Fields | Terrains | Vol. 4 by McGill ASA

Winter-Hiver 2014

Fi e l ds

Te r r a i n s

_ McGill undergraduate journal of anthropology _ Revue d’anthropologie des étudiantes et étudiants au baccalauréat de McGill

C o n t e n t s - Ta b l e d e s m a t i è r e s Editor-in-chief - Rédactrice en chef Noor Said-Abdessameud Cover art - Couverture “Smoking Spirals” by Georges Papavasiliou Translator - Traductrice Noor Said-Abdessameud Editorial board - Équipe éditoriale Charles Caldwell, Dilafza Haydaraliyeva, Yevgeniya Yatsenko , Geoffrey Chappell, Kyle Shaw-Müller , Ivy Huang, Sophie Rodrigues-Coutlée , Katherine Cashman Special thanks - Remerciements Arts Undergraduate Society, McGill Department of Anthropology, Anthropology Students’ Association

1. Ontology and Therapeutic Intervention Amongst the James Bay Cree: Towards a Culturally Competent Psychology Mark Saffran 9. A Critical Examination of Bioarchaeological Approaches to Gender and Nutrition in Maya Societies Juliette Chausson 16. Everyone is Made an Outsider: Tensions between Archaeological Stakeholders in the Maya Region Geoffrey M.J. Chappell 27. Domestic Abuse of Women and Restorative Justice in Nunavut Maythe Han 32. Towards an Anthropology of the Microbiome Carly Langlois 36. How Much Context is Enough? The Origins and Exhibition of the S-21 Photographs Allison Jones

Note de la rédactrice

Editor’s note

L’équipe éditoriale Fields/Terrains est fière de vous présenter le quatrième volume de la revue académique étudiante d’anthropologie de l’Université McGill. Chaque année, nous présentons un nombre varié de travaux académiques du département, qui contiennent tant des projets de recherche que des ethnographies sensorielles. Ce quatrième volume est extrêmement diversifiée et nous éclaire sur les grandes questions et problèmes que l’anthropologie se voue à explorer et à remettre en question à l’aide d’une recherche approfondie et une curiosité intellectuelle insatiable. La collection de cette année explore la justice réparatrice au Nunavut, les têtes-trophées parmi les Wari au Pérou, une anthropologie du microbiome et comprend aussi de belles photographies venant du Maroc, Bali et Vietnam. Au nom de l’équipe éditoriale de cette année, nous vous remercions de votre soutien continu. Nous espérons que vous apprécierez l’édition 2014 de Fields/Terrains. Noor Said-Abdessameud Rédactrice en chef

The Fields/Terrains editorial team is proud to present the fourth volume of McGill’s anthropology undergraduate journal. Each year, we present a varied number of academic works from the department, ranging from research papers to visual ethnographies. This fourth volume is incredibly diverse and highlights the questions and issues anthropology thrives to explore and challenge through engaging research and with an insatiable intellectual curiosity. This year’s collection explores restorative justice in Nunavut, trophy heads among the Wari in Peru, an anthropology of the microbiome and includes beautiful photographs from Morroco, Bali and Vietnam.On behalf of this year’s editorial team, we thank you for your ongoing support. We hope you enjoy the 2014 edition of Fields/Terrains. Noor Said-Abdessameud Editor-in-chief

47. The Harraga Phenomenon In Algeria: Between A Liminal Space And A Symbolic Ideal. Noor Said Abdessameud 53. Visual Ethnography Georges Papavasiliou 54. Get a Head, Stay Ahead: An Examination of Trophy Heads among the Wari at Conchopata, Peru Terren Proctor 60. Gender Essentialism and Interpretations of the Egyptian Pharonic Tradition: A Case Study of King Hatshepsut Rachael Ripley 68. Photographs from the field: Bali & Morocco Jehane Yazami 70. The Bench Efat Elsherif

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Ontology and Therapeutic Intervention Amongst the James Bay Cree: Towards a Culturally Competent Psychology Mark Saffran the two fields can work together and that psychology and anthropology need not be mutually exclusive; a relationship illustrated by the James Bay Cree. The use of the James Bay Cree to elucidate this synergy stems from their unique position in Canadian History. The James Bay Cree, as of 1999 have a population of approximately 13,500 in nine communities spread across northwestern Quebec, representing a quarter of Quebec’s Aboriginal population (Kirmayer, 2000). Yet what makes the Cree particularly illuminating for the purposes of this discussion is their distinct ontology, the framework through which they view the world, in comparison with mainstream Canadian culture. As anthropologist, Colin Scott (1989), notes within the “standard Euro-North American perception of human/ animal relations, culture/nature dualism is fundamental” [...] The Cree trajectory seems rather the opposite: to assume fundamental similarity while exploring the differences between humans and animals,” (p. 195). The divergence between such ontologies is especially brought to light when the two cultures interact, such as in the form of mainstream Canadian culture therapeutic interventions. A brief historical sampling emphasises this. In 1933 the Reverend J. E. Saindon (1993) wrote of the James Bay Cree that “The Indian has quite a liking for these abnormal mental experiences and states.” (p. 2). He continues, stating the primary ‘cure’ of these ‘abnormal mental experiences’ was simply direct instruction to stop (Saindon, 1933). Jumping forward nearly a century the remnants of such blatant colonialism remain to this day. Institutions such as

In 2009, an article in the Annual Review of Psychology titled ‘The Case for Cultural Competency in Psychotherapeutic Interventions’ (Sue et al. 2009) opened with the claim that “[t]he notion that culturally competent services should be available to members of ethnic minority groups has been articulated for at least four decades” (Sue et al., 2009, p. 1); yet, after four decades, the article simply concludes that “more research is needed” (Sue et al., 2009, p. 17). This begs the questions: what is it that has been missing from the psychological literature that continues to restrict the field from ethnic minorities, or more poignantly, kept it among the ethnic elite? In the following I will attempt to answer this question in regards to the James Bay Cree, arguing that true cultural competency lies at the intersection of anthropology and psychology and that only through an understanding of ontology can psychology truly become competent. I feel it is necessary to discuss my own history with the subject before delving into the body of this work. I came to study both psychology and anthropology as a result of my interest in people, specifically motivation and what guides choice. To say that I have always harboured this passion would be untrue, yet coming into university I found myself captivated by the potential routes these inquires could take. As my education has progressed I’ve found myself torn between two distinct paths, with psychological science whispering its message of staunch metrics in one ear, while anthropology touts the ethnographic approach in the other. I continue to wrestle with these concepts and the following, I believe, stands as a testament to this. Nevertheless, I remain confident that

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of ontology and psychology. The James Bay Cree are, in short, an animistic people. Within such an ontology no spiritual differences are recognized between humans and nonhuman others. However, it should be noted that “a good deal of the current literature on animism deals with the metaphoric extension of personhood or animacy to the world at large. But this notion of metaphoric extension presumes a Western ontology of the animate and inanimate” (Scott, 2006, p. 61). Instead of ‘extending’ personhood upon non-human others, within the Cree (and other animistic cultures’) ontology, the non-human others are, and always have been, persons and thus ‘extending’ personhood becomes redundant. Such a world view is captured within the James Bay Cree idiom: “You and I have the same flesh or bodily covering; you and I have the same soul or spirit” (Lecture Notes, ‘Chihchip’). In sum, the basis of the Cree ontology is formed by the “idea that [...] other-than-human aspects of the environment constitute ‘personhood,’ [which] is fundamental both ontologically and epistemologically” (Scott, 2006, p. 57). In conjunction with this broader definition of personhood are two facets of the Cree ontology relevant to therapeutic interventions: reciprocity and dynamism. A question arises from such an ontological framework: how does one justify killing an animal for food if they too are a person? The answer lies in fostering positive reciprocity with all persons, human or otherwise. Such reciprocity is characterized by “innate realization of a conventional social order of reciprocity” (Scott, 1989, p. 196) through which a harmony is maintained. A poignant example of this is the Cree symbolic personification of reciprocity in the black bear (Scott, 2007) in which one must strike a balance with “the bear, and by extension, to all for whom the bear has responsibility, including less powerful animals and, of course,

the residential school system stand as a testament to the imposition of Western ‘solutions’ to Aboriginal ‘problems’ - in the case of residential schools, the solution being complete assimilation. Though the residential school system is no longer in place, the imposition of such Western ‘solutions’ remains implicitly within much of the intervention discourse. In 2007, an article in Psychological Bulletin flaunted a newly created integrated model that “considers the distinction between factors that influence mean levels of American Indian problem drinking and factors that influence individual differences in American Indian drinking” (Spillane & Smith, 2007, p. 395) based upon alcohol use contingencies. The paper concludes that “if this model proves valid, there may be important implications for ways in which American Indian reservation contexts can, in theory, be restructured to provide greater disincentives for alcohol consumption.” (p. 412). While the article briefly discusses historical antecedents to Aboriginal alcohol abuse, the authors at no point question the current reservation system and its implications in the issue; instead taking the continuation of such a system as a given. While I – perhaps naively – am assuming that the article’s authors did not set out to uphold the colonialist discourse, such an ‘integrated model’ fails to integrate the ontology of the individuals they are seeking to help, and instead imposes another Western ‘solution’, indicative of the implicit bias in much of the psychological literature (Ehlers, 2005; Spillane, 2013). Thus the questions becomes, what is the ontology of the James Bay Cree and how can it be used to inform mental health practices? Once again I must interject and note that the following in no ways aims to essentialize the nuance and richness of the Cree ontology; instead, my goal is to sketch the ethos of the Cree relevant to the discussion

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and how? In relation to other Aboriginal groups across North America the James Bay Cree fare closer to mainstream Canadian culture. The Cree have “a suicide rate no higher than that among non-aboriginal Canadians” (Kirmayer et al., 2000, p. 38) and research has noted that “psychiatric disorders among the Cree are quite similar in form to those of the European populations of the south” (Prince, 1993, p. 28). An interesting caveat; however, is the noted difference in attribution demonstrated within Cree cases. As one psychiatrist within Cree communities notes “the manner in which patients explain their illnesses sometimes adds a special colouring to their illness descriptions,” (Prince, 1993, p. 39) with the unique presence of ghosts and sorcery attributed as the causes of one’s grief (Prince, 1993). Such supernatural references speak to the influence that ontology can have on psychology, and more specifically, psychopathology. Though in a Western context the attribution of grief to sorcery would be indication of possible psychosis, within the Cree’s larger relational ontology, “[m]ention of supernatural influences involving sorcery or witchcraft may not indicate psychosis but merely that patients are cultured Crees who have not lost contact with their roots” (Prince, 1993, p. 40). However similar the James Bay Cree and mainstream Canadian culture may be in regards to psychopathological epidemiology, significant differences lie in the increased incidences of substance abuse and related domestic issues amongst the Cree (Gone et al., 2007; Kirmayer, 1989; Kirmayer et al. 2000; Kirmayer et al 2003; Prince, 1993; Robinson, 1988) A 1983-84 survey found that between 25 % in one village to 66% in another had consumed alcohol in the past month (Robinson, 1988). Coupled with this were increased “family violence including wife beating, and male violence against other male”

properly behaving humans” (Scott, 2006, p. 60). The bear metaphor of reciprocity informs much of Cree hunting practices. This reciprocity; however, is not endemic to human-nonhuman interactions, and such pan-species relationships powerfully shape the Cree attributional process for events ranging from a poor hunt to a fatal accident. For example, if a hunter is to “take too much when the animal is signalling a growing avoidance of, or anger towards hunters is to undermine the relationship, to disrespect the animal,” (Scott, 2006, p. 64) and the hunter may suffer fatally as a result. It is important to stress that these reciprocal relationships are not static, but rather in a constant state of flux. The constant flux of Cree reciprocal relationships make up the ontology’s dynamism. In a quote from Scott (2006): “For my Cree interlocutors, the world is a place of deep vitality, sometimes restful, sometimes dynamic; pregnant with possibility; a place of emergent, often orderly, sometimes surprising phenomena. Life in this sense, pimaatsiiwin, was translated to me as ‘the continuous birthing of the world,’” (p. 61) This ‘continuous birthing of the world’ produces a constantly shifting worldview with practical results. For example “[t]o make fixed plans on the basis of predictions about the future, [...] may presume too much. Someone (human, animal, or spirit) could reciprocate by frustrating hunters’ intentions,” (Scott, 1989; p. 195). Such contingencies differ significantly from the Western materialist ontology in which relationships are fixed; a difference which we shall see carries significant ramifications for treatment. Therefore the next question becomes what exactly is being ‘treated’ by current therapeutic interventions,

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1989, p. 327) in which illnesses, and those who have them, are fixed in their form. The search for such discrete disorders will always come up empty against the Cree ontology of ‘the continuous birthing of the world’ wherein the attribution of illness may stem from ghosts, sorcery, disrespecting the nonhuman other or other localities that Western psychological science has deemed deviant. Such a flux in pathology is demonstrated by psychological research which has found the powerful healing effects of returning to the bush; in which “an alcoholic husband who has completed a Montreal rehabilitation program has a better chance of remaining sober if he can spend several months in the bush before resuming village life” (Prince, 1993, p. 23). Though these findings have been deemed ‘remarkable’ by the psychological community, when viewed from within the Cree ontology, it is simply the continuous rebirth of the self in different environments, a difference which stresses the shortfalls of interventions focusing on a Western view of the fixed individual. Thus far I have been perhaps unfair to the discipline of psychology, focusing only on its shortcomings. In recent years psychological interventions have arisen which, albeit implicitly, have begun to address the ontological differences in James Bay. Such interventions centre upon “promotion that emphasises youth and community empowerment” (Kirmayer et al., 2003, p. 15). Within such a model of intervention, it is this implicit promotion of Cree ontological values that has been identified as having the most ameliorating effect. Turning back to Reverend J. E. Saindon’s 1993 account of Cree mental health, such a method was initially dismissed because “the blind cannot lead the blind” (p. 2); yet, after four decades of cultural competency debate it is the interventions most congruent with Cree ontology that have emerged as the most beneficial, an example of this can be found in a reframing

(Robinson, 1988,p. 1610) as well as “39% of Aboriginal adults report[ing] that family violence is a problem in their community, 25% report[ing] sexual abuse and 15% report[ing] rape” (Kirmayer et al., 2003, p. 16). Stemming from these high prevalence rates and the related domestic issues, it has been the substance abuse that has been targeted as the focus of the majority of interventions in James Bay, with drastically mixed results. As discussed above, one common theme across many substance abuse interventions has been the colonial legacy of implicit assertion of Western ‘solutions’ to issues facing Cree communities. Though such methodology may be successful in a Euro-Canadian population, imposition onto ontologically distinct groups such as the James Bay Cree have failed to elicit any ameliorating effects and may even exacerbate current problems within these groups. One such case of a wrong fitting ‘solution’ is the imposition of individual based treatment for substance abuse. These interventions conform to the “the Euro–American notion of the person [as being] characterised as egocentric or individualistic” (Kirmayer et al., 2003, p. 18), a drastically different ontology than the pan-species relational model held by the Cree. A clear example of this is the push to create and facilitate Western institutions of healing that individuals must seek out themselves, such as social service centres. It should come as no surprise then when the opening of these centres does not result in the expected benefits, as it presupposes an locality of illness endemic to the materialist ontology of the West and ignores the larger network of reciprocity of the Cree ontology. Further divergence between Western materialism and James Bay Cree animism is demonstrated in the different concepts of disease and illness at play. The materialist view is captured by “the search for discrete disorders whose diagnosis can be specified by operational criteria,” (Kirmayer,

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Cree ontology, a method more literally found in youth targeted interventions. To say that ‘children are the future’ has become so clichéd that some forget the truth within the statement, for it is only through them that ontologies persist. As Scott notes “the boy is preequipped by stories and instruction to know that the bear is more significant, before ever meeting one,” (Scott, 2006, p. 54); yet, therapeutic interventions have thus far neglected the youth in their attempted ‘solutions’. Such neglect is even more misdirected in a community in which “35% of the James Bay Cree are under 15 years compared with 16% of the Quebec population, and the median age among the Cree is 20.8 (versus 34.2 for Quebec)” (Kirmayer et al., 2000, p.37). Interventions overlooking youth forget that “like all cultural identities, Aboriginality is not ‘in the blood’ but rooted in forms of life that exist at the confluence of historical currents and contemporary forces,” (Kirmayer et al., 2003, p. 19) and that the continuation and empowerment of Cree communities is, and will be, shaped by the contemporary force of youth driven renewal, a concept resonating with the ‘continuous birthing of the world’ facet of Cree ontology. An implicit assumption amongst the majority of interventions has been that when one is found that ‘works’ then no others need try; yet, such assumptions neglect that the dynamism of Cree ontology requires dynamic ‘solutions’. Through youth targeted interventions, such dynamism can be achieved through “giving youth an active role in designing and implementing programs that meet their needs,” (Kirmayer et al., 2003, p. 21). In doing so, future ‘solutions’ can be generated, not only from within the Cree ontology, but from the Cree themselves. As has been noted “Non-Aboriginal mental health professionals usually approach these problems as outsiders [...] [n]o matter how open and unbiased practitioners try to be, they work

of interventions away from the individual and towards the community. Within an ontology in which “[t] he idea that relationships of sharing and mutual responsiveness between human and other-than-human aspects of the environment constitute ‘personhood,’” (Scott, 2006, p. 57); the implementation of interventions targeting only a single entity within a larger relational network seems hopeless from the start. As discussed above, such interventions ignore the fundamental Cree notion of positive reciprocity and thereby cut-off all other panspecies persons within this network. It is here that community based initiatives excel, an example of which being the empowerment of a Cree identity. This approach of “recuperating these traditions [...] reconnects contemporary Aboriginal peoples to their historical traditions and mobilises rituals and practices that may promote community solidarity,” (Kirmayer et al., 2003, p. 16). Such a group based intervention identifies the issues at a macro level, targeting the larger relational network through the foster of a positive Aboriginal identity. As research has noted, “knowledge of living on the land, community, connectedness, and historical consciousness all provide sources of resilience,” (Kirmayer et. al, 2003, p.21) as well as foster positive reciprocity within the persons of the Cree larger relational model. The revival of practices such as talking circles, healing circles, and spiritual circles (Kirmayer et al., 2003) likewise promote such positive reciprocity by having “people speak openly and listen to others’ stories to begin to become aware of original hurts; [...] in which people develop trust in their own experiences of spirituality as a source of comfort and guidance” (Kirmayer et al., 2003, p. 20). Such acts strengthen the bonds within the community while not imposing the colonial legacy of individual interventions. Thus the ‘solution’ comes from within the James Bay

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ceremony known as Ndëpp, with the goal being to “re-establish the malade [sick] into the community and restore normalcy” (McKinley, 2012, p. 14). For the Senegalese,

against a backdrop of structural violence, racism and marginalisation,” (Kirmayer et al., 2003, p. 21). Through the empowerment of youth, mental health issues can be continuously revaluated and readdressed in a method that rings true with the dynamism of animistic ontology, a congruency also found in Senegalese animist mental health practices. The ontology of the Senegalese shares a similar animistic profile to that of the James Bay Cree with “the belief in supernatural beings exist[ing] universally across all ethnicities and areas of Senegal” (McKinley, 2012, p. 7). Such a model demonstrates a suitable parallel for the intersection of ontology and psychology, as in both cultures, animism informs Western mental health interventions. In Senegal, there are “several reasons why someone might have a mental illness: it could be due to stress, evil spirits, drugs, or perhaps maraboutages [type of African witch doctor] or evil curses” (McKinley, 2012, p. 12), an attributional process simitlar to the Crees. Yet, unlike the James Bay Cree, modern healing practices are, comparably, less colonial in their approach, instead focusing “more on communal healing and acceptance of mental illness than western societies” (McKinley, 2012 p. 14). As such, the Senegalese example provides a potential model for a more ontologically informed therapeutic intervention method in James Bay. The Senegalese animistic ‘solution’ takes its cues from symptoms suggesting that “supernatural forces are angry at either the individual or at the entire community in which case the individual is a signal to the rest of the community that the supernatural force is angry” (McKinley, 2012, p. 14). This focus on the community as the target of any intervention is inherent within the ontology of Senegal; yet, has only recently been recognized by mental health practitioners based within the Western ontology (Kirmayer et al., 2003). In Senegal, the primary response to an individual’s mental illness is a communal

By admitting that many health disorders should be understood as psychosomatic disorders, they admitted that they are inseparable from their socio-cultural environment. It is in this environment that it is necessary to understand the fundamentals of spiritual and supernatural beliefs of the patient, as is understanding the collective worldview [ontology] in which he has been raised. Taking the patient’s beliefs into consideration during therapy can have a profound impact on the psyche of the individual. (McKinley, 2012, p. 18) Such practices, within the Senegalese animistic framework, strengthen the positive reciprocity within the community and provide an example of animistic ontology co-existing and informing psychological interventions. Where does that leave the James Bay Cree? Scott (2007), in reference to ecological co-management, posits that “sacred and purposive knowledge are complementary” (p. 62) a relationship which I believe is equally applicable to psychological knowledge. Within this newly elaborated discourse the “emic constructs may lead to models of wider applicability and so themselves become etic constructs” (Gone & Kirmayer, 2010, p. 90) resulting in more than a modification of Western ‘solutions’, but to the promotion and empowerment of solutions that are truly Cree. While “sacred and rational-empirical aspects of knowledge intensify and reinforce hunters’ attention to the world,” (Scott, 2007, p. 65) I believe they also intensify and reinforce attention to mental illness and health; a practice that returns us to the notion of cultural competency.

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I opened by posing the question of what is it that has been missing from the psychological literature that continues to restrict the field to the ethnic elite? Perhaps that question is misleading; instead it may be more informative to ask if psychological science should be imposed on minorities groups in the first place? In the above, we have seen how key facets of the James Bay Cree’s animistic ontology, reciprocity and dynamism, have been missing from current Western intervention methods; and, how a refocusing of interventions towards community healing and youth empowerment is more representative of such an ontology, much like the current practices found in Senegal. Yet the question still stands: should Western psychological science be used at all? The shadow of colonialism predominates much of Aboriginal epidemiology, and as I’ve demonstrated, the most salutatory interventions are those that reject these roots and stem from the ontology of the people they are aiming to help. It is at the junction of psychology and anthropology that, I believe, psychology as a discipline can come to recognize this, and a truly cultural competent psychologist is one who recognizes their own colonialist legacy. Until this is done, however, I fear that the two disciplines will remain disjunctive; limiting their potential for mutually informed aid and prolonging Western colonialist manipulation over the James Bay Cree.

References: Ehlers, Cindy L, & Wilhelmsen, Kirk C. (2005). Genomic scan for alcohol craving in Mission Indians. Psychiatric genetics, 15(1), 71. Gone, Joseph P, & Alcántara, Carmela. (2007). Identifying effective mental health interventions for American Indians and Alaska Natives: A review of the literature. Cultural Diversity and Ethnic Minority Psychology, 13(4), 356. Gone, Joseph P, & Kirmayer, Laurence J. (2010). On the wisdom of considering culture and context in psychopathology. Contemporary directions in psychopathology: Scientific foundations of the DSM-V and ICD-11, 72-96. Kirmayer, Laurence J. (1989). Cultural variations in the response to psychiatric disorders and emotional distress. Social Science & Medicine, 29(3), 327-339. Kirmayer, Laurence J, Boothroyd, Lucy J, Tanner, Adrian, Adelson, Naomi, & Robinson, Elizabeth. (2000). Psychological distress among the Cree of James Bay. Transcultural Psychiatry, 37(1), 35-56. Kirmayer, Laurence, Simpson, Cori, & Cargo, Margaret. (2003). Healing traditions: Culture, community and mental health promotion with Canadian Aboriginal peoples. Australasian Psychiatry, 11(s1), S15-S23. McKinley, Caitlin. (2012). Treating the Spirit: An Ethnographic Portrait of Senegalese Animist Mental Health Practices and Practitioners in Dakar and the Surrounding Area. Prince, Raymond H. (1993). Psychiatry among the James Bay Cree: A focus on pathological grief reactions. Transcultural Psychiatry, 30(1), 3-50. Robinson, Elizabeth. (1988). The health of the James Bay Cree. Canadian Family Physician, 34, 1606. Saindon, J Emile. (1933). Mental disorders among the James Bay Cree. Primitive Man, 6(1), 1-12.

