

nts a Catalunya desenvolupen ritus col·lectius en un Hem resseguit el cicle anual festiu musulmà, especiocedents del Marroc, Pakistan i Senegal, fixant-nos ions (el dejuni durant el mes del ramadà, la festa el martiri d’Alí i la festa del naixement del profeta r poder observar com uns col·lectius heterogenis en xtos socials determinats mitjançant la pràctica ritude la pertinença comunitària, s’incorpora dins d’una

Jordi Moreras, Marta Alonso Cabré, Khalid Ghali, Alberto López Bargados, Ariadna Solé

Department of Linguistics and Oriental Studies – Complutense University of Madrid

Diàspores i rituals

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El cicle festiu dels musulmans de Catalunya

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9 788439 395669

ISBN 978-84-393-9566-9

ispersion and rituals is a monograph focused on the reconstruction at d’un treball d’investigació dut a terme entreand els study of nventari del Patrimoni Etnològic de Catalunya (IPEC) collective ritual practices within the de Cultura de la Generalitat de Catalunya, i també ha Islamic communities in Catalonia. ació CIDOB. Through an ethnographic analysis professor i investigador en el Departament d’Antroovira i Virgili de Tarragona. Doctormain en Antropologia of the four Muslim collective màster en Estudis Euro-Àrabs (Universitat de Girona, celebrations – afasting rafies sobre les comunitats musulmanes Catalunya. during the month of Ramadan, the feast of sacen antropologia social per la Universitat de Barcelorifice (Aidrelacionades al-Adha), the ses recerques antropològiques amb les celebration nya. Paral·lelament ha desenvolupat investigacions a of the martyrdom of Ali (Ashura) and gia jurídica i en antropologia de l’espai urbà. the feast of the birth of the prophet ra en Antropologia Social per la Universitat de Bar(Mawlid) – carried out ain five Cataerses recerques sobre les comunitats musulmanes als funeraris i, més lan recentment, sobre els discursos i cities (Criellell, Martorell, Lleida, Arenys de Munt and Barcelona), the ctor en Antropologia Social i Cultural i professor a la authors explore the evident heteroat les seves investigacions en les dinàmiques comugeneity of this community and focus scursos i pràctiques de la islamofòbia i les lògiques their attention on the various identity en Psicologia, Antropologia Social i Cultural, Comu- it. Accorddynamics which condition Relacions Públiques i DEA en Antropologia Social i ing to the authors, the analysis of the e recerca en el camp de les neurociències cognitives, reveals that the opologia. ProfessorMuslim a la UOC i festive consultorcycle en diversos ritual practices that comprise them go beyond religious observance, as they encompass different community reconstruction processes that are 28 strongly determined by the context of dispersion in which they occur.

L’Invent

This monograph on the Muslim festive cycle in Catalonia must be

Temes d’Etnologia de Catalunya

Cover of the book Dispersion and rituals. The festive cycle of Muslims in Catalonia

Bibliographic Reviews

placed within the framework of academic work on Muslim communities that began in the Spanish state, especially from the nineteen-nineties. The coordinator of the work, Jordi Moreras, published one of the first monographs on these issues in 1999. Musulmans a Barcelona. Espais i dinàmiques comunitàries (Muslims in Barcelona. Community Spaces and Dynamics) is a seminal work that not only deals with analysing the community evolution of Muslim men and women and the dynamics underpinning it; instead, it is based on in-depth field work carried out in Barcelona in the second half of the nineties. Until then, most of the academic works on Islam and Muslimism in Europe were embedded in others that were essentially centred on the economic and labour side of migration. However, the monograph by Moreras focused on the religious dimension and revealed several questions. First of all, that Islam in Europe had become a new field of study for social sciences. But, furthermore, that this religious dimension needed to be analysed if we wanted to acquire more comprehensive knowledge about migrant populations. Finally, it was the confirmation that quantitative approaches could be complemented and even replaced by other ethnographic-type analyses. Almost twenty years have passed since then and this new work coordinated by Moreras is another milestone in his research career. The work, written along with four other researchers, pursues the same objective; that is, continuing to explore the sociopolitical, identity and religious dynamics that affect Muslim populations. On this occasion, through the study of rituality as a backbone of the community and taking as a starting point the disparity between the doctrinal and textual definition of these rituals and their adaptation to the context in which they are inserted. It is in this

space of contrast between the text and the context in which, according to the authors, identities are configured. The book is made up of eight chapters. In addition to the introduction and the conclusion, the monograph has six more parts. After the introduction, a chapter explains what role rituals have played in the anthropological analysis of dispersion. The third chapter describes and analyses the Islamic religious field in Catalonia from the mid-1960s to the present. The use of the concept of field in a Bourdiue sense is quite relevant to account for the different identity-building processes determined by the actors’ confluence and relationships and, in turn, conditioned by the sociopolitical context in which they are placed. In the four following chapters, the bulk of the monograph, these are reconstructed and four Muslim festivals are analysed: the celebrations that take place during the month of Ramadan, Ashura, Aid al-Adha and Mawlid. Of all these chapters, the chapter devoted to Ramadan is the densest, featuring a more complete analysis. The reason for this is not simply due to the central role that this holiday has in the Islamic ritual calendar, but also to the type of analysis made. Given that its practice is fundamentally determined by three dimensions – doctrine, society and relationships – the work shows that the configuration of the religious field in Catalonia is marked by very different dynamics, which demonstrate the heterogeneity of a community that adapts to context through the individualisation of its practice. In this same sense, the chapter devoted to the sacrifice festival, Aid al-Adha, addresses the controversies surrounding the celebration and how it has been and continues to be problematic in certain social sectors, which by ques-