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A Critical Examination of Bioarchaeological Approaches to Gender and Nutrition in Maya Societies

Scott, Colin. (1989). Knowledge construction among the Cree hunters: metaphors and literal understanding. Journal de la Société des Américanistes, 75(1), 193-208. Scott, Colin. (2006). Spirit and practical knowledge in the person of the bear among Wemindji Cree hunters. Ethnos, 71(1), 51-66. Scott, Colin. (2007). Bear Metaphor: Spirit, Ethics and Ecology in Wemindji Cree HuntingLa Nature Des Esprits Dans Les Cosmologies Autochtones. Québec, Canada: Presses Université Laval. Scott, Colin. Jan 7th, 2013 to April 15th, 2013, Ecological Anthropology (ANTH 339), McGill University Jan 7th, 2012 to April 15th, 2012. Spillane, Nichea S, & Smith, Gregory T. (2007). A theory of reservation-dwelling American Indian alcohol use risk. Psychological bulletin, 133(3), 395. Spillane, Nichea S, Smith, Gregory T, & Kahler, Christopher W. (2013). Perceived access to reinforcers as a function of alcohol consumption among one first nation group. Alcoholism: Clinical and Experimental Research, 37(s1), E314-E321. Sue, Stanley, Zane, Nolan, Hall, Gordon C Nagayama, & Berger, Lauren K. (2009). The case for cultural competency in psychotherapeutic interventions. Annual review of psychology, 60, 525.

Juliette Chausson question posed, to the data analyzed, and finally the conclusions reached. Therefore, while the methods and results of the isotope analyses are accurate, the interpretations themselves may not necessarily be an equally telling representation of the society under examination. In the following pages, I will analyze two case studies regarding nutrition and gender in Maya societies in order to examine the possibility of creating a more comprehensive bioarchaeological approach to this area of research. The two case studies are Gerry & Chesson’s (2000) Classic Maya Diet and Gender Relationships and White’s (2005) Gendered Food Behaviour Among the Maya. The analysis will constitute an examination of the cases’ methodologies-including the combination of bioarcheology with ethnographic, ethnohistorical, and iconographic data--as well as an assessment of their theoretical approaches, looking particularly at gender binaries, life histories, and the positionality of the authors.

Introduction Nutrition is not solely a matter of survival, but also a metaphor that is permeated with cultural significance during its production, preparation, distribution, and consumption. It is the literal embodiment of cultural practice and bodily performance, as the repeated actions of food consumption leave a specific chemical signature on the skeletal remains of the individual engaged in the practice. Examination of differences and similarities in nutrition consumption by different members of a society can therefore reveal important insights into questions of access, status, division of labor, ritual significance, and formation of identity, thereby elucidating the dominant ideology and relations that structure the society. Bioarchaeology, primarily through isotope analyses, has the ability to reveal the differences in access and consumption of food between different individuals. These isotopes reveal not only information regarding the types of plants and animals eaten, but also the trophic levels of the proteins consumed. When combined with environmental reconstructions as well as ethnohistorical documents, this can create an enlightening depiction of the distribution and consumption patterns of foods within a society, which can then be extended to explicate the dynamics of the interactions between the members of the society. However, there is often a disconnect in bioarchaeology between the ‘scientistic’ examinations of the human remains and the social interpretations that follow. The positionality of the bioarchaeologist influences the entire procedure, from the

Analysis of Gerry & Chesson (2000): Classic Maya Diet and Gender Relationships Gerry and Chesson (2000) examine whether the stable isotope data of Classic Maya skeletal remains present a pattern associated along the lines of gender and within status categories. They conclude that there was no difference in the stable isotope data between the male and female skeletal remains in the different status categories, and that there was therefore a “strong parity between male and female diets,” (idem: 251).

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and meanings attached to them (Conkey & Spector 1998:25). A similar issue arises with Gerry and Chesson’s (2000:258) use of ethnographic analogy with modern Maya communities. Implied in this analogy is an assertion of an “unbroken continuity between the precolonial past and the present, somehow passed on in undiluted form through an ineradicable racial memory,” (Weismantel 2005:85). However, due to the time span that has elapsed between the Classic and current Maya communities, as well as the effects of an imposed colonial history, drastic differences have developed. An ethnographic analogy, therefore, can lead to very misleading interpretations, as the systems of meaning in modern Mayan communities have certainly shifted. Gerry and Chesson’s (2000:259) use of ethnohistorical sources is problematic as well, since the subject of these sources are Aztec communities, and the sources themselves are Spanish priests. The Aztecs were a completely different society from the Maya, living in different cultural and ecological environments. Furthermore, sources from Spanish priests are replete with Catholic notions of gender dichotomy associated to a sexual dichotomy as well as rigid division of labor along this gender dichotomy (Joyce 2000a:475). Moreover, ethnohistorical sources, even though more intimately linked in time with the societies described, are nevertheless inacurrate, as they are attempting to describe the “original state of a savage society” without acknowledging the effects that their colonial economy has had on the structure and traditions of this society (Fabian 2002:32). In addition, even though there is examination of which animals were consumed, there is no analysis of what ritual significance these animals had and what their consumption may have relayed in terms of different roles of individuals within a society

Gerry and Chesson (idem) acknowledge the intersectionality of multiple variables affecting diet, and take into account not only gender and status, but also regional variation, availability of resources, and population density. This recognizes that the composition of diet is not solely based on cultural factors, but exists along a fitness landscape that is also determined by a large range of environmental factors The authors additionally attempt to reduce the gender asymmetry present in other archaeological studies by investigating the roles of both men and women. They further reduce the hierarchy of these roles through statements such as “men and women fulfilled equally important roles in the traditional subsistence economy.” (Gerry & Chesson 2000: 251.) However, despite the recognition of androcentric bias, the authors maintain stereotypes of “women as weavers, food preparers, mothers, and as the tenders of small animals” and “men as warriors” (idem: 260). While these statements are supposedly supported by iconographic interpretations, they are highly problematic in that they promote a binary view of gender and division of labor in Mayan society; a view which is not necessarily accurate and more likely created by a presentist positionality, introducing current notions of gender dichotomy into the Maya narrative. Furthermore, the assumption that men and women performed “equally important roles” is unsupported, and may reflect a projection of the positionality of the authors onto Mayan societies. Although the notion that female and male roles in the production and consumption of food complement each other has been commonly proposed, this does not necessarily translate a lack of hierarchical positioning to these components. A certain task does not have a consistent association with a particular meaning, and, often, the same activities performed in different societies will differ drastically in terms of the values

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White (2005: 372-374) also examines differences in proteins consumed by males and females and how these translate into differences in access and roles by gender. For example, greater carnivory on the part of males can be translated into support for the role of men as being more closely related to hunting activities. Additionally, large carnivores and marine resources had a greater ideological significance in Maya society, therefore greater consumption of these resources by high status males in relation to females suggests an asymmetrical power relation between the two (idem.) However, because the question posited by White assumes a binary division of gender along the lines of a male-female sexual dichotomy, the results themselves may be skewed in accordance with her positionality. White (idem: 360) cites ethnohistorical evidence that only older women were allowed to participate in rituals during the Historic period, whereas in earlier times women of multiple ages participated in rituals. This reveals a flexibility in gender roles of women during the Historic period. However, she fails to cite any information regarding the flexibility or stability of male consumption and ritual participation. Moreover, she makes no reference to the flexibility or stability of consumption by different cohorts during different time periods. Finally, she neglects to mention how this ethnohistorical evidence translates into bioarchaeological evidence, a step that would have allowed for the formation of a biarchaeological methodology that recognizes mutability in roles throughout an individual’s lifetime. Therefore, while White recognizes a “mosaic quality of gendered status and power,” where “control of food and its consumption are complex variables in the expression of social authority, autonomy and control”, she nevertheless retains the strong binary categories of male and female

(Gerry & Chesson 2000: 254-255). This is particularly important in that it demonstrates a considerable gap in the author’s theorization of gender roles. Because a gender role is “the differential participation of men and women in social, economic, political, and religious institutions within a specific cultural setting,” ignorance of the ritual symbolism of the food consumed ignores not only the religious aspect of gender roles, but also the political aspect, as religion and politics were intertwined in Mayan societies (Conkey & Spector 1998:24). Analysis of White (2005): Gendered Food Behaviour Among the Maya White (2005) examines whether Maya food consumption was affected by gender, as well as whether social status and cultural change, such as colonialism, affected diet by gender. Using Carbon and Nitrogen isotope analyses, as well as data on burial goods, she concludes that while non-elite women appear to have had a similar diet to their male counterparts, elite women appear to have had access to fewer ideologically valued foods than their male counterparts. Similarly to Gerry & Chesson (2000), White examines the interaction of multiple variables including gender, status, and regional heterogeneity. However, her study includes cases spanning a longer period of time and adds the crucial dimension of culture change. While Gerry and Chesson (2000) solely focused on Classic Maya remains, White examines remains from the Pre-Classic to the Historic period, allowing for analysis of shifts in diet across a temporal landscape involving cultural shifts. This consequently allows for the recognition of the fluidity of both consumption and the repertoires of meaning associated with its practice, including, therefore, the fluidity of associated gender roles.

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individuals and have yet to create a methodology to identify them, even though these individuals may have had an important cultural significance in previous societies (Taylor 1996: 65). An ensuing problem is that bioarchaeologists often examine gender along the male-female dichotomy that they have created in their examination of the sex of the skeletons. This frequently results in conclusions that, due to the positionality of the research methodology, view “men and women as homogeneous and distinct,” (Geller 2009: 68). Yet, whereas in current Western culture gender roles are often culturally performed along sexual divisions, ethnographic studies demonstrate the “complexity and cross-cultural variability in gender arrangements,” the differences in “the expression and meaning of gender,” and the “various dimensions of gender arrangements” that truly occur in current societies (Conkey & Spector 1998:23).

within both sex and gender and provides no alternative methods for bioarchaeologically recognizing the malleability in roles throughout an individual’s lifetime (idem: 371). There is consequently a disconnect in the sources that she employs, as she uses them to provide separate sources of information instead of combining them to reveal further information which can be utilized in future studies. Specifically, seeing that ethnohistorical sources cite older women participating in ritual ceremonies during the Historical period, it would have been useful to examine the isotope signatures of older and younger women in the Historical period to examine whether or not differential ritual participation translated into a significant change in isotope signature. The result could then allow for reevaluation of previous, or future, examinations which have no associated ethnohistorical sources. A Review of the Problems Presented by the Scientistic Positionality of Bioarchaeology

Towards new considerations in the bioarchaeological approach to gender:

The current bioarchaeological approach to the study of gender is quite controversial, as the methodology automatically begins with an evaluation of the sex of the skeletons along a rigid binary male-female division that is assumed to be biological and immutable (Geller 2005:600). This is problematic in itself, as while sex does have certain biological characteristics, it is also culturally constructed. In other words, although bioarchaeology recognizes only two sexual categories, in reality, sex exists across a spectrum and is given meaning through repetitive, cultural performances (idem: 599). Furthermore, intersexuality is highly unlikely to be recognized bioarchaeologically, as it often leaves only subtle traces on the skeletal remains (idem:601). Bioarchaeologists therefore neglect to acknowledge intersex

Gerry & Chesson (2000) and White (2005) have improved the bioarchaeological discourse in many ways. Not only do they bring into question the issue of gender, but they also provide a symmetrical view of men and women in Maya society and place equal importance on their roles. Furthermore, they recognize the intersectionality of variables in the creation of both identity and diet, examining subjects such as status, time period, regional variation, and ecological resources. White (2005) additionally brings into question the ritual importance of the foods consumed as a way of further analyzing male-female relationships. Moreover, both studies supplement their bioarchaeological approaches with ethnographic, ethnohistorical, and iconographic data in

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the society, for example, can provide very useful data, as the categorizations and the formations of the sentences and vocabularies often reveal the structures present in the society itself. For example, Joyce (2000b: 278) demonstrates that the Yucatec Maya vocabulary only contains one term reflecting sex/gender identity. This supports the previous statement regarding the fluidity in sex and gender roles in Maya society and provides important information for the formulation of the methodology to be used when examining gender in Maya society. In other words, a sexual approach to gender divisions may not be an appropriate methodology for studying a society that does not define identity and relations primarily according to sex. Of foremost importance when employing external sources, including even linguistic analyses, is the need for recognition of the positionality of the authors or researchers. Anthropologists, Archaeologists, and Ethnohistorians all produce and interpret knowledge in a manner that is deeply rooted within their own autobiography (Fabian 2002:88). Gerry & Chesson (2000) and White (2005) would have greatly benefited, for example, by examining the positionality of the Spanish missionary sources who imposed their own views of gender upon Maya society. After having accumulated data on how gender may have been viewed in a certain society, a methodology needs to be outlined. There are several different approaches which may be beneficial in bioarchaeological studies. For example, it may be interesting to look at outliers of the groups in order to subvert a normative approach and examine why these individuals are outliers and whether this relates to gender. One could also use additional bioarchaeological approaches to better understand the social divisions of the population and then examine nutrition within this light (or at least as a

order to create an enhanced understanding of the bioarchaeological results and a more complete representation of the societal interactions. However, while Gerry & Chesson (2000) and White (2005) attempt to bring into visibility the subject of gender, they ultimately extend current classifications and stereotypes onto the Maya societies under question. While ethnohistorical sources may not mention the presence of other genders in Mayan societies, this does not mean that they were not present: the bias of Spanish Colonialist documents could have easily lead to their lack of recognition. In fact, a third gender has been proposed for Mayan society (Looper, 2002). This third gender involves elite women‐men and men‐women who are given a separate significance based on their ability to connect with the supernatural realms (idem). While this gender may have been more a short-lived gender impersonation, it nevertheless highlights the need for the depolarization of the gender classification system present in bioarchaeology. Because of the gender polarization present in both Gerry & Chesson’s (2000) and White’s (2005) studies--a polarization which does not appropriately reflect gender in Maya society-it is likely that their conclusions were not representative of the actual structure of Maya society. Furthermore, there needs to be a fluidity in the methodology of bioarchaeology when examining different societies. For example, it has been argued that Mayans, “may not themselves have made a distinction between the sexes, which in turn informed the performance of different gender roles,” (Geller 2005:602). Therefore, examination of gender roles through a binary sexual division would clearly be inappropriate in this case, and other approaches would be necessary, as I will outline below. Examination of the linguistics of

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Conkey, M.W. 2005. Dwelling at the Margins, Action at the Intersection? Feminist and Indigenous Archaeologies. Archaeologies 1(1):9‐59. Fabian, J. 2002. Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object. New York: Columbia University Press. Geller, P. 2005. Skeletal Analysis and Theoretical Complications. World Archaeology 37(4):598‐609 2009. Identity and Difference: Complicating Gender in Archaeology. Annual Review of Anthropology 38: 65-81 Gerry, J.P. & M.S Chesson. 2000. Classic Maya Diet and Gender Relationships. In Gender and Material Culture in Archaeological Perspective. Joyce, R.A. 2000a. Girling the Girl and Boying the Boy: The Production of adulthood in ancient Mesoamerica. World Archaeology 31(3): 473-483London: Routledge b) 2000. A Precolumbian Gaze: Male Sexuality Among Ancient Maya. In Schmidt, R. A. and Voss, B.L. (eds) Archaeologies of Sexuality, pp. 263-283. London: Routledge Kuhn, S.L. and M.C. Stiner. 2006. What’s a Mother to Do? The Division of Labor Among Neandertals and Modern Humans in Eurasia. Current Anthropology 47(6): 953990. Looper, M. 2002. Women‐men (and Men‐Women): Classic Maya Rulers and the Third Gender. In Ancient Maya Women. T. Ardren, ed. pp. 171‐202. Walnut Creek, CA: Alta Mira Press. Taylor, T. 1996. The Prehistory of Sex: Four Million Years of Human Sexual Culture. New York: Bantam Books Weismantel, Mary. 2005. The Ayllu, real and imagined: the romance of community in the Andes. In The Seductions of Community: Emancipations, Oppressions,

complementary source). Examinations of musculoskeletal markers, for example, could reveal different societal categories that may not have been evident in isotope analyses. Hence, examination of isotope analyses within the framework of the data enlightened by these different subcategories may reveal more information on societal relations than a simple male-female examination of nutrition. Inherent in bioarchaeology is the false notion of the objectivity of science, yet all archaeological data is truly ambiguous and the agendas and biases of authors are imposed on the interpretations of results (Conkey 2005:25). It is necessary to understand that while certain differences or similarities may have occurred in diet and division of labor, one cannot simply project beliefs of how these similarities or differences were experienced onto the past. Skeletal remains need to be interpreted within the space, time, and cultural conditions in question, and with a recognition of the fluidity resulting from an intersection of multiple variables and lived experiences (Geller 2005:604). Finally, while gender is a core structuring principle that should not be neglected, it is important to remember that it is not necessarily the defining feature of one’s identity, and may play a secondary role to other defining features such as ethnicity, age, race, sexuality, and status (Geller 2009:70). Gender therefore needs to be examined with respect to the intersectionality of all of these variables, and not on its own, nor with the intersection of solely one of these variables. References: Conkey, M.W. and J.S. Spector 1998 Archaeology and the Study of Gender. In Reader in Gender Archaeology. K. Hays-Gilpin and D.S. Whitney, eds. pp. 11-45. New York: Routledge

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Quandaries. G. Creed, ed. pp. 77-99. Santa Fe: School of American Research Press. White, C.D. 2005. Gendered food behaviour among the Maya: Time, place, status and ritual. Journal of Social Archaeology 5: 355‐382

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Everyone is Made an Outsider Tensions between Archaeological Stakeholders in the Maya Region

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Geoffrey M.J. Chappell

The material remains of the ancient Maya have inspired mystery and wonder for centuries. But today, archaeologists must acknowledge that the ancient material also inspires conflict. The interplay of the ancient remains with modern people is complex and fraught with tension. Descendant communities, nation-states, big business, archaeologists, tourists and others are entangled by their often competing interests. Each of these groups lays a claim to the material remnants of the Maya past, and would declare the others to be outsiders. The relations of these stakeholder groups to the archaic Maya material culture and to each other create tensions, tensions that an archaeologist must engage with. This paper seeks to address these tensions and offer a starting point from which a solution may one day be formed. First, this paper will discuss who the ancient Maya were, where and when they lived and what objects they have left behind. This is then followed by a discussion of the modern Maya, and difficulties related to identifying a people as such. Once the Maya, both ancient and modern have been addressed, the paper will move to detailing four stakeholder groups, and the goals and interests they advocate. I will also pay special attention to a fifth stakeholder group which is often ignored or underrepresented, the indigenous archaeologists, by focussing on Avexnim Cojti Ren. It is between these stakeholders that the tensions over Maya heritage arise. With the stakeholder groups detailed, I will discuss a select group of contentious issues and where the different stakeholders stand on each subject. These points of tension will be divided into a general focus on physical concerns, such as looting and a general focus on ideological concerns, such as flaws in academic language. Then I will make a brief note on the topic of Mayacentrism. Finally, with the different players discussed and their goals, motives, and positions on a range of issues made clear, I will conclude with a suggestion that a cosmopolitan

approach to archaeology offers the most ethical position for archaeology to advance in. Who Were the Maya? The ancient culture that modern scholars refer to as ‘The Maya’ occupied territory that is now within the modern states of Guatemala, Belize, Honduras, El Salvador and Mexico. The Maya region is further divided into three sub-regions, the Northern Maya Lowlands in the Yucatan peninsula, the Southern Maya Lowlands in northern Guatemala and parts of Belize, (this region includes the famous site of Tikal), and the Southern Maya Highlands, which is in southern Guatemala as well as small parts of El Salvador and Honduras (this region includes Copan, another very famous and celebrated site). The climate varies across the Maya region, but on the whole it is tropical with distinct rainy and dry seasons (McKillop 2006:29-35). The region later occupied by the Maya had human inhabitants as early as 9500 BC. People considered by archaeologists to be ethnically Maya appeared along the Pacific coast of Guatemala and Mexico around 1800 BC; this identification is based on pottery styles. From this point on, archaeologists have typically divided ancient Maya history into three time periods, the Preclassic, Classic, and Postclassic periods. Each of these is further divided into 3 subsections early, middle, and late. The Preclassic includes the years from 1800 BC or the earliest that Maya culture is identified in any region, until 300 AD. The Classic period is described as being from 300 AD to 900, and the Postclassic, from 900 to 1519 when the Spanish encountered Maya people (McKillop 2006:71-72). The Maya are famous in the public imagination for their elite cities, massive stone monumental structures, blood sacrifice, ball courts, carved stone stelae and their detailed glyph writing system. Problems with the current practice of Maya chron-

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commonality that may or may not have existed in the past. Nevertheless, today many indigenous people readily identify as Maya. Homogenizing the ancient Maya as having a universal culture is the work of a bad historian, but homogenizing the modern Maya as having a universal culture is the work of a bad anthropologist. The modern Maya are not culturally universal, nor were their ancestors. Geographic spread across five nations, different historical circumstances and unique challenges ensure that the living Maya are distinct from one another while still sharing common cultural elements (Borgstede and Yaeger 2008:105). Let us consider two examples of how different Maya communities interact with the term ‘Maya’ and the archaeological sites around them to demonstrate the cultural differences between them. Copan is an UNESCO world heritage site; very large and grand it is one of the most heavily studied Maya archaeological sites. Copan is located in western Honduras. In the rural regions around Copan live the Ch’orti’ people. The Ch’orti’ identify themselves as Maya and as the descendants of the original builders of Copan (Mortensen 2009:246,249). The Ch’orti’ have fought with others, both nationals and other local ethnic groups to demonstrate the legitimacy of their claims. And yet tour guides at Copan will hesitate to identify the Ch’orti’ as Maya (Mortensen 2009:253). Alternativly, at Chunchucmil in Mexico, the descendant communities who live around and amongst the ruins do not identify as Maya (Hutson 2010:157). They identify themselves as campesino or mestizo. Campesino literally means: of the countryside, but has connontations of being native and poor; mestizo means mixed, as in mixed indigenous and European race. Most people at Chuchucmil use ‘Maya’ only to refer to the ancients who spoke a ‘pure’ form of their indigenous language before it was ‘corrupted’ by Spanish. Still others see ‘Maya’ as an insult. This is part of a specific Yucatan history where ‘Maya’ was used to imply backwardness or an inability to learn

ological divisions and with focusing on the listed features of the culture will be discussed later in this paper. Who Are the Maya? Despite what outdated archaeological texts write about the ‘collapse’ of the ancient Maya, the people did not go anywhere. Maya people survived as an ethnic and cultural group through the Spanish conquest, through colonization and into the present. Descendant communities, the modern indigenous Maya, can still be found throughout the region once occupied by their ancient ancestors. Over the last few decades the Maya of the present have begun to voice concerns over how they and their ancestors have been represented by others. The term ‘Maya’ itself is problematic. Originally the word was from a specific Yucatan indigenous language family and was used in that language to refer to the language itself. Eventually the term came to be associated with indigenous languages across the region (Borgstede and Yaeger 2008:93). During the 19th century the word ‘Maya’ was attached to the people living around, within and amongst the ancient sites. Scholars began to acknowledge a strong connection between the modern people and the builders of the ancient monuments and the ancient culture came to be called Maya as well (Borgstede and Yaeger 2008:95). The history of the term ‘Maya’ reveals some interesting roots. The ancient culture was not named Maya first, and then its descendants named as such. Rather, the living people were identified as Maya and only after their relationship to the ancient ruins was established and accepted did the ancients take on the name Maya as well. Thus the very name of the ‘Maya’ has in it the acknowledgment that the modern Maya are legitimate descendant communities. Furthermore, ‘Maya’ was originally a word that only a small group of those people later named as such, self-identified with (Huston 2010:157). Thus the word was imposed as an identifying moniker on a large community by foreign scholar outsiders. This blanketing term presents the Maya as having a

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interest in archaeological remains. I have adopted his classes. These stakeholder classes are often used by other scholars as well, in whole or in part, sometimes explicitly identifying them as different stakeholders the way I am and sometimes not (Davis-Salazar 2007:200). These four stakeholder classes are usually listed from the class with the fewest occupants to the greatest. In order to subvert any attached stigma of hierarchy, I will be using them in the reverse of the usual order. I do not mean to attach superiority to any one group over the other. The four stakeholder classes are international, national, community/local and individual/household stakeholders (Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2009:151,152). The international stakeholder class is comprised of foreign archaeologists, foreign tourists and foreign businesses. It also includes UNESCO, the United Nations and foreign governments. Most important of all, the international stakeholder group includes humanity as a whole; some argue that the entire species has a claim to the great achievements of humanities past. For example, the second clause from the 1972 UNESCO convention concerning the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage reads “Considering that deterioration or disappearance of any item of the cultural or natural heritage constitutes a harmful impoverishment of the heritage of all the nations of the world” (UNESCO Convention 1972). International stakeholders have a variety of aims. Businesses seek to maximize profits, governments pursue their own agendas. Foreign archaeologists seek to study the archaeological material of the ancient Maya and then publish their findings. To this end, they seek access to sites, preservation of sites, and the resources to conduct research. Similarly, tourists seek access to sites and site preservation but usually hope for other amenities around the sites as well. The United Nations, UNESCO and the majority of humanity as a whole usually seek site preservation as well, but also for archaeological sites to be researched, typically by archaeologists associated with academic institutions. I, as an archaeologist not native to the Maya region am

Spanish. However, indigenous people in other villages in the Yucatan will happily declare themselves to be Maya (Hustson 2010:158). Additionally, the villagers at Chuchucmil do not identify as the descendants of the people who built the ruins and mounds around them. When asked, most villagers answer that they do not know who built the ruins and others will name supernatural creators such as giants or dwarves (Hutson 2010:166). The two indigenous groups feel differently about the term ‘Maya’ and about their relationship to the ancient ruins they live beside. These two examples show that while a people may both be called ‘Maya’ they are not culturally identical. There is the additional difficulty of who is considered a legitimate indigenous person. For example, usually in the Maya region indigenous identity is not contested, but in Belize it has been. Multiple community and ethnic groups, not just the Maya have declared themselves as being indigenous (Medina 1999:136). Claims to indigeneity are usually made through ethnic/genetic claims or cultural ones, but both are flawed models and an alternative is needed (Huston 2010:159). Rights to land are often made through arguments of place, and who has dwelt in a place the longest (Medina 1999:136). In Belize, four main groups claim indigenous status and argue for their authentic indigeneity in different ways, through these arguments they all claim rights to the land. The four groups are Creoles, Garifuna, mestizo and Maya (Medina 1999:145). The first three groups all acknowledge that a part of their heritage has its roots in another continent and that they are indigenous only in part (Medina 1999:144) However, these same groups deny ‘native’ status to the wholly indigenous Maya, because the specific Maya in Belize emigrated there from Guatemala in the 1800s (Medina 1999:148). All these issues of and problems with identity play in the background of stakeholder interests.

Who Are the Stakeholders?

In his 2009 paper, ‘The Archaeologist as World Citizen’, Chip Colwell-Chanthaphonh outlines four stakeholder groups who have an

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also fosters the states’ claims of ownership. Nation-states also use archaeological sites to produce revenue. Through their ownership of sites and artefacts, national stakeholders can earn money from tourists visiting archaeological sites and museums. Additionally, tourists who visit one of the five nations motivated in part by archaeology will spend money outside of the archaeology sites, channelling money into the nation even if not to the government directly. Local/community level stakeholders are those people who live on or around an archaeological site. Usually they are descendant communities. Community stakeholder interests are most easily heard through publicized protests and community activist groups such as the Ch’orti’ representative and activist group the CONIMCHH, the National Indigenous Council of the Maya Ch’orti’ of Honduras (Mortensen 2009:249). Local/community stakeholder interests are extremely varied, not only in what they are interested in but also on what priority they give to each interest. There are common trends however. Community stakeholders are often seeking a return of traditional agricultural lands, inclusion in the economic benefits of tourism, recognition as descendant communities, a voice in the creation of heritage, the freedom to let their culture change without their indigenous status being questioned, and in some cases, the removal of national patrimony to give ownership of heritage sites to descendant communities (Cojti Ren 2006:11-14). The fourth stakeholder category outlined by Colwell- Chanthaphonh is the individual or household level stakeholder. This is the stakeholder class that is discussed the least in academic literature. Interaction with this stakeholder group requires time amongst families communicating with them on a personal level, not through a nation or a representative or activist group. Household level stakeholders are usually seeking economic stability, either through access to tourism revenues or land claims. For example, the villagers at Chuchucmil, already discussed, use the ancient ruins as readily accessible building material (Huston 2010:165). In the Pa-

placed within this category. I will do my best to understand and appreciate alternative views, but my initial bias is to sympathize with the international stakeholder class. In the conclusion of this paper I will discuss how an attempt to incorporate the views of all stakeholders is the best course for an archaeologist and I will attempt to do that in this paper. The national heritage stakeholder class is composed of the government of a nation state and its citizenry. Those in question here are the governments of Mexico, Belize, Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador. Through national patrimony, all five nation states own the archaeological remains of the ancient Maya found in their country. The citizen body of these nation states are comprised primarily of non-indigenous peoples, as are the governments that run them. Each nation has a unique history of conflict or unity with the indigenous people who occupy it. For example, in Guatemala, indigenous groups were very active amongst the resistant groups during the Guatemalan Civil War and former dictator Rios Montt is on trial for committing genocide against the Ixil, a Maya people. In Mexico it is the policy of the nation to absorb minorities into a mestizo whole (Breglia 2009:215). While in Honduras, the ‘extinction’ of the ancient Maya was taught as national public school curriculum (McAnany and Parks 2012:84) The five nations in questions have different specific aims. However, on the whole, they seek to maintain ownership of Maya sites and aretfacts as well as control over access to sites (Magnoni et al 2007:365). In this way the nation can control which archaeologists are allowed to study and publish, and they often employ archaeologists (Cojti Ren 2006:10; Joyce 2008:56). Thus the nation has a degree of control over what information is published and what becomes sanctioned history. State stakeholders also seek to foster national unity, either by appropriating the Maya past as a part of a shared heritage or by denying the Maya past to modern Maya people, giving no one group any more claim than any other based on claims of descent or ethnicity (Cjoti Ren 2006:9; Joyce 2008:63; Magnoni et al 2007:364). This

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lamarejo Valley in Honduras, household level stakeholders farm and move cattle through archaeological sites daily, but are bound by law not to farm on or damage the mounds themselves. This limits the agricultural land available to them (Davis-Salazar 2007:200). Colwell-Chanthaphonh does not discuss one more group that I feel deserves a special mention. Where does an indigenous Maya or Mexican national archaeologist fit into the other four stakeholder classes? A case can be made that they belong to several, if not all the stakeholder classes to a certain degree. I propose that they be recognized as a distinctive and important subcategory that could potentially be present in one or several of the four main groups already discussed. These archaeologists stand in an ideal position to assist their foreign colleagues when navigating the circumstance of a given community or nation. Avexnim Cojti Ren is a Guatemalan born archaeologist currently working at the First Nations University of Canada in Saskatchewan. Some of her insights will be discussed in the section on stakeholder tensions over ideological issues.

indigenous identity, entrapment of indigenous people within a static cultural identity and the appropriation of heritage. Tourism is the third largest industry in Mexico, and is a 6.4 billion dollar a year business (Ardren 2004:103,104). As early as the 1920s archaeological excavations were conducted with tourism in mind (Patterson1995:78) However, Maya descendants are often excluded from the benefits (Ardren 2004:103). Mexico is not unique in this; in Honduras the Ch’orti’ do not benefit from the tourism to Copan. (Mortensen 2009:247). The municipal centre closest to the site of Copan, is named Copan Ruinas. It is occupied by elite and middle class people, a smaller percentage of whom are indigenous when compared the less economically affluent surrounding rural communities. The people of Copan Ruinas have benefitted greatly from tourism to Copan as the town has expanded in size and wealth (Mortensen 2009:250). As a result, the Ch’orti’, organized by CONIMCHH barred the gats to Copan in 1998 for 12 days (Mortensen 2009:247). This protest effectively launched the Ch’orti’s circumstance into the international public’s attention. This was not the only time the Ch’orti’ have protested at Copan. In 2000 the Ch’orti’ protested again, this time taking over the site’s visitors centre (Joyce 2008:61). The focus of the protests was that the Ch’orti’ as a descendant community deserved to benefit from the revenue at Copan. They also called for recognition that Copan was a sacred space to them (Joyce 2008:62). While local indigenous stakeholders are often left out of the economic benefits of tourism, they are not left out of the advertisements. Tourism to Guatemala, Belize, Honduras, El Salvador and Mexico is coordinated by a multinational organization, the first of its kind, called Mundo Maya (Ardren 2004:108). This international organization intends to foster good relations between nations in order to increase tourism. Mundo Maya advertisements and other tourism ads usually highlight Maya archaeology as a selling point, typically cleared and restored monumental structures or the rarest of artefact finds (Ardren 2004:107). Thus, Maya cultural material heritage is com-

Tension between Stakeholders over Physical Concerns It should be clear at this point that the goals of some stakeholder groups are in opposition to the goals of others. It is from here that tensions arise. In this section I will detail some common issues of tension in the Maya region over physical concerns and the different stances of the stakeholders involved. By physical concerns I mean issues that are at their core, about real world things that can be touched such as, money, the sites themselves or ancient artefacts. The first point of tension I will discuss is tourism. The tension surrounding tourism is primarily between national and community level stakeholders, though international stakeholders are central to the conflict, usually present as tourists and businesses. I have identified four specific problems caused by tourism, they are: the distribution of the economic benefits of tourism, the commoditization of

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examined through a case study, Lisa Breglia’s work at Chichén Itzá. Chichén Itzá is a large urban site in the Yucatan and an UNESCO world heritage site. El Castillo is its most recognizable structure and is very often chosen as an image to represent the Maya. Breglia conducted extensive interviews with the indigenous people who worked at the site, but not those involved with heritage, Breglia interviewed primarily guards and groundskeepers (Breglia 2009:206). These workers had many complaints about the tourists who visited the site, not the international tourists (members of the international stakeholder class) but the nacionales, Mexican nationals from outside the Yucatan. One indigenous person was quoted as saying “they walk around like they own the place”. The indigenous local workers saw the Mexican nationals, their countrymen, as being particularly bold and complained of rule breaking (Breglia 2009:207). But of course, Chichén Itzá is owned by the nation of Mexico, a democracy, and therefore the site does belongs to the nacionales, just as it belongs to the indigenous as well. The local indigenous workers claimed greater ownership, and marked the other Mexicans as outsiders. The local workers claimed the site’s history was in their blood (Breglia 2009:206). However, it is not their indigeneity that the workers point to, but rather the fact that their positions are typically passed down through family lines, and many are second or third generation workers at Chichén Itzá (Breglia 2009:218). The same workers also hesitate to self-identify as Maya or indigenous, the specific context of the term ‘Maya’ in the Yucatan has already been addressed in this paper (Breglia 2009:220) Thus, these workers claimed ownership of the site not through their community ties as local stakeholders, but at the family level, as individual/household stakeholders. As in every scenario of stakeholder conflict, the specific historical circumstances play a major role. The Yucatan has a long history as the Mexican other. Archaeologists have referred to it as a Maya site which was invaded by more Aztec-like ‘Mexicans’ in the ancient past (Breglia 2009:211). Additionally, both

moditized to sell to tourists. In addition to ancient culture being commoditized, modern Maya culture is commoditized as well (Ardren 2004:109). Indigenous people in traditional dress are presented alongside wildlife and monumental sites (Ardren 2004:108,109). The result is indigenous Maya people portrayed as another park of the landscape, unchanged through time. Additionally, images of indigenous Maya people in adverts are almost exclusively female and typically sexualized and exoticized. This is an attempt to play on desirability and escapism. Ultimately, people and sites become commodities used to sell vacations (Ardren 2004:109). Tied into this commoditization of heritage is the third problem with tourism, it traps descendant communities in a static state of culture. To win over tourists indigenous people must appear as if their culture has gone unchanged for centuries. Tourist agencies, including nationally funded tourism boards play up this image of unchanging indigenous culture. These national and international stakeholders present an essentialist image of indigenisms, where indigenous people are the sum of their various cultural features (Magnoni et al 2007:365). The final point of contention between stakeholders that I have identified in the context of tourism is an appropriation of history. Since heritage sites are owned and operated by nation states, the national stakeholders present the Maya heritage as if it was the nation’s heritage (Ardren 2004:107,109; Breglia 2009:215; Magnoni et al 2007:364). Of course, the history of the Maya in the Yucatan is a part of the history of the Mexican nation, both as a national entity and as a shared heritage between indigenous people and the mestizo majority; many mestizo are in part also descended from the Maya. The tension emerges when local stakeholders see their history being interpreted by national stakeholders without local input and then used to the exclusive benefit of the national stakeholders, or worse, used to dominate the local stakeholders. Tourism is also related to the next point of tension I will discuss, the ownership of archaeological sites. I feel this can be best

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Maya and white people from the Yucatan refer to outsiders as ‘Mexican’ (Breglia 2009:213). The Yucatan is physically hard to access when travelling from the more northern Mexican states and this has bred long-standing feelings of isolation and difference (Breglia 2009:216). The Yucatan was also the site of revolts in the 19th century and has called for secession in the past (Breglia 2009:217). Oddly the history of Chichén Itzá is one of multiple occupations. There are obvious architectural changes in style and the site was occupied by the Maya, Toltec and Aztecs at different points (Breglia 2009:211,212). Colonists imagined this history as the noble Maya savage being defeated by the bloody thirsty Aztec invader (Breglia 2009:212). The nationstate of Mexico is typically associated more strongly with an Aztec past than a Maya past; the nation’s flag even bears the emblems of the Aztec origin myth. Today, different non-local stakeholders see different things at Chichén Itzá. International tourists see a purely Maya site, Mexicans see a site of cultural diversity, and scholars see a Maya-Toltec civilization (Breglia 2009:211). The multiple occupations of Chichén Itzá by different cultures from across the modern country do suggest that the national stakeholders are correct in their presentation of Chichén Itzá as a Mexicanizing tool, one that fuses the rest of the nation with the Maya (Breglia 2009:213). A third issue of discord between the stakeholders is the problem of looting. In Honduras for example there is a particular type of artefact, called Ulúa marble vases. These vases are very rare and extrememly popular on the black market, second only to classical period jade (DavisSalazar 2007:197). Many of the archaeological sites in the Ulúa Valley have been looted and damaged in the hunt for these vases. Honduras has other high profile looting cases as well, such as the robbery in Copan where many jade pieces were stolen (Davis-Salazar 2007:198). The concerns of different stakeholders can reveal the motivations behind these lootings. International stakeholders, primarily archaeologists are interested in studying the artefacts and fostering good relations with the community and nation which they work

within. They readily hand over all recovered artefacts to the national government in exchange for being allowed access to nationally owned sites. But in addition to international archaeologists are foregin smugglers, black market art dealers, and their eventual customers who collect ancient artefacts for personal galleries. National stakeholders in Honduras seek the study of archaeological remains and the preservation of their claim to ownership. They are active through their national organization, the Honduran Institute of National Anthropology and History (IHAH) (Davis-Salazar 2007:201). Community stakeholders usually see archaeological remains as a feature of identity. Communities will identify themselves by the ruins near them and vice versa. Ruins are referred to as “our ruins” and bragged about in comparison to other ruins. In some cases these are not descendant communities, but people who have moved into the region within the last few generations; thus, people do not need a blood tie to adopt the past as their own. (Davis-Salazar 2007:200). Household level stakeholders are under financial stress. Archaeological remains restrict available agricultural land. Flat land is at a premium, ancient patios are used as cattle enclousures with the surrounding mounds providing a readymade fence. Mounds are also used for burning brush and for holding water tanks for livestock (DavisSalazar 2007:200). It seems that international, national and community level stakeholders all seek to protect the ruins. But under financial strain, individual or household stakeholders may see looting for artefacts or building materials as a viable option. Tensions between Stakeholders over Ideological Concerns The points of tension mentioned in the physical concerns section are primarily between national and community stakeholders, and primarily over issues of ownership, funds, visual representation and objects. Tensions also exist over ideological issues such as, colonized history, biased academic language control over the creation of history. These concerns most often appear between local communities and

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international archaeologists. Tension between them can be most clearly seen in the writings of someone who belongs to both groups. Shifting focus now to look at academic flaws, this paper will look at Cojti Ren’s 2006 paper Maya Archaeology and the Political and Cultural Identity of Contemporary Maya in Guatemala. Cojti Ren is both an indigenous Maya and an archaeologist on the world stage; while I have not spoken to her personally, her 2006 paper makes it clear that she strongly identifies with her indigenous heritage. Cojti Ren bemoans that not only have the land and people of Guatemala under gone colonialism, but their history has as well. She points to a shared history of independence, colonization and resistance as the common link between indigenous people. But, colonizers destroyed the means of indigenous recording in order to subvert indigenous land claims. History was then written by colonizers to explain their ‘justified’ dominance. (Cojti Ren 2006:10) For example, popular conceptions and historical works have tended to focus on elite cultures and violence (Cojti Ren 2006:12; Magnoni et al 2007:365). Large stone temples and sacrifice are the highlights of any tourists visit to a site. These two features have been used to stress to colonial viewpoints. Violence demonstrates that the Maya were a ‘barbaric’ people, civilized by Europeans, and elite culture demonstrates that the Maya were previously ruled by an authoritarian government, making the colonizers just another successor (Cojti Ren 2006:12). Presenting both together even casts the colonizers as heroes who saved the Maya from their domination under violent kings. Even in modern contexts the influence of international archaeologists and western thought is present in explanations of the ancient Maya. Modern scholars continue to divide Maya history into distinct categories with dates cut off to the year. Recall the 3 categories of chronology mentioned earlier in the section on the ancient Maya, Preclassic, Classic and Postclassic. These sections each have their own subsection usually precise to a specific year as well. These subdivisions are an inherently western concept which can be traced to Aristotle,

American indigenous conceptions of time and the world are often more focused on cycles and continuum. Additionally, the fact that Maya history is considered by westerners in three sections is very telling. This is typical of a concept of rise, peak and fall. Divisions like this and ideas of collapse suggest that the Maya did not have a continuous history and failed as a culture (Cojti Ren 2006:11). Furthermore, value is placed on specific time periods through a western framework. The Classic period is considered the peak of the Maya culture, when the greatest advancements in mathematics, calendrics and epigraphy were made. Even the names of the phases suggest this relationship. Not even named early, middle and late, the three sections of Mayan time are called Preclassic, Classic and Postclassic. The two periods that aren’t classical are named by their relation to the classical, stressing its perceived greater value. This value has its roots in western ideals of individualism and capital accumulation. With the classical period considered superior, the other two periods, artificially separated from the continuous flow of time as they are, are considered inferior. This thinking is also extended to the modern Maya who must also be inferior to their more culturally sophisticated ancestors (Cojti Ren 2006:11). The traditional divisions of Maya history with the fixation of the ‘classic’ period and exact dates of transition have been in place for decades but many archaeologists are now moving away from that antiquated system and towards newer frameworks that more accurately capture gradual change and do not focus on an imagined cultural peak. Cojti Ren also disagrees with national patrimony. She argues that as nations with colonial intentions control heritage material, indigenous people cannot unite through their shared past. This prevents communities from engaging each other on an international level. Effectively, national stakeholders are blocking community stakeholders from interacting with each other as international stakeholders. This prevents the Maya from constructing their own history (Cojti Ren 2006:10). Instead, Maya history is written by foreign archaeologists who are deemed a legitimate source of in-

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formation; the knowledge they discover/create is then the property of all humankind. However, that knowledge is typically not distributed in a format accessible to all, or even accessible to Maya communities (Cojti Ren 2006:13). Cojti Ren calls for archaeologists to be anthropologists first, understand that their opinions are shaped by their own circumstance and attempt to decolonize Maya history (2006:14).

towards the Maya. Cosmopolitan Archaeology and Conclusions How is an archaeologist to navigate these stakeholder groups and their many different opinions? Again, I turn to Chip Colwell-Chanthaphonh’s 2009 paper, The Archaeologist as World Citizen. Part of an edited volume on cosmopolitan archaeology, ColwellChanthaphonh lays out a system for resolving stakeholder conflicts over preservation issues through cosmopolitanism. I will argue that his cosmopolitan system can be expanded and adopted to resolve other conflicts. At the core of cosmopolitan archaeology is a responsibility on the part of the archaeologist, to listen to other stakeholders. While an archaeologist need not agree with all other stakeholders all the time, they must be willing to listen with an open mind and remember that all stakeholders play a role in the ongoing history of an archaeological site. Through cosmopolitan archaeology, different stakeholder classes can be visualized as Russian nesting dolls. Individual/household stakeholders are embedded with community stakeholders, which are in turn within national stakeholders and finally within international stakeholder groups. Traditionally, each stakeholder group has only been able to speak two the group immediately adjacent to itself. However, archaeologists are in a unique position. Typically international level stakeholder, archaeologists do work alongside community level stakeholders and often form ties with household and individual stakeholders as well. This allows us to act as a communication link between different stakeholder spheres that normally would not overlap. For example, this position can allow an archaeologist to be an activist, representing a local community to the international stage when a national stakeholder would rather they be kept quiet. Of course, as a result of national patrimony, archaeologists must still seek out permits of access and work from a national body. When an archaeologist is faced with tension between two or more different stake-

Mayacentrism While not a contested subject in the same way as those discussed in the preceding two sections, it is important to touch on the problem of mayacentrism. The Maya, both ancient and modern have captured the attention of the world and are the primary interest of many members of all the stakeholder classes. This naturally leaves other cultures and other time periods out of the discussions. For example, in Honduras, mayacentrism led to a denial of cultural variability in the 1800s. Honduras was explained as an offshoot of cultures located in Guatemala and Mexico. This portrayed Honduras as being civilized from the outside; the obvious parallel being, Honduras was civilized by the outsider Maya in the Ancient world and the outsider Europeans in the modern world. The nation of Honduras underwent a ‘Mayaniation’ (Joyce 2008:58). Mayacentrism is at play with the term ‘Maya’ itself. Recall the earlier section on the modern Maya and the difficulties with the word ‘Maya’ itself. The blanketing of one moniker to a large and varied group may not always silence the differences between them, but it can muffle them. The focus on ‘Maya’ puts commonalities in the forefront and differences fade. This Maya focussed bias is even present in this paper. It is subtitled ‘Tensions between Archaeological Stakeholders in the Maya Region’ thus making the boundaries of the paper geographic. And yet I have only focussed on Maya culture, both ancient and modern. In my own defence the bulk of academic literature does focus on the Maya. PreMaya history, colonial history, the history of non-Maya ethnic groups, these pasts and presents are being silenced by a bias and fixation

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holder groups, should they take a stance? In some cases, yes an archaeologist is morally obligated to side with one stakeholder or another. Morality is of course an entire philosophical can of worms, Colwell-Chanthaphonh cuts to the chase by arguing that archaeologists should attempt to maximize human dignity. He adds to this ruling by reminding archaeologists that their concept of morality may not be the same as others, and they must not impose their views on other people, until human dignity is violated (Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2009:160). Unless human dignity is being violated, a cosmopolitan archaeologist must remember that they should not press their opinions on others, it is their place to counsel and foster communication but not dictate. One more duty of the cosmopolitan archaeologist is to incorporate other stakeholders at all levels of archaeological research, not only interpretation, but also as specific targets of distributed writings, as part of the planning stages, when research questions are being considered. In this fashion archaeological research can benefit all stakeholders, not just archaeologists. In conclusion, it is clear that the Maya region presents many challenges and areas of conflict between stakeholders. These conflicts originate in the different motivations of stakeholder classes and the different ways they relate to archaeological material. The stakeholder groups disagree over both physical and ideological issues and we archaeologists find ourselves at the centre of these disputes. In order to be ethical scholars and maintain respect for the discipline, archaeologists must be prepared to leave their ivory towers. Only by going out, speaking to, working with, and incorporating other stakeholders can we become both better archaeologists and better people.

Borgstede, Greg and Jason Yaeger. 2008 Notions of Cultural Continuity and Disjunction in Maya Social Movements and Maya Archaeology In Archaeology and the Postcolonial Critique. Matthew Liebmann and Uzma Z. Reizvi (eds.) Lanham: Altamira Press, pp. 91-107. Breglia, Lisa. 2009 Walking Around like they own the Place: Quotidian Cosmopolitanism at a Maya and World Heritage Archaeological Site. In Cosmopolitan Archaeologies, Lynn Meskell (ed.) Durham: Duke University Press, pp. 205-227. Cojti Ren, Avexnim. 2006 Maya Archaeology and the Political and Cultural Identity of Contemporary Maya in Guatemala. Archaeologies 2: 8-19. Colwell-Chanthaphonh, Chip. 2009 The Archaeologist as World Citizen: On the Morals of Preservation and Destruction. In Cosmopolitan Archaeologies, Lynn Meskell (ed.) Durham: Duke University Press, pp. 140-165. Davis-Salazar, Karla L., E. Christian Wells and José E. Moreno-Cortés. 2007 Balancing Archaeological Responsibilities and Community Commitments: A Case from Honduras. Journal of Field Archaeology 32:196205. Hutson, Scott R. 2010 Dwelling, Identity, and the Maya: Relatinal Archaeology at Chunchucmil. Lanham: Altamira Press. Joyce, Rosemary. 2008 Critical Histories of Archaeological Practice: Latin American and North American Interpretations in a Honduran Context. In Evaluating Multiple Narratives: Beyond Nationalist, Colonialist, Imperialist Archaeologies, Junko Habu, Clare Fawcett and John M. Matsunaga (eds.) New York: Springer, pp. 56-68. Magnoni, Aline, Traci Ardren and Scott Hutson. 2007 Tourism in the Mundo Maya: Inventions and (Mis)Representations of Maya Identities and Heritage. Archaeologies: Journal of the World Archaeological Congress 3: 353-383. McAnany, Patricia A. and Shoshaunna Parks.