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tioning it demonstrates the use of the label of secularism to cast doubt over the legitimacy of certain religions. The following chapters, which are dedicated to the commemoration of the martyr Ali, Ashura, and the birth of the prophet, Mawlid, are less exhaustive, mainly discussing location within the framework of Islamic orthodoxy. This is especially true in the case of Ashura, a celebration practised by a relatively small group within the Islamic community of Catalonia. On an international stage marked by Islamophobia and by a highly ingrained anti-Muslim racism in institutions, the most obvious expression of which can be seen in the state’s securitisation policies, the study coordinated by Moreras is new and necessary. New because until now, few studies have attempted to analyse the meaning of the ritual practices of Muslim minorities, and necessary because it highlights its presence in the Catalan context, not as an external fact, but as part of it. This is the main value of the monograph: it seeks to shed light on, understand and normalise Islamic rituals, taking into consideration that they are community practices which, although registered in the religious social field, go beyond and compete for legitimacy along with other social actors. Likewise, the book successfully proves that the Muslim community is much more than a religious community and it does this, as contradictory as it may seem, by analysing religious practice through its ritual and collective aspects. n

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Obituary

Fragments of an interrupted conversation

Enric Porqueres i Gené, 12 September 1962 - 3 November 2018 Joan Bestard

University of Barcelona

remember that the first time I spoke to Enric was after an Introduction to Anthropology class. I had pointed out my issues with understanding a society as “other” from the point of view of Peter Winch. Enric approached my desk to ask me why I had not talked about Wittgenstein, who had already raised this question for a long time. All this, with a very serious appearance and a quiet voice that transmitted self-confidence, though not arrogance. I think this first encounter was the beginning of a long conversation on fundamental issues in Social Anthropology. It was followed by long discussions in the Library at the University of Barcelona’s Department of Anthropology. The books and, above all, the classics in social sciences marked our talks. Over the years we continued talking in Mallorca, Florence and Paris. This time, focusing more on kinship theories and how to introduce history into our arguments. When Enric decided to do a PhD, he wanted to do it based on archive research on the descendants of the Jews in Mallorca, focusing on kinship issues such as ideas of transmission and marital alliances. It was a good choice. On the one hand, thanks to this archive research, he acquired the profession of historian to be able to raise precise questions in the documents of the Archives of Mallorca. When he talked about kinship relationships among the descendants of the Jews he always did it very accurately. What impressed me

most was the genealogical depth in which he spoke, as if those people of the past were still alive. I told him that he seemed to know all the individuals that were in the Archive papers personally. On the other hand, more than asking questions about descendents, he wondered about marital alliances, that is, endogamy, and body marks, in this case, blood, which made sense of the constitution of a marginalised minority. This commitment to marriage and body symbols changed the perspective of kinship relationships. Focusing on marriage meant looking at networks of changing relationships and not identical reproduction of parentage. Enric had Françoise Héritier, then a professor at the Collège de France and one of the people who has done the most for innovate kinship studies, as his PhD supervisor both in Paris and the University Institute of Florence. Very much like his teacher, Enric said that what he wanted to do as a researcher, in the long term, was to focus on an object, in his case, kinship relationships, and to encircle it in many different ways. He had a theme and looked for variations and transformations. We must say that this reliance on kinship was then very risky. Social Anthropology had begun to criticise the standard division of its study categories. The classical division was not maintained where kinship had a fundamental role to play in the study of so-called “traditional” societies. To understand “other” societies, it was better to forget the kinship label. Enric rebelled against this situation

and his contribution to Anthropology is a testament to a desire to go beyond kinship criticism. On the one hand, he followed his role as a historian in search of the Christian origins of European kinship. He left us a major work, “Individu, persona i parentiu a Europa” (Individual, Person and Kinship in Europe), which contains new ways of encircling kinship, introduces the individual of the kinship genealogies and asks questions regarding the category of person defined by the relational dimension constituting kinship. On the other hand, he was not unaware of the challenges of contemporary kinship. It was the analysis of the impact of assisted reproduction technologies that gave us careful reflections regarding what we could call new ways of recombining the bio-genetic substances of kinship. Enric left us. However, his texts and ideas continue to inspire. He also left a good set of doctoral theses carried out under his supervision and, most importantly, a group of disciples who have done research with him and now follow his lines of research in different European and American universities. And for me, a good memory of his friendship. n

BUILDING THE TERRITORY Traditional architecture and landscape in Catalonia CATALOGUE OF THE EXHIBITION Curated by Fabien Van Geert and Ferran Estrada Bonell

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