References : Ardren, Traci. 2004 Where are the Maya in Ancient Maya Archaeological Tourism? Advertising and the Appropriation of Culture. In Marketing Heritage: Archaeology and the Consumption of the Past, Yorke Roxa and Uzi Baram (eds.)Walnut Creek: Altamira Press, pp. 102-113.

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2012 Casualties of Heritage Distancing: Children, Ch’orti’ Indigeneity, and the Copan Archaeoscape. Current Anthropology 53: 80-107. McKillop, Heather. 2006 The Ancient Maya. New York: W.W.Nortin & Company. Mortensen, Lena. 2009 Copan Past and Present: Maya Archaeological Tourism and the Ch’orti’ in Honduras. In The Ch’orti’ Maya Area, Brent E. Metz, Cameron L. McNeil and Kerry M. Hull (eds.) Gainesville: University of Florida Press, pp. 246-257. Patterson, Thomas C. 1995 Archaeology, History Indigenismo, and the State in Peru and Mexico. In Making Alternative Histories: The Practice of Archaeology and History in Non-Western Settings, Peter R. Schmidt and Thomas C. Patterson (eds.) Santa Fe: School of American Research Press, pp. 69-85. UNESCO World Heritage Convention. 1972 Convention Concerning the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage. Paris : United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization.

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Domestic Abuse of Women and Restorative Justice in Nunavut

Maythe Han Morgan 2008:4). The resettlement process involved small RCMP planes that did not allow Inuit men to bring their large hunting equipment, dogs, and sleds, which were all necessary things for them to carry out their role as a provider, whereas Inuit women were able to bring what constituted their living, such as sewing materials and other small household items (Billson 2006:74). For men, resettlement brought a significant change in lifestyle as motorboats and rifles proved too expensive and wageearnings jobs went mostly to white “southern” Canadian men with formal education and training (Billson 2006:74). Accordingly, Inuit men “could not provide “country food” as consistently as they could before resettlement” (Billson 2006:74), which naturally led to frustration and powerlessness among men. In addition to undergoing this difficult transition, witnessing Inuit women’s being able to go through the same transition in a relatively smoother manner also may have spurred “male jealousy prompted by the reversal of roles and loss of power” (Morgan 2008:4). Furthermore, Inuit women have not only had a relatively easier time in adapting to resettlement, but have also “outpaced their male contemporaries in completing some post-secondary education” (Billson 2006:74) as they “embraced schooling and did not as often succumb to alcohol and drugs” (Billson 2006:74). This allowed them to expand their roles from their homes to the workforce, whereas Inuit men saw a decrease in employment (Billson 2006:74). While Inuit women may feel increasingly empowered – especially bolstered by the feminist movement – Inuit men may feel even more helpless, angry, and jealous without any social support to ensure their own sense of empowerment, furthering “the imbalance in the power relations between women and men” (Morgan 2008:3) and thus contributing “to higher rates of violence against women” (Morgan 2008:3). To make matters worse, domestic

Introduction: Domestic Abuse of Women in Nunavut Statistically, Nunavut has the highest rate of family violence in Canada. Compared to those who live in Ontario, the province with the lowest rate of family violence, those who live in Nunavut are 17 times more likely to be victims of domestic violence (Durrant 2013, 5). According to police-reported data, out of 1132 cases of domestic violence, more than 500 Nunavummiut – of which 85.4% are Inuit (Statistics Canada 2011) – were victims of spousal violence in 2010 (Durrant 2013:5). According to the study conducted in 2013, Measuring Violence against Women: Statistical Trends, the prevalence of sexual offences in Nunavut was 12 times higher than the provincial average (Canadian Centre for Justice Statistics 2013). The same study stated that Nunavut had nearly 13 times as many cases of violence against women compared to the national average (Canadian Centre for Justice Statistics 2013). Given this statistical information, this paper will examine and explain possible factors that may contribute to such a high number of cases of domestic abuse, justify the concept of restorative justice as a possible solution that could help reduce the prevalence of domestic abuse in Nunavut, and explore the critiques of restorative justice in the following sections. Precipitators of Domestic Violence There are many factors that are said to have contributed to the extremely high rates of domestic violence among Inuit today. For one, it is argued by many that forced resettlement by Royal Canadian Mounted Police (henceforth referred to as RCMP) resulted in an imbalance between gender roles with which the Inuit lived and functioned, leading to gender-related crimes such as domestic abuse (Billson 2006:74;

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abuse does not stop with one generation, making it an issue that requires a sustainable solution:

sibility for the injuries they have sustained as well as receiving reparation for those injuries. That is not all that is required. The offender must make recompense for there to be full resolution, [whereby “recompense”] is something given or done to make up for an injury. This underscores that the offender who caused the injury should be the active party” (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:2).

“abusers are often survivors of abuse themselves – abuse that occurred in the community, … in their own families. Abuse creates a cycle of fear, shame, anger, addictions and violence that passes from one generation to the next, from man to woman and from adult to child” (Morgan 2008:4).

There are different models of restorative justice based on these definitions that are implemented in reality, including victim-offender mediation, family group conferencing, circles, and victim impact panels. Victim-offender mediation typically takes immediately after the victim and the offender become aware of the option and agree to participate (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:6). Instead of having the victims and the offenders speak for themselves, “the mediators actively speak for the parties, modelling for them a dialogue about the issues each one presented in an initial, private, caucus” (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:6). Studies found that this model effectively reduces violence in cases where at least one party was committed to ending the violence and where the victim was mentally and monetarily prepared to live independently from the offender (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:6). In cases that the victim and the offender stayed together, there was “improved communication and a reduction of verbal abuse” (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:6), as the offender kept the promises they made during the mediation process. Another model is family group conferencing, which brings families together for a conference in order to break “families’ silence about abuse, allowing the emergence of women’s leadership to stop family violence” (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:7). This model proved to be the most beneficial when a child was involved, as it took into account the whole family and not only the victim and the offender (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:7). Circles, another model of restorative justice, bring in not only families but also the community in order to “heal the effects of family violence in the community” (Edwards

Restorative Justice as a Solution to Domestic Violence Many have suggested that restorative justice can be that sustainable solution. While restorative justice has been an emerging topic of interest in the field of social, criminal, and legal justice, it is rather difficult to define because it is “both a philosophy and a practice, and a definition needs to capture something of both” (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:2). Definitions of restorative justice include: “a set of values that guides decisions on policy, programs and practice … based on the notions that: all parties involved in crime should be included in the response to crime; offenders become accountable through understanding the harm caused by their offence(s), accepting the responsibility for that harm and taking actions to repair the harm they have caused; and crime is defined as harm to individuals and community. (italics in original)” (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:2). And a theory that “emphasizes that every crime involves specific victims and offenders, and that a goal of the criminal justice process should be to help them come to resolution[, which] requires that the rights of victims be vindicated by exoneration from respon-

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to colonization, which they believe should inform contemporary Aboriginal justice models” (Cameron 2006:53). Given this drastic incongruity in meanings, implementing so-called “traditional” models effectively means trying to apply antiquated methods to a contemporary problem, for supporters of Western restorative justice, whereas it means addressing not only domestic abuse in today’s society but also the damage done by past colonial injustices for Indigenous Peoples (Cameron 2006:53). On the other hand, some critiques express concern about the practical implementation of restorative justice. First is regarding the continued physical and emotional safety of the victims. Some say that restorative justice practices have not accounted for “the existence of ongoing danger occasioned by the victim’s resistance to [the] batterer’s authority and control” (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:13). Furthermore, concern for safety extends beyond just the victim: “the victim’s family, community participants, and the facilitator… and others potentially affected by the intervention, including the parties’ children and possible future partners of the offender” could all be at risk (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:13). Emotional safety of the victim is also a concern, as the victim may be under an extreme amount of stress, leading to trauma (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:13). “Chronic trauma, which is a feature of domestic violence, amplifies the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder” (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:13), a serious mental condition that may haunt and harrow the victim throughout her life. Closely linked to the issue of victim’s safety is the question of unencumbered participation (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:13). Many victims report feeling pressured to participate in the process because they “may feel unsafe presenting any kind of challenge to the abuser, fearing that he will retaliate afterward by hurting her” (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:14). Not only that, even if the victim does not feel pressured directly by her abuser, the victim may feel pressured by the community: “simple ignorance of and indifference to

and Sharpe 2004:7). The use of circles had a holistic effect on the community as a whole rather than only on the immediate parties involved in the violence, not only lowering rates of domestic violence but also increasing the number of years that children stayed in school (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:7). The last model of restorative to be discussed is the victim impact panel. In this model, a small group of victims get together to form a panel and speak to a larger group of offenders, none of whom have victimized any of the panel members; the victims explain the impact that domestic violence has had on both themselves and their families (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:8). Many victims who participated in the victim impact panels contended that participating in the victim impact panels was a worthwhile experience, and most offenders “said the experience gave them more empathy for their victims and prompted them to reflect on what they could have done instead of using violence” (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:8). Critique of Restorative Justice Practice in Cases of Domestic Violence Nevertheless, restorative justice is not without critiques. Some are theoretical, especially when it comes to applying restorative justice in aboriginal communities, but most regard its practical implementation. One theoretical critiques of restorative justice is that many tend to conflate the Western concept of restorative justice with Aboriginal models of justice, thereby conflating and confusing multitude of nuanced meanings of important terms and concepts that may change meanings across different cultures. The conflation of restorative justice with Aboriginal justice leads to a non-distinguished use of multi-meaning terms such as “traditional,” which is problematic. While the word is used to “caricature a backwardslooking or ‘frozen in time’ formulation of Indigenous laws and legal practices” (Cameron 2006:53), among Indigenous Peoples, it is used to “denote a respected place held by Aboriginal women within their nations prior

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abuse; victim-blaming; partiality toward the abuser; stereotyping based on race, disability, sexual orientation or other personal characteristics; and reflexive condemnation of women in conflict with the law” are experiences that victimized women reported when their communities were engaged (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:14). Indigenous women also have to deal with “the larger mainstream perception about Aboriginal men and violence” (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:14) – female Indigenous victims may hold back any information so that they do not confirm the racial stereotype. They may even feign forgiveness and understanding, hoping that in the long run, their “sacrifice for the good of the group and an understanding of collective rights” will dilute the stereotype (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:14). With so many risks and potential complications, the role of facilitator is crucial to the practice of restorative justice. However, “proper screening [for a skillful facilitator] in such complex cases can be very difficult” (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:15). Without a facilitator that is properly trained to deal with such a sensitive situation, there will be repeated perpetuation of domestic violence, as victims of domestic abuse are easily persuaded by their offender’s remorse – whether genuine or not – and by promises of change and that things will be better (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:15). The facilitator needs to have a good understanding of psychological problems that stem from domestic abuse as well, as “battered women underestimate their likelihood of returning” (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:15) to their offenders, reassuring their facilitators that they will never reunite with the men that battered them, while statistics show that “80% of these women … were at least somewhat likely to return to abusive relationships” (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:15) largely due to the victim’s psychological attachment to the offender. “[T]he victim may herself minimize the abuse or its seriousness, blame herself for the fact that it occurs, or both” (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:15-16) due to traumatic bonding, a phenomenon that “strengthens

the victim’s ties to the abuser … through … his assurance of love, especially soon after the abuse, … [leading] the victim to believe that love and abuse are tightly linked” (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:16). Conclusion As seen in all of the models discussed above, restorative justice seeks to promote “emotional engagement with crime” (Stubbs 2007:169) through discourse. However, while it has been successful in some cases, there are, perhaps disproportionately, many critiques and dangers of implementing restorative justice practices in cases of domestic violence that may outweigh the benefits. However, this is not to say that there is no value in restorative justice. In order to be a viable and sustainable solution that can reduce the rates of domestic violence, restorative justice should be used on a case-by-case basis with facilitators cautious to take into account the fact that every victim is different (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:17). It is also important to see restorative justice as one of many options available, including the conventional court system, and not as an alternative that can replace existing justice systems completely (Edwards and Sharpe 2004:17-18). With extensive reviews and significant changes made to the current restorative justice process to bring about tangible results – reduced rates of domestic abuse – rather than vaguely positive qualitative observations, restorative justice may become an excellent method by which the problem of domestic violence can be addressed and, hopefully, resolved to a large extent. References Billson, Janet Mancini 2006 Shifting gender regimes: The complexities of domestic violence among Canada’s Inuit. Érudit 30(1):69-88. Cameron, Angela 2006 Stopping The Violence: Canadian Feminist Debates On Restorative Justice And Intimate Violence. Theoretical Criminology 10(1):49-66. Canadian Centre for Justice Statistics.

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2013 Measuring violence against women: Statistical trends. http://www.statcan.gc.ca/ pub/85-002-x/2013001/article/11766-eng.pdf, accessed November 19, 2013 Durrant, Chris 2013“None of that Paper Stuff Works”: An Anti-Essentialist and Anti-Colonial Analysis of Efforts to End Domestic Assault in Nunavut. International Human Rights Internship Working Paper Series 1(4):1-44. Edwards, Alan, and Susan Sharpe 2004 Restorative Justice in the Context of Domestic Violence: A Literature Review. http:// mrjc.ca/documents-publications/restorativejustice-domestic-violence/restorative_justice_DV_ Lit_Review.pdf, accessed November 11, 2013. Morgan, Clara. 2013 The Arctic: Gender Issues. http://www. parl.gc.ca/Content/LOP/ResearchPublications/ prb0809-e.pdf, accessed November 11, 2013. Mediation & Restorative Justice Centre 2013 Restorative Justice And Domestic Violence Research Project. http://mrjc.ca/documentspublications/restorative-justice-domestic-violence/ RestorativeJustice-DomesticViolenceRpt.pdf, accessed November 11, 2013. Statistics Canada 2011 Aboriginal Peoples in Canada: First Nations People, Métis and Inuit. Aboriginal Peoples in Canada: First Nations People, Métis and Inuit. http://www12.statcan.gc.ca/nhs-enm/2011/ as-sa/99-011-x/99-011-x2011001-eng.cfm#a5, accessed November 19, 2013. Stubbs, J. 2007 Beyond Apology?: Domestic Violence And Critical Questions For Restorative Justice. Criminology and Criminal Justice 7(2):169-187.

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Towards an Anthropology of the Microbiome

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Carly Langlois Introduction This paper will explore the idea of an anthropology of the microbiome. The general, guiding question that of this research project is as follows: What can a greater understanding of our relationships with the organisms that live inside our intestines and on our skin, for example, tell us about the human condition? To answer this question, several existing works on this topic, anthropological and otherwise, will be explored and compared. The questions presented by Benezra et al. in their piece, “Anthropology of Microbes,” will be expanded upon. Therefore, their article will first be presented to understand the broad scope of the implications that studying the microbiome can hold for anthropological inquiry. Next, this paper will take several of Benezra’s questions and explore them further. These will include the biological question of what it means to be human in the face of increased knowledge of the microbiome. After that, the topics of difference and similarity, both social and biological, will be discussed. Finally, the subject of human exceptionalism in the face of the nature-culture division will be examined.

gestions in light of research that has already been published. This is done so as to round out the potential of Benezra et al.’s proposal. Human and Not Over the course of my studies in anthropology, I have encountered several social science research projects on how different institutions of power create definitions of the human to fit their needs. This is another way to say that many cultures have different ways of defining who is allowed to be called human. Oftentimes, this can be as simple and implicit as a language whose ethnonym is the same as the word for human (Canessa 2000:718). There can also be more elaborated, powerful, agenda-driven cultural constructions of the human. Most basically, most studies I have encountered deal with strictly cultural and societal notions of humanness. This is true even when they make use of biological knowledge for propagandist purposes. Accordingly, the question must be raised: Will an expanded knowledge of the microorganisms that live within us create novel biological, and perhaps even cultural, ways of producing the human category? Let us begin by delving into two parallel social constructions of the human. Italian philosopher Giorgio Agamben provides the first account, and the next is by anthropologist Hugh Raffles. Once this is done, more microbial understandings of humanness by Donna Haraway and P. Wenzel Geissler will be discussed. Giorgio Agamben examines the Western production of the human. For Agamben, humans have historically produced, and continue to produce, an ontological definition of ourselves that is seated in our separation from animality. This divide is the primary framework we use to define ourselves. In his book, The Open: Man and Animal, Agamben writes, “Anthropogenesis is what results from the caesura and articulation between human and animal. This caesura passes first of all within man” (Agamben 2004:79). “Within man” meaning the division is not only man made, but it is also

Anthropology of Microbes In their article, “Anthropology of Microbes,” anthropologist Amber Benezra and scientists Joseph DeStefano and Jeffery I. Gordon take advantage of a recent interest in microbial ecology in the biological sciences and explore this field’s implications for new areas of anthropological research. In their words, “The development of new methods for understanding the microbial world provides an opportunity to reevaluate the way we view our human biological and cultural diversity” (Benezra et al. 2012:6378). For the interest of this paper, only the microbial world present in and on human bodies will be surveyed. The authors offer several possible opportunities that microbiological research can hold in store for many subfields of anthropology. This essay examines a few of their sug-

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ed (Raffles 2010:156-7). Yet again, we see that the non-Jew can only create this notion of humanity in opposition to that which he is not. The making of the human that Agamben and Raffles describe both require organisms that are considered to be not human. Agamben’s essential distinction between human and animal allows for the animal to be present, even nearby. But even more notably, Raffles traces the way in which the definition of the Jew as a parasite meant that the nonhuman was an entity that came from within the social body. What are the repercussions of this kind of thinking for the human microbiome? When we live in a society that systematically chooses to animalize some men, our relationship with real animals, and other organisms, bears significance. What is more, the time period about which Raffles writes saw an increase in microbiological knowledge of organisms and disease causes and transmission (2010:157). This is not unlike the time period we are in today. Animals figure so prominently in our discussions of what it means to be human simply because we, as humans, acknowledge that we are also animals. Yet we often separate ourselves. What happens when some people choose not to separate themselves? What does it mean when they find themselves existing amongst the lives of parasites and symbiotic bacteria? In contrast with the othering processes that Agamben and Raffles describe, are Donna Haraway and the Luo people’s incorporation of other species into the definition of human. In her book, When Species Meet, social theorist Haraway plays with our taken for granted divisions between species. She describes interactions between bodies, not necessarily human, to depict a process of “becoming with” (Haraway 2008). Writing on the multitude of microbes that benefit from her human body, Haraway states, “I become an adult human being in company with these tiny messmates. To become one is always to become with many” (2008:4). This logic resembles what Agamben and Raffles portray in that the human is only created because things other than humans exist. But of course, Haraway’s deduction is radically different. Her inclusion of other species as necessary to her

a division that exists within the world of humans. He goes on to define anthropogenesis as, “the becoming human of the living being,” and names ontology as “the fundamental operation in which [it] is realized” (Agamben 2004:79). In other words, man has created a structure in which he cannot exist as human without the animal. This is not to say, however, that man must always live in close proximity with animal beings. On the contrary, Agamben asserts that, according to the philosophical and anthropological tradition of the West, our notion of humanity only exists juxtaposed our culturally constructed idea of animal. He describes this division that we make as “an occurrence that is always underway,” naming the mechanism through which we separate ourselves as “the anthropological machine” (Agamben 2004:79, 37). Historically, there have existed two variants of this machine. The more modern version, “functions by excluding as not (yet) human an already human being from itself, that is, by animalizing the human, by isolating the nonhuman within the human” (Agamben 2004:37). Agamben references Nazism’s degradation of the Jews as an extreme example of the outcome of this line of thinking. The perception and consequent treatment of the Jew as subhuman (or animal) despite his humanness, positioned the Aryan in a humanity exclusive of, yet dependent upon, the Jew. Hugh Raffles delves into the biological knowledge the Nazis utilized to accomplish this subjugation of the Jewish people. Raffles writes, “The Interwar period is striking for its radical conflation of political philosophy and medicine” (Raffles 2010:160). In their propaganda, the Nazis often referred to the Jewish people as lice. They classified the Jews as parasitic to society. In line with the eugenic thinking that was popular at this time, social parasites required eradication so the society could return to a healthy state; the same way the body needs to be de-loused (Raffles 2010:155). In this way, the Nazis were able to use medicinal logic to advance their political objectives. Consequently, Jews came to be seen not as parasite-like but actual parasites. At this time, they were completely stripped of their humanity and therefore able to be exterminat-

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becoming human begs the question: Within which bounds do we consider ourselves human? In other words, we have created categories of humanity for centuries if not longer. But, how will new findings on our bodily symbiosis with other organisms come to shape what we biologically know to be human? Let us turn to an ethnographic example of the inclusive vision to which Haraway alludes. Anthropologist P. Wenzel Geissler (1998) describes two competing models of helminth worm infection amongst the Luo people of Western Kenya. The traditional mental model is what Wenzel deems inclusive. It is the way in which the Luo perceive helminth worms to be an integral part of the functioning body, even when the side effects of the infection are devastating (Wenzel 1998:67-9). The other model, which Wenzel calls the biomedical model, is exclusive. In this manner of thinking, the worms are separated from the human body by a physical border. They are considered invaders (Wenzel 1998:69). What is key in Wenzel’s analysis is the fact that these competing models reflect the greater worldviews within which they sit. The traditional model is derived from the Luo setting, in which the people have a general tendency to include both positive and negative forces into their perception of life. On the other hand, the exclusive biomedical model is more characteristic of biomedical culture in general. This culture tends to create “a world of binary oppositions, boundaries and exclusions” (Wenzel 1998:76). As our understanding of the pathogenic, as well as non-pathogenic, bacteria within our bodies expands, it is important to keep in mind that our perceptions of these relationships will likely be a product of our already established ontology.

similar behavior, or ways of understanding why some people relate to each other. This returns us to Agamben’s analysis. Not only do we distinguish between human and animal beings, but through “the anthropological machine” specific to our Western culture, we construct a distinction between human and non-human, animal-like men. If we choose to separate some men as non-men, despite our obvious sameness, how do we explain our differences? Perhaps one way that we might begin doing so is with microbiome populations. Benezra et al. offer, Even though our H. sapiens genomes are >99% identical, and we all have approximately the same human cellular composition, we differ from one another substantially in terms of the microbial species and microbial genes that we harbor, even in the case of monozygotic twins (2–5). This is an important observation for anthropologists studying the scales of biological and social relatedness between humans (2012:6378).

Certainly, our growing knowledge of the factors contributing to the kinds of bacteria in our stomachs and on our skin will influence our perception of who is different from whom. Indeed, it seems this might be a path down which microbiome research is headed. The interface between animal behavior and microbiome composition is currently undergoing an upsurge in popularity. Ezenwa et al. summarize several recent studies on the way different animals’ behaviors influence their microbial companions, as well at the ways different microbial species influence certain animals’ behaviors. Some examples are summarized here. A study has found that chimpanzees from the same communities have more similar microbial populations than those from different communities. Another has demonstrated that fruit flies prefer to mate with other fruit flies whose diet is the same as their own. This preference disappears with the use of antibiotics, which suggests that it originates from the microbiome, rather than the food itself. In a similar way, bacteria that inhabit the

Difference and Similarity Not only will an anthropology of the microbiome pose new questions for our understanding of what it means to be human, but the field may also present anthropologists with new kinds of queries into understanding where our differences come from. It may also put forward explanations of some peoples’

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scent glands on hyenas vary across clans. It can be insinuated that these odor-producing bacteria may be affecting hyena social dynamics. Other researchers found that people with a higher diversity of microbes on their skin were found to be less attractive to a certain species of mosquito. And finally, ingestion of Lactobacillus rhamnosus by mice was found to influence their stress and anxiety levels. This suggests that the microbiome can affect an animal’s neuroendocrine system (Ezenwa et al. 2012). Of course, all of these studies deal with different animal species, but it is not hard to see what kinds of questions they present for human microbiome, behavioral, and social research. When this research does take place, which kinds of difference will we begin to be attributed to different kinds of bacteria in our stomachs or on our skin? In the same vein, how will microbial populations shape who we perceive to be the same as us? In the 1990s, anthropologist Paul Rabinow coined the term “biosociality” to refer to emerging social categories based on shared biologies. “In the future,” he muses, “the new genetics will cease to be a biological metaphor for modern society and will become instead a circulation network of identity terms and restriction loci, around which and through which a truly new type of autoproduction will emergence, which I call biosociality” (Rabinow 1996:99). The 1990s saw a rise in genetic research in the same way that we are now entering an era of increasing interest in and funds toward microbiome research. What Rabinow was anticipating were new communities that would begin forming in the name of shared genetic information. Of course, this is already done when it comes to diseases and illness. ThisIsMS.com, for example, is an online forum for “Multiple Sclerosis research, support, and knowledge” (www.thisisMS.com/forum). Multiple Sclerosis (MS) is a genetically inherited autoimmune disorder, affecting the central nervous system. The forum exemplifies biosociality in that it brings people together for no other reason than the fact that they share some biological processes. These people may have nothing in common other than a diagnosis of MS. Can we predict

the same type of communities to start to be formed around shared enterotypes? Will they start to be formed even in the absence of disease, just for the sake of corresponding with others who share your microbial fingerprint? Nature and Culture Lastly, it is useful to briefly touch upon what an anthropology of the microbiome might hold in store for our ideas of nature and culture. Many contemporary anthropologists interest themselves in the arbitrariness of the traditional Western divide between nature and culture (Kohn 2007:5; Hulme 2010:26970). Much like Haraway’s work, examining the nature-culture question is another way of critiquing our ideas of human exceptionalism. In a broader sense, finding the issues inherent in a nature-culture dualism opens the door for critiques of other Western boundaries and dualisms. The mere fact that we have a microbiome begs for a re-assessment of the boundaries of self and other, human and not. And these questions have implications for nature and culture. As scientists begin to identify more ways in which we as a species depend upon the organisms of our microbiome, will this call into question boundaries of humanity (culture) and animality (nature)? Conclusion For this researcher, the discipline proposed by Benezra et al. elicited two initial responses. The first was a recognition of how reminiscent many of their questions are to what is already being researched in anthropology. In other words, the motivation for this research was to draw links between past and current anthropological inquiries with what an anthropology of microbes (or just the microbiome) puts forward. The second reaction was excitement at the numerous and novel paths that more research in this field can lead us down. Hopefully, there will be much more future collaboration between anthropologists and biologists. References: Agamben, Giorgio 2004 The Open: Man and Animal. K. Attell, transl. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press.

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Benezra, Amber, Joseph DeStefano, and Jeffrey I. Gordon 2012 Anthropology of Microbes. Proceedngs of the National Academy of Sciences 109(17):63786381. Canessa, Andrew 2000 Fear and Loathing on the Kharisiri Trail: Alterity and Identity in the Andes. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute NS(6):705-720. Ezenwa, Vanessa O., et al. 2012 Animal Behavior and the Microbiome. Science 338(6104):198-199. Geissler, P. Wenzel 1998 ‘Worms are our life’ part I: Understandings of worms and the body among the Luo of Western Kenya. Anthropology and Medicine 5(1):63-79. Haraway, Donna 2008 When Species Meet: Introduction. In When Species Meet. Pp. 1-42. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Hulme, Mike 2010 Cosmopolitan Climates: Hybridity, Foresight and Meaning. Theory, Culture & Society 27(2-3):267-276. Kohn, Eduardo 2007 How Dogs Dream: Amazonian Natures and the Politics of Transspecies Engagement. American Ethnologist 34(1):3-24. Rabinow, Paul 1996 Artificiality and Enlightenment: From Sociobiology to Biosociality. In Essays on the Anthropology of Reason. Pp. 91-111. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Raffles, Hugh 2010 Jews. In Insectopedia. Pp. 141-161. New York: Pantheon Books. thisisMS.com 2013 thisisms.com/forum, Vol. 2013.

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How Much Context is Enough? The Origins and Exhibition of the S-21 Photographs

Allison Jones Introduction In this paper I will examine the million Cambodians, one-quarter of the origins, content, and exhibition of identification population, were killed in what is known photographs from the Tuol Sleng as the Cambodian genocide (Williams detention centre in Cambodia (The S-21 2004:234). The rise and rule of the KR was Photographs n.d.). This analysis will focus on the tensions between documentary and significantly influenced by international artistic photography, as well as the question powers and events at the time. American of how much contextualization should be bombings in Cambodia created an unstable given for these photographs. I will begin by political situation in the country, which outlining the origins of the photographs and helped the KR gain public support and rise provide a description of them. Then, I will tell to power (French 2002). Once the KR was the stories of their exhibition in three settings in power, Western powers ignored Cambodia (the Tuol Sleng Museum in Phnom Penh, the and the ongoing genocide, and villified Museum of Modern Art in New York, and the the Vietnamese government for invading Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto). I will Cambodia in 1979 (Hughes 2003:25-26). next discuss the theoretical work of Georges The Western distrust of the VietnameseDidi-Huberman, Roland Barthes, Susan backed government meant that “the Khmer Sontag, and Rebecca Stein. Finally, I will Rouge occupied Cambodia’s seat at the United return to the exhibitions to consider how these Nations until 1992” (Royal Ontario Museum theoretical concepts can help us understand 2013:24). Trials of senior KR leaders and the implications of different exhibition others believed to be responsible for the methods for such challenging photographs. most significant violations of national and international law are ongoing in Cambodia today (ECCC 2012). Cambodia Under the Khmer Rouge To begin, I will sketch the context of the Tuol Sleng detention centre, which opperated in Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge (KR) from 1975 to 1979. The history of this period is complex, and much more could be said about it than I will address in this paper. I would like to note a few important points, though, before I begin my analysis of the S-21 photographs. The KR was a communist regime influenced by Stalinist ideology and practices, such as show trials and the use of propaganda (Sischy 2009:22). The KR forcibly instigated an agricultural revolution in Cambodia and relocated the country’s urban population to collective farms. Under the KR, approximately 1.7

The Photographs

The photographs that I discuss in this paper were taken at the Tuol Sleng detention centre, housed in a former high school, in Phnom Penh under the KR. Tuol Sleng (also called S-21) “was one of more than 19,000 execution sites where prisoners accused of treason were interrogated, tortured and killed in an effort to clean the country of suspected political enemies” (Royal Ontario Museum 2013:1). As a part of their arrival at Tuol Sleng, prisoners were photographed, and the photos were added to their personal file; 6,000 of these photographs remain today (Williams 2004:244). It should be noted

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startled, tired, shocked; some are even trying to avert attention from themselves or to smile to win humane treatment from their captors” (Williams 2004:243). A small number of photos deviate slightly from this norm. Some have other people in the background or beside the central figure. Some show mothers holding their babies in their arms or children by their side. Some of the prisoners are wearing chains on their wrists, ankles, or necks. Some document prisoners with clear injuries (bruises, cuts, bandages on their faces), and a few are postmortem photographs taken with the subjects lying on the ground, face-up. Additionally, a number of photos have been damaged and therefore have black spots disfiguring the image. Exhibitions

that these prisoners were at S-21 because they had been identified as ‘enemies of the state’, and were systematically forced to make false confessions (for example to be spying for the KGB or CIA). The photographs taken of prisoners “were integrated as vital components in helping execute the Khmer Rouge’s genocidal operation” (Sischy 2009:9). The extensive documentation of S-21, of which these photos and false confessions formed a part, pointed to the KR’s long-term desire to re-write the history of Cambodia and their regime (Sischy 2009:21-22). More than 14,000 prisoners passed through S-21 under the KR, of which all but 19 died on site or at the Choeung Ek killing fields outside of Phnom Penh (Williams 2004:237). I have decided not to select example photographs for this paper because of the challenges with doing so (ethically, asthetically, politically), which I will explore in greater depth later. Instead, I will offer a textual description of the photos, which can be found online (Cambodian Genocide Program 2010; The S-21 Photographs n.d.). The S-21 photographs are blackand-white mug-shots, taken from the front and usually from the waist-up, and show their subjects (old, young, men, women, children) against a white background. The majority of subjects are wearing plain, dark, collared shirts with an identification number safety-pinned to their front. Many are very thin, collarbones protruding under their shirts. In almost all of the photographs, the subjects are looking directly at the camera, eyes wide. Their expressions vary, and have been commented on by a number of writers. Judy Ledgerwood describes how, “as you walk closer [to the photographs], they become distinguisable as individual people, with expressions: a frown, a smirk, bewilderment, anger, shock, withdrawal, fear, most often fear” (Ledgerwood 1997:84), Paul Williams explains that “prisoners look variously

Before entering into a theoretical analysis of the S-21 photographs, I will describe their exhibition in three different contexts. These descriptions are meant to give the reader a general sense of the exhibition sites, the intentions of their creators, and the experience of visiting them. I will later analyse the significance of these examples in conjunction with theoretical material. The Tuol Sleng Museum, Phnom Penh, 1980 – Present When the Vietnamese army entered Phnom Penh in 1979, they found the city empty. Two photo journalists among them discovered S-21 and photographed the site and the bodies of recently executed prisoners, abandoned beside torture instruments and still-wet pools of blood. In the next few days, further investigation of the site and the discovery of extensive documentation made clear its purpose and scale. Because of the site’s significance, “Vietnamese authorities recruited Mai Lam, a Vietnamese colonel and

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and applied to the Cambodian government to restore and catalouge the photos. When they finished, they were granted rights to 100 of the photos, of their choice, which they printed in a book and took to exhibit internationally (French 2002; Hughes 2003). One of the first exhibitions of these photographs was at the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in New York. This exhibition was widely critiqued, particularly because of the way in which the photos were displayed. Twenty-two photos were displayed. They were located in a smaller gallery, and introduced through a brief text, stating, “When the Communist party, the Khmer Rouge, seized power in April 1975, Cambodia had just concluded five years of a disastrous civil war. Between 1975 and 1979, more than 14,000 Cambodians were held captive in S-21, a former high school in the Phnom Penh district of Tuol Sleng” (Hughes 2003:35). Many commentators felt that this description was insufficient for the photographs (French 2002). Visitor comments, left in the exhibit’s guestbook, can help us understand the experience of visiting the exhibition. Hughes describes these comments as fitting into four general themes: The identification of the sacred or mystical (unspeakable, ineluctable, inexplicable); the identification of the aesthetic (as [not] art, innocent, tragic, beautiful); an intellectual response (more information needed to contextualize the images, more knowledge needed generally); and an explicitly political response (more care should have been taken by the museum, or it should have interfered less; or the exhibition being symptomatic of an apolitical condition at home or in Cambodia/the ‘Third World’). (Hughes 2003:38) In contrast, the exhibit was seen by its

museologist, to archive the documents and turn the facility into a museum” (Williams 2004:237), which opened in 1980. Within its first week open to the public, 32,000 local people visited the museum, many to identify missing family members (Sischy 2009:31). In addition to these Cambodian visitors, “early international visitors were escorted on compulsory tours of Tuol Sleng Museum as a condition of their visa” (Hughes 2008:326). Thus, the museum played two important roles at its founding. First, it was, and continues to be, one of the most prominent memorial sites of the KR regime for Cambodians (Williams 2004). Second, it was a means for the Vietnamese to justify their invasion of Cambodia, “transforming them from foreign invaders into liberators” (Violi 2012:46) in the eyes of international visitors and ideally in the eyes of their governments. The museum has largely been preserved as it was found by the Vietnamese, including the torture rooms and instruments, blood stains, and prisoners’ cells. Some rooms have been rearranged to display the identification photos (covering the walls in rows of hundreds) and paintings by survivors. Initially, all visitors to the museum participated in a guided tour, at times led by S-21 survivors (Hughes 2008:326). For this reason, little information is posted in the exhibits. Over time, these tours have been cut along with funding, but almost no information about Tuol Sleng’s history has been made available in the museum. Visiting the museum is thus, for many visitors, a much more emotional than informative experience (Hughes 2008). The Museum of Modern Art, New York, 1997 In 1993, two researchers visiting Tuol Sleng came across a number of the S-21 photo negatives in poor condition,

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reading reviews of the exhibit a few themes emerge. Commentators note the thought that went into contextualizing the exhibit, “presenting enough information to draw in a Canadian audience while not over-simplyfiing the complexity of what occurred before, during and after the Khmer Rouge regime” (Thomson 2012), the careful creation of space for reflection, which “allows for critical meditation on the exhibition and eases the emotional transition back into the general museum experience” (Smith 2012), and the emotional impact of the photographs, their “power to provoke” (Adams 2012) as “the affective heart of the exhibition” (Glessing 2012). Similar features stand out when reading visitors responses in the exhibition guestbook (Royal Ontario Museum n.d.b).

curator, Susan Kismaric, as “bearing witness to violations of civility and human rights” (quoted in Hughes 2003:37). She considered the un-mediated presentation to be a means to avoid political statements on the photographs (Sischy 2009:71). Royal Ontario Museum, Toronto, 2012 – 2013 From September 22, 2012 to March 10, 2013, the Royal Ontario Museum (ROM) ran the exhibition Observance and Memorial: Photographs from S-21, Cambodia. The exhibit included 105 of the S-21 photos, biographies of a few of the individuals pictured, and other information about the KR’s rise to power, ideology, and goals. In an interview featured in the Summer 2012 “ROM Magazine”, the exhibition curator, Carla Shapiro, describes these materials as “lead[ing] exhibition visitors to ask their own questions—about the nature of violence, about the capacity of humans to be harnessed to commit genocide, and about political activism when gross human rights violations are taking place”, while simultaneously “the exhibition implicitly asks its visitors these difficult questions”. She continues, describing the purpose of the exhibition, “the portraits are being shown at the ROM as witnesses to the atrocities that took place during the Khmer Rouge regime and to bring awareness to the public about this period in our world’s history”. She also comments on the fact that “the photographs were taken to document a process of torture and murder. They were never intended to be displayed on gallery walls”, highlighting the tension between their documentary and artistic qualities (Alvarez 2012:11). Responses to the exhibit largely highlighted these same features. From

Theoretical Understandings When we as viewers look at photographs, we expect, in some way, to understand them. But what is it to ‘understand’ an image? This question is central to the four authors whose work I will explore: Roland Barthes, Susan Sontag, Georges Didi-Huberman, and Rebecca Stein. After considering the insights each author’s work brings to this question, I will evaluate how the exhibits described above facilitate ‘understanding’ of the S-21 photos. Roland Barthes: Three Types of Meaning To understand an image, in the work of Roland Barthes is to appreciate its first-, second-, and third-meanings. We must be aware that not every image has a thirdmeaning. By including appreciation of an image’s third-meaning as a necessary part of ‘understanding’, rather than as something extraneous, I want to imply that for Barthes there is both an intellectual and a strong emotional component to understanding

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example of photos from Nazi death camps, that images may not tell us whole truths, but that they are nonetheless deeply linked to “their phenomenology” (Didi-Huberman 2008:33). Thus, we must recognize that images are representative of the circumstances in which they were taken, and therefore “inadequate but necessary, inexact but true” (DidiHuberman 2008:39), in the sense that they show us some essential part of the situation they were taken in, but do not, alone, tell us everything. He emphasizes that knowing the origins of photographs and the context in which they were taken helps us to connect what they show, specifically, to the stories of which they are a part. ‘Understanding’ an image, in Didi-Huberman’s work, is knowing something of the origins of a photograph, as well as valuing what it shows. Crucial to Didi-Huberman’s work is his insistance, despite the fact that many commentators have argued the death camps are unimaginable, that we must imagine what are often considered unimaginable horrors. To not imagine would be to allow the obliteration of memory that the Nazis had planned. Imagining is both a rejection of the Nazi’s plans, and owed as “a debt” (Didi-Huberman 2008:3) to the prisoners of the camps. This vital process of imagining is facilitated by the images that remain, and relies on understanding these images. Following this line of argument, knowing the origins of the S-21 photos helps us to refute the discourse of the unimaginable and instead remember the horrific history of which they are a part. By deepening our viewing of these images to recognize both the context of their origins as identity photos, taken as part of the interrogation and execution process for prisoners, as well as their photographic qualities, we can move towards understanding them, and imagining the often-termed ‘unimaginable’. Below, I will describe how the exhibition of the S-21

an image in its fullest, imagistic sense. This emotional component, and therefore understanding, depends on accessing the third-meaning. Although Barthes’ focus is on filmstills, his model is also very useful when considering other images. For example, the S-21 photographs show us first-level meanings (information about the prisoners— their state of health, their clothing), as well as second-level meanings (symbolic elements— the identification numbers pinned to their clothes demonstrate their objectification). In addition, looking at these photos is a harrowing emotional experience, and a conflicted one—caught between their almostbeauty and the imminent-horror they convey. This perhaps draws on the third-meaning, that which “cannot be described” and is “outside (articulated) language” (Barthes 1977:61). These three levels of meaning are not contained solely in the photographs, though. Seeing the S-21 photos with no prior knowledge, the viewer may not realize that the the prisoners are often wide-eyed because a blindfold had just been pulled off their eyes, or that they are particularly thin because of severe food shortages during the KR regime. Therefore, one’s ability to access the first- and second-meanings of the S-21 photos is, to an extent, dependent on the viewer’s prior awareness when looking at them. Barthes uses examples in his writing of images in which this prior awareness is not essential to access the first- and second-meaning, and does not assess the consequences of such an instance. I will argue below, using the example of the MoMA exhibition, that experiencing the third-meaning of an image without grasping its first- or second-meanings undermines the process of understanding the S-21 photos. Didi-Huberman: Imagining the Unimaginable

Didi-Huberman argues, using the

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understanding is to examine how the viewer’s privileges may be linked to the suffering of those in the photographs (Sontag 2003:102103). Furthermore, this understanding and reflection may press the viewer to act, to politically respond to the horrors they view. But photographs cannot do this alone— Sontag is clear about that—understanding is a longer process than simply looking. With Sontag’s position in mind, I will consider whether the use of narratives at the S-21 exhibition at the ROM was able to facilitate understanding or action on the part of viewers.

photographs in the Tuol Sleng Museum provides a powerful connection for viewers between the images and their origins, and how exhibitions in other locations convey (or fail to convey) the photos’ origins. Sontag: What’s the point? Susan Sontag’s 2003 book, Regarding the Pain of Others, fundamentally argues that photographs of atrocities do not, alone, lead to understanding. Photographs have powerful emotional abilities to haunt and shock, but understanding comes from narratives and further information and exploration (Sontag 2003:89). The link between understanding and narratives that Sontag identifies helps us to see what ‘understanding’ means in her work, as understanding an image is strongly linked to understanding an experience. Throughout her book, she returns to questions about whether horrific images can be something other than objects of voyeurism, for example by stirring a viewer to action or deep reflection. In the final chapter of her book, she asks whether images can mobilize viewers to actively oppose war, and answers by suggesting that narratives are “likely to be more effective than an image” (Sontag 2003:122) in this task. In this parallel between the power of narratives to create understanding and the power of narratives to instigate action, we see a key concern of Sontag’s book. When we view photographs they do not tell stories, but they invite the viewer “to pay attention, to reflect, to learn, to examine the rationalizations for mass suffering offered by established powers” (Sontag 2003:117). By accepting this invitation, a viewer can address the gaps in their knowledge, and come to an understanding that accompanies their emotional response to the photo. An important part of this

Stein: Disrupting Understanding Rather than elucidating how images can be understood, Stein’s careful analysis of how Israeli viewers see—or do not see—images of violence against Palestinians focuses on how understandings of images can be obstructed. Her work points to two key barriers that inhibited Israeli viewers from seeing, much less understanding, images of Palestinian suffering during the Gaza war of 2008-2009 . The first is the Israeli government-imposed media-ban that prevented journalists from entering Gaza during the first 12 days of the war (Stein 2012:138). The second barrier was that “the dominant Israeli visual field has long been saturated with photographs of Israeli-inflicted violence in its occupied territories, and, as such, Israeli viewers have grown desensitized to such images” (Stein 2012:147, following the work of Ariella Azoulay). When considered more generally, these two barriers point to ways that understanding images can be blocked in other situations. Firstly, as has been also indicated through my analysis of the work of both Roland Barthes and Georges Didi-Huberman, understanding an image can be hindered by lacking access to information, whether that be

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very powerful emotional experience. Violi, in a larger work on trauma site museums, argues that in taking this approach Tuol Sleng invites visitors to participate “in a fully emobodied immersive experience that can be seen as a re-enactment of the traumatic experience itself ” in which they become “a part of the historical narrative itself ” (Violi 2012:51). Visitors’ interactions with the identification photos is a crucial part of this experience, as when looking at them faceon, “visitors find themselves in precisely the same visiual position as the persecutors at the time, gazing at the vicitm from exactly the same point of view, almost as if through the eyes of the persecutors themseves” (Violi 2012:50). When we consider Violi’s argument, Tuol Sleng becomes a powerful site of imagining and experiencing. This indicates that the Tuol Sleng Museum facilitates the type of ‘understanding’ that Didi-Huberman advocates. Interestingly, Hughes also found that visitors to Tuol Sleng were moved by the museum and other experiences in Cambodia to act in response to the suffering they saw (Hughes 2008:327). While there are other aspects of this ‘moral tourism’ dealt with in her work, relevant to the work of Sontag discussed above, this perhaps suggests that these photos were ‘understood’ in a powerful way that politically implicated viewers. Although Tuol Sleng lacks written or spoken narratives to accompany the S-21 photos, I would suggest that the experiential narratives that visitors develop while at the museum are able to mobilize viewers, as Sontag suggests narratives may do (Sontag 2003:122). While perhaps not fulfilling the visitor’s desire for explicitly presented information, the museum does seem to also supply a first- and second-meaning. By walking through the torture chambers and isolation cells of the detention centre,

access to images of Palestinian experiences, or access to the origins of a photograph, or access to some of an image’s context. Secondly, understanding an image can be blocked by ideological frameworks that condition what a viewer is able to see, and “which [render] certain subjects and histories unseeable even when they present within the photographic frame” (Stein 2012:150). When considering the exhibitions of the S-21 photographs, we must assess not only how they assist the viewer in understanding the photos, but also how they disrupt understanding. In my analysis I will attempt to point to where understanding may be blocked explicitly, through lack of access to information, or implicitly, through complicity in dominant ideologies. Returning to the Exhibitions I will now draw together the history of the S-21 photos and this theoretical material, by returning to the exhibitions and concisely assessing how each facilitates ‘understanding’. The Tuol Sleng Museum, Phnom Penh, 1980 – Present Despite being located at the site of the photos’ creation, it may seem that the Tuol Sleng Museum fails to provide information about the S-21 photos’ origins, as the museum lacks informational materials about the KR. Rachel Hughes found, through conducting interviews at Tuol Sleng with foreign visitors, that “tourists generally exit the musuem in a state of confusion. Their desire to know more about Cambodia’s past—in short to be directed in an interpretive project—remains largely unrequited” (Hughes 2008:325). This seems to indicate a failure to contextulalize the images. Yet, Hughes also notes that visiting Tuol Sleng is a

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the way that Didi-Huberman advocates. The exhibition, in the context of a Western art museum, blurred the role of the S-21 photos. They were not presented as documents of a historic event, but “generally received and critiqued as fine art” (Williams 2004:244), and compared to the work of famous photographers. It is also clear from guestbook entries that many visitors were moved by the striking photos, which Hughes characterizes as producing “an affective excess” (Hughes 2003:38). Thus we sense that perhaps a third-meaning, “that of signifiance” (Barthes 1977:54), was powerfully evoked for many viewers. As I identified above, though, there is something problematic about feeling this third-meaning without the first- or secondmeanings. At least one part of this problematic quality is identified by Sontag when she suggests that the emotions evoked by an image, the excess it inspires, are only an initial spark for the process of reflecting on how the viewer’s privileges may link to the suffering of the photo’s subject (Sontag 2003:102103). Certainly, the MoMA exhibit gave viewers no context through which to do this. Viewers were not told how American bombings helped the KR rise to power, or of the slow recognition of the new Cambodian government by the UN, largely influenced by American distrust of the Vietnamese. As Jacqueline Sischy reflects in her analysis of the MoMA exhibit, this type of introductory information “would have radically shifted the reactions amongst viewers who would be forced to consider the political implications of America’s recent history and the photographs of slaughter they are digesting” (Sischy 2003:70). The effect of this lack of context was that the S-21 photographs were not presented neutrally, as the exhibit curator had intended. Similar to the processes Stein describes in

visitors develop a ‘feel’ for what the photos symbolize and show, even seeing many of the precise locations presented in the images. Overall, the Tuol Sleng museum contextualizes the S-21 photos not through written or oral information, but through an imersive experience in which visitors become intimately acquainted with their origins. This experiential relationship is in many ways more powerful than an informational one, and is able to contextualize the photos in a way that fulfils Barthes’ and Didi-Huberman’s requirements for understanding. It also leads to an understanding that is political in its ability to inspire action and refute the discourse of the unimaginable. In an unexpected way, the blocking of informational material that Stein discusses in some ways perhaps opened up new avenues of understanding in an ideological sense. This is shown by the fact that foreign tourists, through the lack of information, express a strong experiential understanding. This may indicate an opening in their viewing capabilities that creates an affinity with the Cambodian ‘other’, rather than a distance created by the informational obstruction. The Museum of Modern Art, New York, 1997 Considering the public response to the MoMA exhibition, both in reviews and in the guestbook, it seems clear that many viewers believed there was insufficient context given about the S-21 photographs. Because of this, it seems that the average American viewer, with no background knowledge about the KR or Cambodian Genocide, could not be expected, when visiting the exhibit, to understand much of the first- or secondmeanings of the photos, or amass anywhere near the amount of knowledge needed about the photos’ origins to understand them or imagine the experiences they represent, in

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in the Toronto area (Royal Ontario Museum, 2013). These stories draw clear links between what happened in Cambodia during and after the KR regime and the lives of Canadians. The audio-accompaniment also discusses the impact of American bombings, international ignorance about the Cambodian genocide, and other facts that further fulfill Sontag’s call for drawing relational connections between sufferings and privileges. The exhibition website also included links to human rights organizations, in the hope that the exhibition “will compel visitors to take a more active role in genocide prevention, and to support those living around the globe who are impacted by wars past and present” (Royal Ontario Museum n.d.a). While it is hard to assess if visitors became involved in these organizations, the exhibition made clear attempts to provide methods for interested individuals to do so. Thus, the ROM made space for understanding to develop, in the sense that Sontag presents it, but we must remember that her definition of understanding is very personal. To develop ‘understanding’ in the sense of deep reflection and action depends significantly on each visitor. The ROM exhibition clearly facilitates understanding in the sense indicated by the work of Barthes, Didi-Huberman, and Sontag. I would like to question in what ways it may block understanding, recalling Stein’s analysis. Informationally, the exhibit is extensive and I would not consider there to be significant informational blocks in its composition. With this information available, ideological blockage becomes the focus instead. The ROM has made significant attempts to overcome many ideological blocks. For example, by linking the local Cambodian-Canadian community to the exhibit, this disrupts a tendency to view the Cambodians in the photos as ‘other’, nonCanadian, historic beings, which is a response

Israel, American viewers’ understandings were blocked both practically (through the lack of information in the exhibit) as well as ideologically (through the reproduction of the idea that being geographically distant, events in Cambodia were also politically distant from the USA). By and large, ‘understanding’, in the senses put forth by all authors considered here, was not facilitated in any significant way by the MoMA exhibition. Royal Ontario Museum, Toronto, 2012 – 2013 Addressing many of the mistakes made in previous foreign exhibitions, the ROM exhibition presented significant context about the history of Cambodia, the KR, and S-21. It also presented biographies of a few of the individuals in photographs on exhibit. This allowed for a deepening of contextual understanding of the photos’ first- and second-meanings, and facilitated the processes of understanding and imagining that Didi-Huberman values. As the curator indicates in her interview (quoted above), this context was intended to encourage visitors to reflect on the implications of the exhibition. An interesting feature of the exhibit’s creation was collaboration with Toronto’s Cambodian community. Many North American and European exhibitions have not thoughtfully responded to the specific needs of Cambodian viewers seeing the S-21 photographs (French 2003), but this is an important consideration in a museum such as the ROM that has a diverse visitorbase. One action they took to address this was to make available a guide for visitors in Khmer (www.rom.on.ca/sites/default/ files/imce/khmer_exhibit_guide_v3.pdf ). The English audio-accompaniment for the exhibition also included life-stories told by survivors of the KR regime who are now living

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1977The Third Meaning. In Image, Music, Text. Pp.52-68. New York: Hill and Wang. Cambodian Genocide Program 2010. Photographic Database (CTS). http:// www.yale.edu/cgp/img.html, accessed April 16, 2013. Didi-Huberman, Georges 2008Images in Spite of All: Four Photographs from Auschwitz. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC) 2012 Introduction to the ECCC. http://www. eccc.gov.kh/en/about-eccc/introduction, accessed April 10, 2013 French, Lindsay 2002 Exhibiting Terror. In Truth claims: Representation and human rights. Mark Bradley and Patrice Petro, eds. Pp.131-155. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Glessing, Jill 2012 Cambodian Genocide Photos at ROM Raise Art Vs. Documentary Difficulties, CanadianArt, November 28, http://www.canadianart. ca/reviews/2012/11/28/photos-from-s21-cambodia/, accessed April 18, 2013. Hughes, Rachel 2003The Abject Artefacts of Memory: Photographs from Cambodia’s Genocide. Peace Research Abstracts 41(1):23-44. Hughes, Rachel 2008Dutiful Tourism: Encountering the Cambodian Genocide. Asia Pacific Viewpoint 49(3):318-330. Ledgerwood, Judy 1997The Cambodian Tuol Sleng Museum of Genocidal Crimes: National Narrative. Museum Anthropology 21(1):82-98. Royal Ontario Museum 2013Audio Description Transcript. Observance and Memorial: Photographs from S-21, Cambodia. http://www.rom.on.ca/sites/default/files/ imce/observance_memorial_audio_transcript. pdf, accessed March 12, 2013. Royal Ontario Museum N.d.aHuman Rights Organizations. http://www. rom.on.ca/en/exhibitions-galleries/exhibitions/ current-exhibitions/observance-and-memorialphotographs-s-21-3, accessed April 23, 2013.

we might hypothesize. But might there be other ideological blocks that ROM visitors bring with them to the exhibition that prevent them from understanding the experiences that the S-21 photos represent? My own position as a Canadian writer certainly impedes my analysis of this question. Thus, I will leave this question open, and encourage the reader to reflect on possible responses. Conclusion Through exploring the origins and history of the S-21 photos, this piece has itself been an attempt to understand and contextualize them. Their exhibition at Tuol Sleng, the MoMA, and the ROM has shown that these photos can be understood in many different ways: as roots of imagining, as art objects, as political sparks, and as a chance to reflect on one’s own experiences. The exhibitions highlight the importance of arguments made by Didi-Huberman and Sontag for history and narratives to accompany images, and the challenges of becoming aware of ideological inhibitions to seeing, of which Rebecca Stein writes. My final hope is that this paper has provided enough context and reflection to allow the reader to feel that they understand something of the history and politics of the S-21 photos, and the tensions that these factors create around their exhibition and their displacement abroad. References: Adams, James 2012At the ROM, Photos Document Cambodia’s Record of Horror, The Globe and Mail, September 18, http://www.theglobeandmail. com/arts/art-and-architecture/at-the-romphotos-document-cambodias-record-of-horror/ article4552080/, accessed April 18, 2013 Alvarez, Francisco 2012ICC: In Conversation. ROM Magazine 45(1):10-11. Barthes, Roland

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The Harraga Phenomenon In Algeria: Between A Liminal Space And A Symbolic Ideal. Noor Said-Abdessameud “Algerians such as myself who do not accept this estrangement from the Arabic language, nevertheless notice it in the deep disquiet which they experience when they try to give expression to their ideas in French, while at the same time they ‘feel’ in Arabic. A state of perpetual divorce is thus established in us, between the head and the heart, and between the intellect and the emotions.”-Ben Bella Once Algeria gained its independence from France in 1962, president Ben Bella marked this new chapter in history by announcing during his inaugural speech at the UN that same year: “[T]he credo of Algeria’s political and diplomatic action will be the liquidation of colonialism in both its classic and disguised forms” . The first Algerian president of the now free nation-state already announced the desire to rebuild a nation that would embody its’ own values and stand proudly. In this paper, I’m interested in the social phenomenon of illegal emigration that came post-independence and post-civil war, where thousands of Algerian individuals risk their lives in order to reach Europe in hope of a better life. I’m interested in the symbolic meaning of the Harraga phenomenon and how it can be interpreted as a concealed quest for a cosmological space and truth. With the search for an identity in post-colonial and post-civil war settings, there is a crisis at the socio-political level, which translates itself in the alienation of the individual with one’s surroundings and with oneself. Postcolonial and post-civil war disorder In 1962, the Algerian regime inherited the administrative bodies that were a product of the French rule. The politico-administrative body of the Algerian nation state was a continuity of French governance, which didn’t operate

smoothly due to internal changes and adaptations that took place in the Algerian context. In his book, “Algérie La Terreur Sacrée.”, Lies Boukra explains how the French model was stripped of its fundamental premises, which constitute the core of the modern French state: such as the basis of the Declaration of Human Rights. The latter is built upon a separation of political powers, political pluralism and a neutral administration. The Algerian system, on the contrary, gave birth to a confusion of powers, a radical one party-rule, and a partisan administration . The malaise finds its’ roots in the complete disenchantment with the political leadership as well as with the leaders’ ability to provide security to the citizens; “Today’s Algeria enjoys large petroleum reserves that drive the economy, but the riches have not trickled down, and disillusionment with the leadership is rife. It is also deeply scarred by a decade-long Islamist insurgency and violence between militants and security forces that left as many as 200,000 people dead. Violence by al-Qaida’s North Africa branch, based in Algeria, still simmers.” An article published in the New York Times and written in 2009 by Yasmine Ryan tells the story of two young Algerian men: Said Osamni and Marwane Belabed.The first risked his life trying to flee the country in order to make his way onto European soil. The second 25-year-old man disappeared at sea and left his family behind. Despite a serious tightening on immigration control by European States and an increase in surveillance measures, the numbers of illegal crossings haven’t lowered, proving that the reality they leave behind is one that is worth the ever-increasing difficulties of illegal immigration. In the article in question, the trip was made by boat, and Mr. Osmani

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Farsioui, head of the Algerian Rally for Youth association. “The young are excluded from decision-making, lost between unemployment, suicide or the Harraga,” . They lack an opportunity to voice their opinions and therefore are prevented from contributing to the construction of the present reality. This transgression goes against a political and religious apparatus that condemns the illegal crossing; symbolically, the burning is also against God for His word is not “enough” to suppress the desire to leave.

and his cousin paid a substantial amount of 60 000 dinars, which at the time equaled $840, in order to be part of a trip with 30 other people. According to a scenario typical in this situation, they burn identity papers and set sail for the unknown. If they are successful in the end, they still risk being deported or arrested because they have no identification. Additionally, because of their illegal status finding a job is even more difficult, having to resort to the black market, having resorted to which they risk being stuck in the cycle of a perpetual illegal state. Even though the Promised Land is finally reached, the reality is much more grim than what was imagined before the departure. If the crossing is unsuccessful, the bodies float at sea or remain unidentified in Italian or Spanish morgues, leaving families in the limbo state without any means of finding out about these persons’ fate.The two men mentioned above are just a part of the thousands of migrants that risk their lives every year and that embody the harraga prototype: a young spirit that is ready to risk his life for a better future out of desperation and frustration with his current country of residence. It represents the failure of the politicians to keep their promise and a failure to live up to the ideal that was envisioned.

The disintegration of a national identity “Islam is my religion, Arabic is my language, Algeria is my nation” – Ben Badis As soon as Algeria gained its independence and was freed from colonial rule, it was time to rebuild the nation-state. A series of unfortunate events unfolded, exposing the hidden mechanisms that triggered the alienation felt at the individual level a generation later. Firstly, the arabization (instauration of the Arabic language in schools, shops and administrations) was carried out in the 1990’s and wanted to react to the colonial past: by demanding that the arabization process take the form of a national language requirement, the separation from the French rule embodied a tangible linguistic form. “[T]he credo of Algeria’s political and diplomatic action will be the liquidation of colonialism in both its classic and disguised forms.” Ben Bella . Under Boumediene,the lingering of the French language was seen as a legacy of the colonial power and dominance; making Arabic the national language was the first step in constructing this Algerian identity, yet the backlash and protests that erupted in Algeria following this arabization process showed the internal differences that were “frozen” during the colonial period. The resistance came mostly from the Berbers and revealed the internal regional challenges. “Many of the Berbers, largely from Kabylia, rejected the Algerian

The burning as a symbolic act Despite the discourse that qualifies this journey as dangerous and almost senseless, there seems to be an entire symbolism that comes into play with the harraga prototype. Firstly, the word harraga is a play on the Maghreb Arabic word harrag that means to burn; hence harraga refers to the collective or those that burn. This burning is a transgression on religious, moral and political levels. “Younger Algerians are increasingly divided between pride in their country’s independence and a sense of betrayal by the succession of army-backed leaders who have failed to give Algeria a democracy and live up to the sacrifices of those who died. “The nation is in the hands of a gerontocracy,” said Rachid

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dolfo dissects the issue of illegal migration and the discourse used amongst the youth, and discovers the multiplicity of registers one uses in order to speak of such an issue. Although her work concerns the Moroccan youth, since the phenomena is so widespread in North Africa, the interpretation can also apply to the Algerian youth. Many express exasperation over the political situation that inhabits the country, the lack of jobs, opportunities, and overall well-being as an individual. The “burning” is first an “individual and political response to a situation of closure, “alienation and injustice” , where the individual in question feels so out of place that the life he’s living is actually a non-life where he has wasted his time and has thrown his existence away. The non-life he has lived so far didn’t provide any form of satisfaction but it also is devoid of any value or recognition. Hence the burning first represents the literal burning and annihilation of the non-life that was lived up to this point, and the transgression to the uncertain other life: the migration creates the bridge between was has value, recognition and dignity, and what is devoid of it. The burning is also done on the individual level, in the sense that during the migration and crossing, he has to burn papers and other pieces of identification, he thus severs ties with his family and his nation, and he is now between the hands of something else, and something bigger than him. What is interesting to note is the typical profile for the one that decides to reach the “other side”. An overwhelming majority of the individuals that cross the border have decent socio-economic standing, where in Algeria they can usually make ends meet or live comfortably, many of them having already been to school and having had access to higher education. Desperation lies in the fact that higher education didn’t enable them to access the life they hoped for or mostly expected, nor did they gain access to resources and facilities that would enable them to grow and prosper. One key aspect in this abandonment of the

state’s immediate decision to adopt an “Arab” political platform and to use Arabic as a prime tool of national unification (a decision that incidentally mirrors the debate over the use of French to unify the nation during the French Revolution)”furthermore “the move to Arabize the populations suggested a political agenda that did not completely map onto the linguistic and cultural realities of Algeria: both because Algerian dialectical Arabic did not exist in a standardized written form, and because there was a sizable Berber population that did not share the notion of a homogenized Arab identity of the people” . The Kabyles were successful in implementing their language at the institutional level, but still continued to voice disagreement over a collective identity that could not be as homogenous as the political project had envisioned it to be. In constructing the Algerian identity, the internal differences made the national identity project blurry and problematic; how does the individual find himself in this Algerian identity if it is inherently broken and is in a crisis? In addition to the problem of language, political Islam in the 1990’s was on the rise, adding to the issue of the national identity; there’s a shift from political pluralism to an ideal of an Algerian state as purely Islamic. “For many advocates of political Islam, the Algerian State had failed to free Muslims from Western influence, and this secular state within the Muslim world remained a symbol of the West’s persistent negative influence “. The Algerian identity of the nation-state is to be built upon everything the colonial power fought against: the instauration of the Arabic language, as well as Islam as a political framework. Reflecting the state’s identity and the ideal that was in mind for its’ execution, the individual finds himself in a state of confusion as to what he really is, and what ideal he must aspire towards.

The one who burns: Socio-economic profile

In her chapter The Burning , Pan-

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to mark the imagination of the Other” . In this desire to create a scar in the imaginary, we can apply this to the phenomenon of the Harraga that seeks to create a tangible mark on a given reality that will be carved in memories.

country lies in the fact that the country failed to live up to the expectations of an enthusiastic people that finally gained their independence in 1962. Moreover, the defeat of the Islamists also led to a bloody civil war, and once this was defeated, it was expected that freedom, peace and prosperity would reign. Out of this failure to “keep a promise” was born a social malaise that still serves as the main reason for why individuals go to such greats lengths to leave their country and their families behind in order to aspire for a better tomorrow. The unemployment in Algeria has become a disturbing and destructive social phenomena; it affects mostly the young Algerians between the ages of 16 and 29, whom represent 60% of the population. Since the unemployment rate is so high, it creates an undesirable climate in which the individual cannot find himself, work towards a goal or have a family. Policy measures failed, and the discontent is exacerbated by the fact that the country is rich in resources but these resources do not benefit the people. Numerous self-immolators followed the infamous example of a Tunisian fruit vendor Mohamed Bouazizi, whose actions sparked the first uprisings of the Arab Spring. During a rally contesting the unemployment in front of the Ministère Du Travail De l’emploi et de la sécurité sociale on February 26th 2011, he declared “Plus besoin de vivre!” ( there’s no need to keep on living!) before setting himself on fire in front of the building . In October of that same year, a 19 year-old high school teenager attempted to set himself on fire after failing his French baccalaureate and ruining his chances to re-integrate into his high school life once again. The recurrent self-immolations, and illegal emigration underline the deep social malaise that has infiltrated Algerian society. What does this form of social contestation reveal? In trying to understand why an individual would want to go through the painful slow death by burning oneself, the Moroccan anthropologist Rita El Khayat notes “There is the desire

Transgression of God Within the phenomena, there’s the presence of the theological that serves as justification and guide. The presence of god is no longer one that helps within the “first life” but must be present within the second life because it is the journey into the unknown; one that is filled with fear and risk. Pandolfo draws the analogy between the migration into the unknown and the Islamic sense of departing, which is the concept of al-hijra. The latter means, “leaving one’s place” in the sense of abandoning, and moving forward and migrating elsewhere. It recalls the prophet’s departure from Mecca to Medina in the year AD 622 as evoked in the Qur’an and in the Hadith. She nevertheless picks up another ethical sense to this departure; since the departure was made in order to avoid persecution of one’s faith, there was a sense of obligation in moving to a land that honors one’s self and enables him to keep his integrity and honor, thus allowing him to live fully his life. In 2007, the Algerian Ministry of Religious Affairs issued a fatwa against those that cross the border illegally. A fatwa is an Islamic religious ruling given by a religious authority; the fatwa can concern juridical matters, and in this case the religious ruling is directly targeting a social phenomena. Would a religious judgment dissuade individuals from fleeing the country? How does this transgression embody a whole new dimension? Clandestine crossing and burning is an act against God himself because it is synonymous to committing suicide. In Islam, only God gives life and it is He who takes it away. In illegal crossing, the individual turns his back on God by not finding salvation in his current state, and

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most importantly, in realizing that God is no longer “enough” and cannot provide him with the joy and freedom he seeks to attain. The transgression of God operates on two levels: a political as well as an individual level. By crossing illegally, the individual is transgressing the political and religious judgment that condemns this crossing because it is considered a suicide and playing with one’s life. Only God has the right to take away life, and the individual, by putting his life at such risk, is trying to appropriate that right and is disobeying God himself. On an individual level, the man that crosses is persecuted for a) wanting to leave and disobeying the fatwa that was promulgated in the political realm, hence being considered a “criminal” in his own country, and b) going towards an unknown where the individual is labeled as “clandestine”, “immigrant” and hence, once again, criminalized and considered to be an isolate. Since there’s a transgression on every end, there is a search and thirst for an elsewhere that first takes place in the mind and imaginary and is later on trying to take concrete form and to become a reality by the physical moving from one place to another, from there “here” to “there” in order for the individual to become “something.” The individual doesn’t feel accomplished and lacks freedom. In the case of the Algerian individuals, the ones that risk their lives are the younger individuals that are turning towards a different ideal, because the ideal that their parents and the previous generation had promised ended up collapsing and failing. Since the promise for an Eden is not possible on national soil, one has to physically detach from the earth as well as from the identity he holds. The ideal they have in mind has its roots in the psyche of the individuals, and the social phenomenon’s execution by the burning and geographic crossing in order to reach this other Eden is the result of a collective cosmological framework that is unfolding.

The harraga phenomenon is part of a larger scheme as there is a shifting between a tangible present reality and an imagined elsewhere. In this sense, the “self ” is in a liminal space between a “here” and “there”, a “past” and “future”, a “know” versus an “unknown”.“I’m facing growing old without ever having had a life,” said Mr. Osmani, who lives in a small apartment with his mother and an adult brother and works odd jobs. The physical reality is one of Mr. Osmani growing old, and working irregular jobs, and while this constitutes his everyday life, the discourse reveals how this doesn’t count as a life in the positive sense: the continuity of this life is nearly unethical. Since he is between “here” and “there”, the liminal space that is created also serves as a channel that enables the expression of a desire and an ideal: this ideal is the product of a mental itinerary that one must follow in a physical reality. There’s a parallel with the concept of Liminality explained by Victor Turner in Betwixt and Between, the Liminal Period in Rites of Passage where the “the subject of passage ritual is, in the liminal period, structurally, if not physically, ‘invisible’” . The individuals in the liminal space is “neither here nor there; they are betwixt and between the positions assigned and arrayed by law, custom, convention, and ceremony” . The Harraga phenomenon can be seen as following the same process as the ritual described by Turner: separation, liminal period, and reassimilation. The separation takes part when the individual breaks the ties with the physical land and sets sail towards a different horizon; the separation puts him out of the “previous” socio-cultural background he came from, and projects him into another realm that he only imagined. He is also separated from God and is now in a liminal period: he is not recognized by the past he left in Algeria since he left his family, and burned his identity on the way, but he also went against the religious fatwa that condemned such actions as they

Shared experience & a collective psychic space

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were equivalent to suicide, therefore making the Algerian illegal immigrant invisible. The illegal crossing and burning severed the umbilical cord that used to unite the self with the physical land and nation-state, he is invisible in the liminal stage because of the distance as well as the “unknown” identity he is to endorse once arrived at his destination, if the latter is even reached. Reassimilation refers to the re-connection with a given community inside a given culture; in the Harraga phenomenon it enables the connectivity with the others that also lost their identity in the liminal state, and the burning and “playing with life” enabled those that “burned” to create a bond since the experience enabled them to share a common reality. We need a shared cosmological framework in order to understand the reality it portrays. In the harraga phenomenon, there is a constant shift between a here and elsewhere where the individual is reactive against his social, political and economic surroundings. This reactive self is an alienated self; he is alienated because of the lack of political representation, in which he can identify and help him restore the sense of dignity as well as of physical attachment. The harraga phenomenon doesn’t encompass individuals that blindly act and rely solely on the feeling of desperation. The latter triggers the intense desire for life that surpasses the fear of death. The burning is the search for an ideal where freedom is the most important factor, the “Other” represents an Eden that could have been reached, but failed to do so on one’s own soil. The voyage to the “other side” embodies the dimension of a calling where one’s duty and dignity is on the line. The Algerian is therefore not stimulated by the eminent fear of death but by the love of life and by his pursuit in capturing that idea. It first stems in his imaginary and transforms later into a form of ethical duty to find one’s self in an exile instead of living a non-life.

Web. 19 Dec. 2013. “ Algeria fetes 50 years of independence from France “Salon.com RSS. N.p., n.d. Web. 22 Dec. 2013. “Ahmed Ben Bella Quotes.” About.com African History. N.p., n.d. Web. 22 Dec. 2013. BALDÉ, ASSANATOU. “L’immolation, Miroir Du Malaise Social Algérien ? - Afrik.com : L’actualité De L’Afrique Noire Et Du Maghreb - Le Quotidien Panafricain. N.p., n.d. Web. 19 Dec. 2013. <http://www.afrik.com/ article25504.html>. BELAYACHI, DJAMEL. “Monde Arabe : Pourquoi L’immolation ?” Monde Arabe : Pourquoi L’immolation ? - Afrik. com : L’actualité De L’Afrique Noire Et Du Maghreb - Le Quotidien Panafricain. N.p., n.d. Web. 19 Dec. 2013. BOUKRA, LIES. “L’heritage De La Periode Coloniale.” Algérie La Terreur Sacrée. Paris: FAVRE, 2002. 55-56. Print. PANDOLFO, STEFANIA “The Burning’ Finitude and the Politicotheological Imagination of Illegal Migration.” (n.d.): n. pag. Print. RYAN, YASMINE “Exodus From North Africa Full of Perils.” The New York Times. N.p., 8 Sept. 2009. Web. 19 Dec. 2013. SOUISSI, FAIZA. “Waiting on a Solution to Unemployment in Algeria.” The Atlantic Post. N.p., n.d. Web. 19 Dec. 2013. SUEUR, JAMES D. LE. “The Rise of Political Islam.” Between Terror and Democracy: Algeria since 1989. London: Zed, 2008. N. pag. Print. TURNER, VICTOR “Betwixt and Between, the Liminal Period in Rites of Passage.” N.p., n.d. Web. 19 Dec. 2013.

References : “Algeria Age Structure.” IndexMundi. N.p., n.d.

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Terrains

Visual Ethnography Georges Papavasiliou

Secrets and Strangers: “Come come! We show you secret place!” So I kicked off my shoes and followed their lead through the murky red water. My mother always warned me about talking to strangers but she never said anything about following them. And so I did. The water eventually ran dry, and once we climbed the top of a small hill, I too had become a secret bearer. Red sand dunes stood before us, as far as the eye could see. The little beach town of Mui Ne, Vietnam had suddenly taken on a whole new colour.

“Are you strong man?” The people of Hanoi in Northern Vietnam are described by Southern Vietnamese as being very direct, borderline rude. This old man seemed to be no exception. “Ya, I think I’m pretty strong.” I said, wondering what he was plotting. “ok, you show!” For a moment, I thought he wanted to fight as he got up from his chair rather quickly. “Sit!” he pointed to the chair. Hesitantly, I sat down and to my suprise, he passed me his bong pipe. “Smoke, then stand. If you stand and no fall, you are strong man.” “What is it? I’m not smoking opium or anything.” “Vietnamese tobacco.” He lit me up, and with a big breath, I took in as big a drag as I could. He took the pipe and said “Stand!” As I stood up, my knees buckled and the world went black. By vietnamese standards, I was no strong man.

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Get a Head, Stay Ahead: An Examination of Trophy Heads among the Wari at Conchopata, Peru Terren Proctor as ritual offerings in general at archaeological sites — and as we shall see, in many Andean sites — as a representation of the assertion of a religious culture, usually indigenous, marking the emergence of new political structures (2010:182). This form of violence, then, is not evidenced by sweeping massacres, but is rather applicable in subduing conquered populations in order to incorporate them into an empire by emphasizing the importance of appeasing a particular god while at the same time thinning the population through ritualistic sacrifice, creating a dynamic of both love for the divine and the ruler who represents the deity, as well as a fear of incurring the wrath of either by failing to obey. The association of the ruling body with the divine is particularly common with regard to empires. Indeed, when looking at a Wari site, it is important to understand the site not only at a local level, but at an imperial level as well. Wari culture spread through the Central and South Coasts of Peru in the Middle Horizon, becoming more expansive than Tiwanaku in the South (Isbell 2010:235). This imperial presence is evidenced in the archaeological record by the presence of Wari iconography, ceramics, and architecture reaching down the coast. Additional evidence of a road system later used by the Inca, suggests the presence of an imperial administrative body controlling trade and transport between the regions (Isbell 2010:237-238; Jennings 2010:1). The uniformity of the architectural style and ceramics outside of this site indicates a far-reaching influence and extensive implementation of an imperial belief system by means of religious iconography on ceramics and buildings throughout the Wari territory of Peru (Isbell 2010). This iconography included

In the Andes, we witness the rise of several empires from pristine states; one of these is that of the Wari, which developed during the Middle Horizon in the Ayacucho basin (Anders 1986:13-14). This paper aims to examine the Wari’s use of ritual violence to maintain control of a growing empire, specifically the phenomenon of human sacrifice and of trophy heads in reinforcing regional power dynamics. Using bioarchaeological evidence, namely osteological data, it will be argued that the trophy heads found at Conchopata are the remains of ritual displays which served to underscore the power of both the local elites and of the Wari state. This will be demonstrated, firstly, through an examination of ritual violence as a means of exerting control over a populace. We will also briefly review the practice of human sacrifice in the Andes, emphasizing the transition from sacrifice to trophy heads. Finally, the site of Conchopata will be used as a case study of state-regulated violence as a means of control by looking directly at the victims, emphasizing specifically the geographical origin, age, and sex of those sacrificed. When referring to violence, it is typical to look first to warfare and militarism. However, warfare is by no means the only face of violence, nor necessarily the most effective in subduing a populace. Machiavelli states, “it is safer to be feared than loved” (2010 [1513]:66); however, fear is much more powerful when it is combined with love, in particular of the divine. In his treatise, On Violence, Žižek explains ritual violence which he calls mythic violence, as holding power over “bare life” (2008:198-199), and demanding of sacrifice in order to appease a divine being in order to better the circumstances of a people or an area, as sanctioned by the local ruler. Dietler also notes the predominance of severed heads

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elaborate warriors wearing trophy heads, as well as various deities dangling ornate trophy heads, indicating the importance of the trophy heads in the ritual practices of the Wari (Tung 2008). This is a common theme throughout Andean archaeology in this period (can the period be defined by a numerical date, or is it just the Wari period?), with trophy heads found throughout South America, acting as both sacrifice as well as warning to those that would rebel. Ritual sacrifice has been found to be a common practice in the Andes throughout the archaeological record, most notably among the Inka, who frequently sacrificed children and adolescents (Tung 2008; 2012; Tung and Knudson 2010). However, ritual sacrifice can also be found much earlier in the record among the Moche, with human sacrifices found in the top of ceremonial mounds such as Huaca de la Luna (Tung and Knudson 2010:45). The practice of taking trophy heads is also found throughout the archaeological record in Peru, and the earliest evidence is found in Asia, where interments were found containing only skull caches dating to around 2000 BC (Proulx 1971). However, this process appears only erratically until the Early Horizon among the Paracas. The Paracas, predecessors of the Nasca culture, took trophy heads as part of a religious, ritual act, with iconography on ceramics and textiles of the time period frequently depicting deities holding trophy heads (Proulx 1971; Verano 1995). The tradition of trophy heads continues into the time of the Nasca, with a greater number of burials found in which the interred was decapitated, as well as caches of trophy heads with the lips pinned shut (Proulx 1971; Verano 1995:210,218). However, it is important to note that the trophy heads retain their ritual and religious connotation through the depiction of trophy heads on urns found at ceremonial sites, containing various offerings (Verano 1995:218). Thus, we might assume, due to their

proximity to the Nasca, that the Wari retained such ideas of the importance of human skulls in ritual and ceremonial practices. Cook was among the first to suggest the presence of human sacrifice at Wari sites, following an examination of ceramic iconography found smashed inside the D-shaped buildings common at many of the sites (Cook 2001). She found that many of the vessels depicted a “Front View Sacrificer” representing a deity, holding numerous trophy heads in their hands. These vessels were not only found smashed, but were located alongside oversized vessels under the floors of the D-shaped buildings, and surrounded by, or filled with, objects of great value such as textiles and miniature turquoise figurines at Pikillacta (Cook 2001:139). This alone suggests that these buildings held a certain ceremonial significance. However, Cook also found that many of the vessels depicted a dome shape visible behind the “Front View Sacrificer” that strongly recalled the shaped of the D-shaped structures, suggesting that these were not only ceremonial places, but the location in which the sacrifices were actually made. Upon further investigation, this theory seemed to be confirmed as painted dots within the iconographic dome corresponded, according to colour, with the interior architecture of the D-shaped structures, which were plastered and painted in an identical pattern (Cook 2001:152-153). After finding a number of ceramics depicting the “Front View Sacrificer” in front of what was clearly the D-shaped structure of Conchopata, Cook suggested that excavations be carried out to determine whether or not human sacrifice had occurred there. It was this astute line of questioning that led to the discovery of the largest known cache of Wari trophy heads (Cook 2001; Tung 2007). One of the most important Wariperiod sites, Conchopata is located just twelve kilometres south from the city of Huari, and was occupied for over five hundred years, from c. 425 – 1000 (Tung and Cook 2006:74). The site consists of an extensive residential commu-

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commingled, making it impossible to re-associate mandibles with crania (Tung 2008:298). The investigation for perimortem (at or near the time of death) and postmortem (after time of death) gives us invaluable information about how the sacrificed people died. Whether the deaths were peaceful or violent gives us an indication of how the trophy heads were obtained: in battle, or willingly given by the victims as a form of divine self-sacrifice. Forty-two percent of the nineteen trophy heads, which were examinable for trauma (had at least half of the calvia intact), exhibited some form of cranial injury. On only one of these individuals was the trauma sustained around the time of death (Tung 2008:300). The healed wounds on the other seven individuals may indicate that they lived a violent life, likely a warrior life, given that their injuries were consistent with those inflicted by sling stones, this level of trauma is not significantly different than the trauma level observable in burials in the residential areas at Conchopata, with cranial trauma frequency occurring in about 23 percent of adult burials, and 29 percent in male adult burials (Tung 2012:184). This suggests that while they may have lived violent lives, it is entirely possible that there was little physical violence involved in obtaining the heads of the sacrificed. Let us turn now to the actual removal of the head. At EA143, Tung’s team recovered three cervical vertebrae, including an axis. While no cut marks were found, there was extensive perimortem and postmortem damage to the bone, which likely occurred during decapitation. However, there is no way to know whether this was the cause of death, or occurred soon enough after the victim was dead that it appears as perimortem damage (Tung 2008:300). There is further evidence for decapitation among the cranial fragments at EA143; chop marks (marks over 2 mm), consistent with a heavy, bladed weapon are present on two of the mandibles, on the posterior ascending ramus, in a pattern that indicates a decapitating blow from behind. In addition, cut

nity with elaborate architecture and many residential burials, as well as evidence of ceramic production. In addition, we find large mortuary precincts, including capped burial cists, and areas that appear to have existed solely for ritual purposes, including public plazas intended for large feasts (Cook 2001:74-75; Tung and Knudson 2008:916). Of most import to us are the ritual buildings, which included three of the aforementioned D-shaped structures, as well as two circular structures. Within one of these D-shaped structures (EA72), dated by radiocarbon samples to between c. 700 – 900 AD, excavators recovered ten of the total of thirty-one trophy heads recovered(repetition of recovered, replace second with “find”) at the site (Tung and Knudson 2008:916; Tung and Cook 2006:87-88). These trophy heads were found within the same context as other high quality artifacts of camelid bones, intentionally smashed ceramic urns bearing depictions of Wari warriors holding bleeding trophy heads, as well as the “Front Face Staff” deity holding a captive whose limbs are bound, and the “Winged Profile Sacrificer” holding other, more stylized trophy heads. Lying on top of all of these, researchers found a fully intact sacrificed camelid, common in Andean rituals even today (Ochatoma and Cabrera 2002:235,237; Tung 2008:297-298; Tung and Knudson 2010:46-47). Within the circular structure (EA143), the team excavated twenty-one individual piles of burned and smashed trophy heads, all within the Southeast quadrant. These were found unassociated with any other goods, and have been dated through radiocarbon samples to between c. 650 – 800 AD, indicating that the two groups of trophy heads were not `contemporaneous (Tung and Cook 2006:87). In order to reconstruct the series of events leading up to and including the actual practice of the sacrifice, it is necessary to examine the skulls themselves for patterns of trauma; to do so, it was necessary to reconstruct them, as all were ritually smashed. Unfortunately, the remains within the D-shaped structure were all

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marks on one-third of the zygomatic bones, as well as on the posterior edge of the ascending ramus, on about half of the mandibles; the combination of these two things might indicate that the masseter muscle was intentionally removed on these individuals (Tung 2008:298299), perhaps to separate the mandible, as they were all found removed from the crania. In order to understand the nature of these sacrifices, as well as further political motivations behind the religious ones, we must look not only at a group of trophy heads, but at the individuals they once belonged to. Of the seventeen adult skulls that for which the sex could be determined, only two were female. Of the thirty-one trophy heads found, twenty-four of these are adults or adolescents, and seven are children; four of the child crania come from EA143, and the other three from EA72 (Tung 2008:300; Tung and Knudson 2010:50-51). While the three from EA72 were too fragmented to determine an age, the trophy heads at EA143 indicated three children between the ages of three and eight, while the fourth was between four and eleven years old. The sufficiently well preserved crania to find cut marks showed patterns of chop marks on the ascending ramus similar to those found on the adult trophy heads, as discussed earlier, and exhibited signs of strangulation and decapitation perimortem (Tung and Knudson 2010:57). In continuing our quest to discover the identity of these people, we look to where they were from. Through strontium isotope analysis, Dr. Tung and Dr. Knudson have been able to approximate the geographic origin of the trophy heads found at Conchopata. The principle of strontium isotope analysis is fairly simple; ratios of the strontium isotopes 87Sr/86Sr vary according to the individual geology of an area (Bentley 2006). The people and animals living in those areas will have the same isotope ratios in their bones and teeth, through the consumption of local water and food. Therefore, the isotope ratios in the bones

of a person will be the same as the isotope ratio in the place that they live (Bentley 2006). Of the adult trophy heads found at Conchopata, five were analyzed, yielding mixed results. Two of the individuals were undeniably local, two were definitely nonlocal, while the fifth individual is a little more interesting. In this victim, the tooth enamel, which is formed between the ages of one and fifteen, indicates local isotope ratios, while the bone fragment taken from the cranium provides nonlocal isotope ratios. This suggests that this individual was raised in the Wari heartland, close to Conchopata, but later spent much of his adult life outside of the area (Tung and Knudson 2008:920). In addition, strontium isotope analyses were conducted on the four intact child crania of EA143, revealing that two had local strontium isotope ratios, while the other two were from outside the Wari heartland (Tung and Knudson 2010:58,61). Finally, we come to the most important question of all: “Why?”. We are not asking why people are sacrificed, for indeed, this question is beyond the scope of this paper, but why this specific group of people were sacrificed at Conchopata. The first interesting thing to note is that there are children present at both EA72 and EA143 (Tung 2008:300; Tung and Knudson 2010:50-51). Given that these group sacrifices were not contemporary (Tung and Cook 2006:87), this means that children constituted an important and consistent part of the Wari sacrificial ritual. What is unclear is how these children came to be sacrifices, though it is possible that being a sacrifice was a voluntary action that was considered honourable. Here we may draw a parallel to what Mario Vargas Llosa wrote in regards to contemporary peoples in the Andes, They didn’t do it out of cruelty, but because they were very devout … It was their way of showing respect for the spirits of the mountains, of the earth, whom they were going to disturb. They did it to avoid reprisals and to assure their own survival … Everything was decided by a higher power that had to be

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won over with sacrifices. (155) The presence of nonlocal as well as local children, none of them showing evidence of cranial trauma perimortem, suggests that they may have gone as sacrifices of their own volition, or at the behest of their families, eager to please the deities and the local rulers. This would also seem to explain the general lack of trauma on the skulls of any of the individuals, most importantly the adult males. Given the extensive healed injuries on the skulls of the adult males, we would expect these individuals to be warriors, and thus likely to defend themselves from capture. However, of the local and nonlocal sacrifices, only one displayed any perimortem cranial injuries. This seems to indicate a lack of resistance on the part of the individual, and makes a violent capture unlikely. The one case of perimortem injury can also easily be explained as an accident, given that it is an anomalous occurrence. While it might appear, then, that there was little militaristic violence involved in the capture and sacrifice of the individuals who were to become trophy heads, we come again to ritual and mythic violence as an important tool in subduing a population. Let us assume for a moment that there was no physical violence involved in the capture of the sacrifices, given the lack of physical evidence for it. It seems an unlikely coincidence that the trophy heads in this case would be almost entirely composed of adult males, at about 75 percent, when derived from the data given by Tung (2008:300). It is logical to assume, then, that there were ceremonial guidelines in place that indicated that a certain proportion of the sacrifices had to be adult males, or that the victims were being selected. The second seems to be a more logical explanation when viewed from a political point of view. In conquering a population, there is nearly always the worry that there will be an uprising. One way to prevent this is by thinning out the number of warriors in a population; as we have already discussed, cranial trauma indicates that all of the adult trophy

heads were likely warriors, given the patterning of the healed wounds (Tung 2012:184). If this were the case, then why not have only adult males as trophy heads? The sacrifice of children is particularly useful when those children belong to elite families. This would explain the presence of nonlocal children at the site of Conchopata; they may have been sent by their families to this ceremonial centre as part of a tribute. Indeed, it would be beneficial to the empire to enforce the ritual sacrifice of the children of local elites, both to remind them of the power hierarchy and prevent usurpation, as well as to lessen the number of heirs present in a particularly powerful group. This careful masking of political prowess behind ceremonial appeasement of deities would have been the perfect way to maintain control of newly formed, as well as already established provinces, assuring that local elites recognized that Huari remained the bastion of power, and young men were not tempted to rise up, nor deny the honour of being sacrificed for fear of angering the imperial rulers, or, more importantly, the deities they loved so dearly. References: Anders, Martha B. 1986 Dual Organization and Calendars Inferred from the Planned Site of Azangaro – Wari Administrative Strategies. (Volumes I-III). Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Anthropology, Cornell University. Bentley, R. Alexander. 2006 Strontium Isotopes from the Earth to the Archaeological Skeleton: A Review. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 13(3): 135187. Cook, Anita G. 2001 Huari D-Shaped Structures, Sacrificial Offerings, and Divine Rulership. In Ritual Sacrifice in Ancient Peru. Elizabeth P. Benson and Anita G. Cook, eds. Pp. 137-163. Austin: University of Texas Press. Dietler, Michael.

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2010 Archaeologies of Colonialism: Consumption, Entanglement, and Violence in Ancient Mediterranean France. Berkeley: University of California Press. Isbell, William H. 2010 Agency, Identity, and Control: Understanding Wari Space and Power. In Beyond Wari Walls. Justin Jennings, ed. Pp. 233-253. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Jennings, Justin. 2010 Beyond Wari Walls. In Beyond Wari Walls. Justin Jennings, ed. Pp. 1-18. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Machiavelli, Niccolò. 1998[1513] The Prince. Harvey C. Mansfield, trans. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ochatoma J. P., and M. R. Cabrera. 2002 Religious Ideology and Military Organization in the Iconography of a D-Shaped Ceremonial Precinct at Conchopata. In Andean Archaeology II: Art, Landscape, and Society. Helaine Silverman and William H. Isbell, eds. Pp. 225247. New York: Kluwer Academic Press. Proulx, Donald A. 1971 Headhunting in Ancient Peru. Archaeology 24(1): 16-21. Tung, Tiffiny A. 2007 Trauma and Violence in the Wari Empire of the Peruvian Andes: Warfare, Raids, and Ritual Fights. American Journal of Physical Anthropology 133:941-956. Tung, Tiffiny A. 2008 Dismembering Bodies for Display: A Bioarchaeological Study of Trophy Heads from the Wari Site of Conchopata, Peru. American Journal of Physical Anthropology 136:294-308. Tung, Tiffiny A. 2012 Violence against Women: Differential Treatment of Local and Foreign Females in the Heartland of the Wari Empire, Peru. In Bioarchaeology of Violence. Debra L. Martin, ed. Pp. 180-198. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Tung, Tiffiny A., and Anita G. Cook. 2006 Intermediate-Elite Agency in the Wari Empire: The Bioarchaeological and Mortuary Evidence. In Intermediate Elites in Pre-Colum-

bian States and Empires. Christina M. Elson and R. Alan Covey, eds. Pp. 68-93. Tucson: The University of Arizon Press. Tung, Tiffiny A., and Kelly J. Knudson. 2008 Social Identities and Geographical Origins of Wari Trophy Heads from Conchopata, Peru. Current Anthropology 49(5):915-925. Tung, Tiffiny A., and Kelly J. Knudson. 2010 Childhood Lost: Abductions, Sacrifice, and Trophy Heads of Children in the Wari Empire of the Ancient Andes. Latin American Antiquity 21(1):44-66. Vargas Llosa, Mario. 2001 Death in the Andes. New York: Picador. Verano, John W. 1995 Where Do They Rest? The Treatment of Human Offerings and Trophies in Ancient Peru. In Tombs for the Living: Andean Mortuary Practices. Tom D. Dillehay, ed. Pp. 189-227. Washington, DC.: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection. Žižek, Slavoj. 2008 Violence: Six Sideways Reflections. New York: Picador.

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Gender Essentialism and Interpretations of the Egyptian Pharonic Tradition: A Case Study of King Hatshepsut Rachael Ripley the bounds of historical possibility, it is important to examine the role that gender has played in these interpretations to determine how far the available information supports or undermines it, particularly because her gender – and the ways she performed it – has been a significant factor in her popularity as an object of scholarly inquiry. The introduction of feminist theory into archaeological interpretation did not initially encourage a critical interrogation of gender roles, and accordingly many scholars continued the tradition of using gender to “reinforce static, natural, and binary representations of gender in reconstructions of the past, and their use in conservative ways in the present,” (Perry 2001: 63). An examination of the material and textual evidence, which situates Hatshepsut within her own historical context, indicates that this popular negative designation illegitimately relies on gender essentialism as an explanatory framework. This dominant interpretation, despite its weak support, has obfuscated evaluations of her accession to the kingship and in her co-regency and misrepresented the evidence. Neither an examination of Hatshepsut’s political choices, nor a review of the roles and substantive power of royal women supports the popular view of her accession as usurpation. She has been cast as a domineering woman who “was already meddling energetically in politics during the lifetime of her husband,” and who robbed her step-son of his birthright when she renounced her regency and proclaimed herself king alongside him (Manchip White 1952: 5). Her ascension is viewed as an illegitimate seizure without precedent that was neither proper nor natural (Manchip White 1952: 2). This view hinges on the belief that in 18th Dynasty Egypt, ruling was a conventionally masculine task in which women did not se-

Hatshepsut was an 18th Dynasty Egyptian pharaoh who ruled from 1473 to 1478 BCE, who achieved unprecedented power for a woman by claiming and wielding the titles and regalia of the pharaoh, a role which had previously been the exclusive purview of men. Arguably, interpretations of Hatshepsut’s reign have been uncritically informed by gender essentialism. This has led to sexist partisanship in the scholarship concerning her political career, which is often designated as comprehensively deviant from tradition. An analytical review of the scholarship concerning the power of royal women in the 18th century, Hatshepsut’s accession, the relations between herself and her co-regent Thutmosis III, and the tenor of her rule showcases the insidious and pervasive effects of an uncritical incorporation of modern cultural assumptions about gender in archaeology’s explanatory frameworks. In reality, Hatshepsut’s rule writ large followed tradition very closely, though she did diverge from her predecessors in two ways which have been provocative to modern scholars. First, no other woman in Egyptian history had claimed the kingship for herself. Second, Hatshepsut was the first pharaoh to represent herself using both masculine and feminine conventions and descriptions in the art and inscriptions of royal building projects. I argue that scholarly reliance on gender essentialism and modern cultural assumptions about gender relations has obscured the historical reality of her political career, and led to the dismissal of positive evidence for gender fluidity within assemblages related to her rule. Interpretations of Hatshepsuthave almost comprehensively designated her as an illegitimate interloper, fundamentally and consistently divergent from the traditional norms of monarchy. While this view is not outside

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riously participate (Mertz 2007: 143). Scholars have argued that when Hatshepsut declared herself king, she was turning the symbolically critical matriarchal role into a substantively powerful role, which caused a radical, if temporary, transformation of the traditional monarchical structure (O’Connor 1983: 219). However, the correlated views that Hatshepsut did not have substantive power before she secured the kingship, and that this action reflected a clean break with the past, are not supported by the reality of the prominent roles and substantial power that 18th Dynasty royal women possessed. This period was ushered in by King Ahmose I (c. 1539-1514 BCE) who, along with his successors, modified the political system by introducing a critical element of maternal descent into the requirements for succession. Egyptian kings had one primary wife and several concubines, though only the children born to himself and his primary wife were considered legitimate Ahmosid heirs. Frequently, the primary couple had only female offspring, and these would be married to male children of the king by secondary partners to legitimate their place on the throne. Thus, the female half of the royal couple possessed in her person the key to rule (Bryan 2000: 218). Hatshepsut herself was the only child of Thutmosis I and his primary wife, and Neferure was the only child born to Hatshepsut and Thutmosis II, which made the kingship available to Thutmosis III, his son (Bryan 2000: 218). Thus, Hatshepsut actually possessed a stronger claim to the kingship than Thutmosis III, in terms of her seniority and heritage. Further, if the king died before a male heir came of ruling age, it was typical for the queen to assume the regency in his stead, and there were even several cases of Ahmosid co-regencies of mother and son. However, these were not as nearly extensive as that of Hatshepsut and Thutmosis III, and the aforementioned co-regent queens kept their initial titlage for the duration (Bryan 2000: 213). The queen’s symbolically potent role was powerfully substantiated by its con-

tingent ownership of the second Priesthood of Amun, which King Ahmose I purchased for his wife, Ahmose Nefertari. This meant that the temporal possessions of the premiere deity were under the direct control of this and all subsequent 18th Dynasty queens (Bryan 2000: 210). Furthermore, 18th century queens stood closely to their counterparts in matters of state and war, exercising direct influence over her husband and heir presumptive, and even commanding a personal body of troops (Redford 1967: 65). Clearly, Hatshepsut’s power prior to her accession was both symbolic and substantive, being that she was the foremost heir to the Ahmosid line and queen regent for Thutmosis III until he reached ruling age. Despite the high level of power sharing, equity, and visibility among male and female co-rulers, Hatshepsut’s accession to the throne is uniformly cast as a wholesale rebellion against tradition. Evidently, Hatshepsut continued some traditions while adapting others to suit her particular needs. We must keep in mind the fact that Thutmosis III was king alongside Hatshepsut in fact and representation; he was neither deposed, nor denied his birthright. The tradition established by her Ahmosid ancestors was not broken from on a fundamental level. Because she reigned unchallenged for twenty years, it would appear that these modifications to tradition – particularly that which she made in her accession, and those subsequently involved in its maintenance – were not outside the bounds of acceptability in ancient Egyptian society. In Hatshepsut’s program of legitimation, she capitalized on her official role as God’s Wife of Amun, and its economic holdings, as well as her Ahmosid descent (Bryan 2000: 222). During her regency, she drew on her marriage to Thutmosis II as the source of her legitimacy to rule in Thutmosis III’s stead, but during her co-regency as king she elected to highlight her relationship with her parents, Thutmosis I and his first wife, which reinforced her legitimacy through heritage and divinity (Bryan 2000: 228). All of these

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structural principle in gender relations. It is arguable that there has been a transposition of modern gender stereotypes concerning the natural, appropriate roles of men and women into history in that they represent a pillar of the accepted interpretive framework for Hatshepsut’s rule. Scholars have emphasized the ways that her reign was inconsistent with tradition, and these interpretations have been mobilized in a partisan fashion to cast her as an illegitimate ruler who usurped the throne. The de-emphasis of the ways in which Hatshepsut’s reign was consistent with tradition indicates that the accepted view has achieved its dominance through congruity with modern conceptions about acceptable male and female roles, rather than through synchronicity with the available evidence. The influence of gender essentialism is also perceptible in the traditional arguments that Hatshepsut’s relationship with her co-regent Thutmosis III, and her political choices in her role as pharaoh, were antagonistic departures from tradition. Despite the fact that she did not usurp the throne, nor did she rob her stepson of his birthright, the standard assessment of their relationship requires reevaluation. The traditional view of Hatshepsut wresting authority from Thutmosis III has led to the characterization of the latter as bitter and hateful toward the former (Davies 2004: 55). This narrative characterizes Hatshepsut’s co-regent as a virile, energetic man, whose martial spirit reacted to sharing power with hostility (Manchip White 1952: 5). This has been the premier interpretation of the evidence, which primarily consists of statuary, reliefs, and inscriptions that refer to either, or both together. It is argued that this evidence points to an uneven balance of power, with Hatshepsut at the helm, including Thutmosis III as a mere courtesy (Dorman 2006: 47). The language used to describe the relationship between these individuals is laden with stereotypes and assumptions about the natural relations between men and women, and the

were traditional political tools at her disposal, which were employed to convey the appropriateness of her rulership and its continuity with the past by emphasizing the ideologically entrenched symbiotic relationship between the royalty and the pantheon of gods; the theological doctrine of royal women as a repository of power; and the traditions established by the head of her dynasty (Redford 1967: 71). By employing principles of queer theory, and looking at how early gender theory was applied in archaeology, it is possible to understand how the unsubstantiated perspective of Hatshepsut as heretic iconoclast in her accession to the kingship has achieved such influence. Thomas A. Dowson argues that archaeology is social practice that assists in sustaining, justifying, and legitimating the dominant values of capitalist Western society, and functions by giving a timeless quality to modern institutions such as the family, private property, and the state by inscribing them on past societies. This process also involves the non-critical transposition of modern gender roles into the past, thereby establishing the ‘validity’ of gender essentialism and legitimizing binary, static, and narrow thinking about sexual identities (Dowson 2006: 278). Arguably, the hegemony of heterosexuality in Western culture has played a part in scholarly interpretations of gender roles, and is visible in the privileging of judgments that Hatshepsut’s regency and accession were consummately aberrant to Egyptian tradition. Furthermore, archaeologists have traditionally taken as axiomatic the “universal asymmetry in cultural valuations of the sexes … [wherein] women everywhere lack generally recognized and culturally valued authority,” (Rosaldo 1974: 17). The opposition between ‘domestic’ and ‘public’ as female and male designations respectively, was taken as a valid, universally applicable interpretive framework for gender relations. In reality, this designation began with the Industrial Revolution in the West, and developed rapidly in the 18th century; it has never been a universal

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uncritical acceptance of these as explanatory tools has resulted in a failure to interrogate the role of gender in the available evidence. The initial incorporation of feminism into archaeological interpretations of gender tended to stereotype male and female identity and sexuality, often producing a “straw man” foil for critique (Alberti 2002: 89), and this appears to have happened in assessments of Thutmosis III. Some revisionist work has been undertaken in the analysis of this 18th dynasty co-regency. Against the accepted position, it has been argued that because Hatshepsut was directing the affairs of the state, and was personally involved in the artistic program, that the artistic representations of the co-regents indicated how she intended their relationship to be perceived. In her artistic program, Thutmosis III was consistently represented as powerful, and referred to and depicted as pharaoh in both name and practice. Both regents were depicted in the traditional garb and postures of the head of state. Furthermore, the traditional interpretation of the images in which Thutmosis III appears behind Hatshepsut as indicating an unequal balance of power have been reassessed through placing them in the context of the conventions of Egyptian art, in which such positioning typically accentuated equality (Davies 2004: 62). The view that men and women are naturally related through antagonistic and unequal power relations has clearly impacted interpretations. Further, the presence of dated objects associated to both regnants and Thutmosis III alone, and the lack of dates and inscriptions associated exclusively with Hatshepsut’s reign, has been used as evidence to indicate that Hatshepsut was the most powerful of the pair, and that the deviance of her reign could be referred to only obliquely, if at all (Dorman 2006: 53). In reality, the opposite possibility is equally tenable if drawn from this evidence; that Thutmosis III was really in charge, and included Hatshepsut as a mere courtesy. The available information, while not absolutely illuminating the relationship

between the co-rulers, at least indicates that there was no exceptional imbalance of power or hostility between the two. The force and rigidity of binary gender roles in modern scholarship has led to partisanship within the interpretation and presentation of the evidence. The generally alienating assessments of Hatshepsut as an historical figure have been fundamentally buttressed by gender essentialism, which is apparent in the standard assessment of her rule as totally divergent from her predecessor and successor in terms of its pacifism. She has been labelled a female pacifist who neglected the imperialist vision of pharonic Egypt (Manchip White 1952: 5). Hatshepsut’s actions have been assessed as indicative of an intentional policy of isolationism and non-aggression, and she has been labelled a matriarchate whose feminine nature prevented her from meeting Egypt’s imperial needs (Redford 1967: 63). Scholars have even gone so far as to explicitly dismiss any evidence of her involvement with military activities based on her reign’s “overwhelming impression of peace when considered alongside that of Thutmosis I and Thutmosis III,” (Mertz 2007: 161). It has been concluded that Hatshepsut was either disinclined or unable to undertake military engagements, and that as Thutmosis III was her competitive underling who had a natural talent for warfare, it would have been unwise for her to have him lead expeditions and potentially win the favour of the troops (Manchip White 1952: 4). A recent reassessment of the oft-dismissed evidence of Hatshepsut’s involvement with the military has shown that there is clear-cut support for at least four official campaigns undertaken at her direction. She personally led at least one of these, and Thutmosis III was prominently involved in several. Furthermore, it was a wellestablished tradition for pharaohs to undertake brief periods of military engagement at their accession, which indicates that Hatshepsut was well within the norm (Redford 1967: 62). The persistence of the principles of androcen-

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trism, which were uncritically reversed after the introduction of feminist critique, led to the concomitant persistence of one-dimensional and rigidly dual stereotypes about men and women in archaeological interpretation. The genders become movements and actions in themselves, like peace and war. However, to understand gender systems that differ from our own in time and space, a critical analysis of masculinity and femininity both must be incorporated to provide as much fidelity to the evidence as possible (Skogstrand 2011: 65-67). The nature of Hatshepsut’s power; her relationship with her co-regent; and the tenor of her political program have consistently been the cruxes upon which interpretations of her reign as deviant have lain. A critical analysis of the available evidence and dominant interpretations indicates that there has been a comprehensive projection of gender essentialism in related modern scholarship. Her career was sufficiently within the bounds of acceptability to persist for twenty years without incident, and is run through with evidence of adherence to tradition. The modern Western views that men and women cannot share power equally; that men’s purview is politics and women’s is the home; and that gender roles are the products of an essential, biological nature have obscured the historical reality of Hatshepsut’s actions and reign. This particular Pharaoh has staying power in academic and popular imagination partially because she has been depicted as an archetypical iconoclast, which we have cause to doubt, and primarily because she did break with tradition in two ways. First, she exchanged the title of Queen for King, and claimed an equal position alongside King Thutmosis III sometime between Year 2 and Year 7 of his reign. This had never been done before, by a man or a woman. Second, after she claimed the kingship, Hatshepsut directed the builders and artists in her employ to depict her as a male in traditional pharonic attire and masculine postures in royal building

projects. However, there was an interim period that never completely ended in which she was depicted and described with varying combinations of masculine and feminine traits and language, which was an experiment with the traditional conventions of artistic depiction of royal men and women that previous pharaohs had not undertaken (Dorman 2006: 52). Hatshepsut’s lack of representational gender fixity has been a source of negative anxiety for modern scholars, though it apparently did not range outside the bounds of acceptability drawn by ancient Egyptian culture. The nature of the widespread Egyptian worldview was such that she had opportunities to adapt traditions and norms within established boundaries, and the longevity of her reign indicates that she did not exceed these. Speaking in terms of the mythology and ideology articulated by the royal family, the tradition had not been altered on a fundamental level since the first dynasty. In brief, the Egyptian world-view was based on the concept of an immutable world order established by a creator God, and royal acts had to be represented as in accordance with this universal order to maintain a harmonic balance in society (O’Connor 1983: 186). Hatshepsut did this in that her post-accession propaganda involved a mythological origin story in which Amun and her father Thutmosis I designated her to become pharaoh immediately after she was born, which had the tripartite effect of legitimizing her accession, emphasizing her Ahmosid heritage, and highlighting her direct connection to the pantheon of gods, which many previous pharaohs had also done (Bryan 2000: 222). The government’s authority was based on its antiquity and supernatural implications, which Hatshepsut creatively integrated into in her regime of legitimation. It was possible for the royalty to be innovative, but their changes to the country’s administration could only adapt, rather than fundamentally alter, the traditional order (O’Connor 1983: 189). Greg Reeder’s study of the tomb of Niankhkhnum

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and Khnumhotep is an excellent case in point concerning the superficial adaptability of the Egyptian worldview in artistic representations. These two men were married to women with whom they had children, but they were depicted according to the conventions of conjugal intimacy, a style typically reserved for heterosexual couples. While the traditional stylistic ideal of conjugal postures was followed, the subjects were adapted from a man and a woman to two men, indicating that the strict representation of binary gender roles and heterosexuality were not inviolable lynchpins in the Egyptian worldview (Reeder 2000: 205-207). “Historically of great importance [to the ancient Egyptians] was the concept of ma’at – the appropriate arrangement of the universe and human affairs … Centuries old by the time of the New Kingdom, [it] was a crystallization of a myriad of religious and secular ideas, and its continuity depended on their continuity.” Through this pervasive worldview, the continuous prosperity of the country was explicitly tied to the continuity of the kingship, whose significance allowed for some alteration within acceptable limits (O’Connor 1983: 194). The high level of import accorded to the appearance of correct behaviour could perhaps shed some light on Hatshepsut’s decision to be represented in traditionally male modes. Given that the pharaoh had historically been depicted as male, perhaps it made sense for Hatshepsut, who personally possessed the power and authority of the previously exclusively male role of pharaoh, to represent herself according to the reality of her social role rather than the dictates of art conventions concerning gender roles. This perspective is informed by Judith Butler’s theory of gender performativity, which considers gender as a role that is performed by individuals through the enactment of citational precedents, that is, a prior set of practices involving gestures, postures, dress, and actions associated with different roles. Through the repetition of these practices, the appearance of ontological integrity is

developed over time. In their performances, individuals embody a cultural discourse which has the effect of calling into being that which it names; that is, it allows for the enactment of male, female, or other gender roles (Alberti 2002: 95-96). Arguably, the domain of the abject for the ancient Egyptians was not gender, as is the case in modern Western society, but the violation of ma’at. Thus, it was more important to be represented according to the practices associated with one’s lived reality than one’s gender; the former was a more significant determinant of identity than the latter. Being that Hatshepsut’s life involved the performance of traditionally masculine roles, it was perhaps more appropriate for her to depict herself according to the reality and conventions of that performance, rather than according to the traditional performance criteria for femininity. Her representation of herself in her building projects and legitimation campaign had the effect of recursively producing and enforcing her identity and power as pharaoh through the use of masculine images and words, which was acceptable to Egypt’s populace despite its frequent combination with feminine traits and descriptors, and unusual application by an initially female-identifying individual. It may be possible to claim that in ancient Egypt, there was a permissiveness toward gender fluidity, and perhaps even multiplicity. Reliance on gender essentialism in the interpretation of Hatshepsut as an historical figure has led to evidence discordant with our binary conception of gender identity to be dismissed as anomalous, chalked up to confusion amongst ancient artists and modern scholars, or used as evidence to forward the deviance view of her reign. Hatshepsut maintained a high level of direct involvement with building projects, and it would be careless to claim that there was a low level of her intentionality conveyed in the depictions of her. Further, there was a standardized formula and convention for the depictions of royalty that did not permit deviations, particularly in the case of represent-

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ing rulers, who had to be shown as ideal types (Mertz 2007: 143). While it was certainly possible for accidents to happen, there are a series of representations of Hatshepsut which have been dismissed as anomalous mistakes because they combine masculine and feminine traits and language. Hatshepsut’s depiction in her divine birth scene, which was part of the origin propaganda she espoused after she became king, shows a male baby; scholars refer to this as an accidental slip on the part of the workers (Manchip White 1952: 7). The masculine and feminine grammar used interchangeably and variably over time for Hatshepsut has been attributed to a retrospective confusion that is likened to that of modern scholars in their efforts to understand the gender dynamics of ancient Egypt (Davies 2004: 61). Depictions of Hatshepsut that combine masculine and feminine traits have been assessed as steps in the process of representing herself as completely male, and are seen as the product of uncertainty in how to best represent her power to the people (Dorman 2006: 58). The fact that the designation of ‘queen’ was never entirely given up, and that feminine descriptors were always used in her inscriptions to some extent, has been used as evidence that she was always viewed as an interloper as long as she reigned; as someone who did not belong in the place she had taken (Redford 1967: 55). These assessments have too quickly dismissed this data as the product of error, and that Hatshepsut intentionally had herself depicted with various combinations of male and female indicators because, as argued earlier, the Egyptian worldview was not premised on a rigid conception of gender duality. Rather, there was a degree of gender fluidity, and it may have been possible for individuals to simultaneously perform and maintain multiple gender identities relating to their social positions and roles, which Hatshepsut intentionally had depicted. Arguably, Hatshepsut never entirely intended to move to an exclusively male representation

of herself in art and writing, but intentionally selected from a host of masculine and feminine citational precedents, which most accurately represented her current instantiation. Here, there is evidence for adaptations in terms of the subjects depicted, but the formulae and conventions of art received fidelity. It has been shown that the standard narrative of Hatshepsut’s political career has been founded on gender essentialism, which has led to a partisan treatment of the evidence and cast her as an outsider who was never fully accepted as a ruler because of her deviance from tradition. The attitude of sensationalism taken toward her modifications of the Egyptian monarchy that were incongruous with the masculine ruling tradition has led to a de-emphasis of the many ways in which she adhered to it, and a wholesale misrepresentation of her reign as non-normative. Hatshepsut’s unprecedented decision to take on the pharonic titlage, regalia, and rule, and to co-minister the country with her stepson Thutmosis III, provides an exciting opportunity for the critical examination of the performance and importance of gender roles in ancient Egyptian culture. Drawing on tenets of queer theory and Butler’s theory of gender performativity in the analysis of assemblages related to her rule, it is possible to make claims about the role of gender within the greater Egyptian worldview. The acceptability of Hatshepsut’s modification of the rules of succession, spoken to by the longevity of her reign, indicates that rigid gender binarism was not necessarily a critical structural principle of society. Gender was a fluid element of identity, which was more fundamentally associated with, and depicted according to, the lived experience of individuals. References: Alberti, Benjamin. 2002 Queer Prehistory: Bodies, Performativity, and Matter. In A Companion to Gender Prehistory, Diane Bolger (ed.) Pp. 86-107. Hoboken:

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Johnn Willey & Sons Inc. Bryan, Betsy 2000 The 18th Dynasty before the Amarna Period (1550-1352). In The Oxford History of Ancient Egypt. Pp. 209-237. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Davies, Vanessa 2004 Hatshepsut’s Use of Thutmosis III in Her Program of Legitimation. Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt. 41: 55-66. Dorman, Peter F 2006 The Early Reign of Thutmose III: An Unorthodox Mantle. In Thutmose III: A New Biography. Pp. 39-61. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Dowson, Thomas A. 2006 Queer Theory Meets Archaeology: Disrupting Epistemological Privilege and Heteronormativity in Constructing the Past. In The Ashgate Research Companion to Queer Theory. Noreen Gifney and Michael O’Rourke, eds. Pp. 277-294. Surrey: Ashgate Publishing. Manchip White, Jon 1952 The Reign of Queen Hatshepsut. History Today. 2(12): 1-10. Mertz, Barbara 2007 Temples, Tombs, and Hieroglyphs: A Popular History of Ancient Egypt 2nd ed. Pp. 143-167. New York: Dodd, Mead O’Connor, David 1983 New Kingdom and Third Intermediate Period, 1552-664 BC. In Ancient Egypt: A Social History. Pp. 186-218. Cambridge: The Cambridge University Press. Perry, Elizabeth M. and Rosemary A. Joyce 2001 Interdisciplinary Applications: Providing a Past for “Bodies that Matter”: Judith Butler’s Impact on the Archaeology of Gender.International Journal of Sexuality and Gender Studies 6(1-2): 63-76. Redford, Donald B 1967 History and Chronology of the Eighteenth Dynasty of Egypt 1st ed. Pp. 55-87. Toronto:

University of Toronto Press. Reeder, Greg 2000 Same-sex desire, conjugal constructs, and the tomb of Niankhkhnum and Khnumhotep. World Archaeology 32(2): 193-208. Rosaldo, Michelle Zimbalist 1974 Woman, Culture, and Society: A Theoretical Overview. In Woman, Culture, and Society. Michelle Zimbalist Rosaldo and Louise Lamphere, eds.Pp. 17-42. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Skogstrand, Lisbeth 2011 Is Androcentric Archaeology Really About Men? Archaeologies 7(1): 56-74.

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Photographs from the field: Bali & Morocco

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Jehane Yazami :

Bali

“I traveled without my parents for the first time when I was seventeen years old. I was accompanied by one of my dearest friends. We felt the thrill of walking down the streets of Bali with a new sense of grateful liberty, and felt touched the coupling of flower and incense, smoking in front of doors, offered to the Gods. We found our way to sugar cane fields, ocean nights and sacred temples. One afternoon, in Ubud, we saw a man with a clenched back and introverted abdomens making his way through the street very slowly. He entered a narrow alley between two homes, covered by leaves from all sides. Silently, we followed him, and realized we were entering his home, his world. His wife was walking down the steps of their deteriorating habitat, her collar bones rising to her chin. Slowly they walked besides each other, small but precise, towards the back garden, and with her moon curved upper torso she hung her clothes on a wire line. We stood there so close to her, but she did not notice us. And there I experienced some of the most magical minutes of my life, standing invisible, barely breathing, observing chickens run against this woman’s legs, as she made her way into the royal green alley”.

Morocco “My father and his ancestors originate from Morocco. Despite having visited the country many times, it is a place that I feel, but that remains unknown to me. My family lives in Casablanca, and most of my visits involve walking through the city’s tinted streets, or sitting around a circular table with family members, sharing a majestic meal from the same earth platter. Three years ago, my father brought me for the first time to Fez, the city where my family originally comes from. We made our way through a souq and were guided by a young boy to a leather tannery. Circular shapes of different shades, longing odors, tangerine skies. Something haunting about a job in which the body dips into coloured circles all day; from the cow to the skin, from the skin to the dye. I took my camera out of my green leather bag and let myself drift”.

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Efat Elsherif October 26th, 2013.

graffiti, could be seen from where I was standing. The alley is a shortcut to the metro station (Lionel-Groulx) and is positioned right next to the brown building and the bench on which the seniors were seated. As time passed, a guy with long red locks and baggy jeans emerged form the sketchy alley, followed by his friend, mirrored in his style, who was yelling ”it’s sunny man, finally!” Both casually passed in front of the seniors, who only seemed to stare blankly, exchange glances, and smile to each other without speaking a word… their sunny smiles masking inner memories and emotions, just like the windows of the brown building which were masking the hidden and the unknown. The seniors suddenly shifted their eyes on me, probably wondering why I was taking notes. Once again, they did not speak a word. So many thoughts racing through their minds, yet not a word was spoken. The only thing I could hear was the loud construction on a parallel street. I felt deafened by the near silence! Their blank stares on me added to the feeling of unease and discomfort I was already experiencing. Was I an outsider to them? Or was I part of them? And if I was an outsider, why were they smiling? What was so pleasant about a teenager who was taking notes? It was the feeling as though the seniors, the bench, and I were the only ones remaining on the planet. I was freezing and the first feelings of unrest started crawling on me, compelling me to return home, when another teenager emerged from the alley. This time it was a girl, with a brown ponytail, a black skater skirt, and a red Hershel backpack. The girl’s movements were performed with energy, youth… life… And then it hit me. All this time I had been staring at a reflection, with the bench assuming the role of the mirror, separating the young from the old, the energetic from the fatigued, and the

The sun was encompassing the Lionel-Groulx area, shedding its direct light over the bus stop, where I was standing; heavily hugged by my winter jacket and layers of warm winter clothing. It was dispassionately cold and I could feel the cold climbing to my spine. The sky was as grey as the cracked grey pavement I was standing on. Upon looking around, an immense brown building with two beige columns on the side caught my eye. The building was jammed with opaque black windows, reminding me of obsoleteness, of mysteriousness… of things we cannot see in our world. Right in front of the brown building lay an old wooden bench, which, ironically enough, resembled the brown building: the bench was wooden (dark brown in the middle) with two cement columns on the sides. The bench rested on a green front yard that was garnished with dry yellow leaves, and surrounded with trees that were lacking life. The smell of fertilizers was so strong, that it vexed me. The bench, the building, and the trees all faced a quiet, deserted street. Three seniors were sitting on the bench: a man, wearing beige pants, a dark blue winter jacket with two red stripes on the shoulder; and two women: one with black pants and a blue coat that matched her blue hat, and the other wearing a white pullover and grey pants. The three of them possessed blinding white hair and their faces were painted on with wrinkles. It was conspicuous that all three of them could not have been younger than 70 or 80. The seniors were staring blankly at the deserted street that lay in front of them. They barely spoke, yet were seated unusually close to each other. In a way, they gave me the feeling that they felt relatively comfortable with each other. A sketchy alley, jammed with blue

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experienced from the amateur. With the dying trees, the deserted cracked grey pavement, the seniors and the bench on one side; and the girl with the red backpack, the cars and I on the other side, the contrast was immense. I was not sure if I should pity the seniors or view them as my role models for having a history of experience that was able to sedately mute them. It was as though they had nothing more to witness, nothing more to hear, nothing more to say; only blank stares and deeply anchored memories. I was looking at myself 60 years from now. I could not bear it any longer. I could not look at them. The silence vexed me further until I stood up and walked towards the sketchy youthful alley. Upon travelling to and from the field I was obliged to walk through the alley. The alley, unlike the deserted street with the bench, was loud and lively. Two young men in hoodies were leaning against the graffiti sprayed wall; staring at me. Their stares, however, were full of life and expression, full of transparency as though one could see right through them; this stood in contradiction with the blank stares of the seniors and the opaque windows of the building. Today I am in the sketchy alley; tomorrow I will be sitting on the bench.

on the one side and the teenage girl with the ponytail on the other, I realized that we will all age someday and will not have the ability to stop it. This was the core of my uneasiness. Paul Rabinow, with his strong attachment to nature and the way he was immensely descriptive of nature in his book “Reflections on Fieldwork in Morocco” has really inspired me while writing this paper. Initially, Paul Rabinow was struggling to comprehend the behaviour of the Moroccan people. Only when he decided to live like the Moroccans and not like a tourist; to empathize with them and be in their shoes, was he able to understand their lifestyles and their behaviour, and thus “reflect”. This was the base of my paper. One thing I have learned from this exercise, and from Rabinow, is that observing a field is not enough. There is an immense difference between hearing and listening, just as there is an immense difference between looking at someone or something and looking through someone or something. Upon first glance at the seniors, one would easily view them as uninteresting and boring. Only by listening to them, by empathizing with them, and by being them, was I able to understand their behaviour and thus reflect. I came to the conclusion that the seniors were not boring, on the contrary actually, they were too interesting and full of experience to the extent that they had nothing more to say. Once again… today I was in the sketchy alley; tomorrow I am on the bench.

Rationale Upon observing the three seniors, the feeling of uneasiness and discomfort kept elevating in me, until I decided to leave. Uncomfortable was the feeling that I was looking at myself in a few years from now, yet could not relate. Was I part of them? Or part of a completely different world? I have not travelled to see another culture, to observe different traditions and rituals; I have only forwarded time and observed. The mixture of dead and alive, of old and young, of energetic and fatigued elevated my confusion to the maximum. We, humans, have the ability to control many things; however, we will never be able to control our aging. Looking at the seniors

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THank you for reading Fields/Terrains ! ______ Merci dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;avoir lu Fields/Terrains !