Laurier Undergraduate Journal of the Arts

LUJA 2014

LUJA

Laurier Undergraduate Journal of the Arts

/LaurierLUJA @LaurierLUJA LUJA.CA

Front cover photo: Vivian Chow

LUJA

Laurier Undergraduate Journal of the Arts

Š 2014 by CICDA. All rights reserved DAWB 5-109 75 University Avenue West Waterloo, ON N2L 3C5 No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of CICDA. Contact: cicda@wlu.ca

Contributors

Management Board:

Editor-In-Chief: William Webb Chairperson of the Management Board: Kevin Gerlach Communications Director: Connor Young Creative Director: Katherine Bourdeau Secretary and Treasurer: Laura Geggie Faculty Liaison: Mike Connors

Editors and Reviewers:

Vanessa Cormier

Kevin Gerlach

Natalia Handziuk

Jessica McGinn

Emma Pietropaolo

Keevan Robertson

Patrick Schertzer

Becca Silver

Pavan Virdee

Connor Young

Special Thanks:

Dr. Michael Carroll Dr. Michel Desjardins Dr. Mercedes Rowinsky Nick Balbiani Tom Ebeyer Kate Terrio The HUB

Funding Provided By:

Council for the Intellectual and Cultural Development of the Arts

Table of Contents Introduction

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A Mediterranean Mosaic: The Archaeological Evidence for Ethnic Diversity at Pithekoussai

Rachel Dewan

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In a Bind: Artificial Cranial Deformation in the Americas

Aaron Fehir

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Human Papillomavirus and the Gardasil Vaccine: Medicalization and the Gendering of Bodies and Bodily Risk

Lauren Camara

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Negotiating Masculinity: How Infertility Impacts Hegemonic Masculinity

Myscha Burton

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Extraction and Empowerment: The Application of Traditional Knowledge Within the Development of the NWT BHP Ekati Diamond Mine

Daniel Vanclieaf

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The Imam and the Pastor: Attempts at Peace in Nigeria using Interfaith Dialogue

Jinelle Piereder

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Introduction

W

e would like to welcome you to the inaugural edition of the Laurier Undergraduate Journal of the Arts. This issue is the first of what we hope will become an annual publication of articles from undergraduate Arts students at Wilfrid Laurier University. Exceptional undergraduate work is too often only seen by the student who creates it and the professor who grades it, without being introduced into the marketplace of ideas. In these pages, we have gleaned only a very few of the thousands of such works produced each year by Laurier’s Arts student body. It is our conviction that the ideas generated by our peers are of no less relevance than those of the published academic writers in their respective fields; all of whom were once students themselves. The authors of our selected works collaborated with our editing team to refine their style and theories to meet the high standards demanded of academic publication. We feel no small pride in the accomplishments of everyone involved with the issue you hold now, and we personally thank them for their hard work and dedication. We also thank you, the reader, for your interest and support.

In this issue, the articles are organized into three sections according to disciplinary similarities. The first two articles take an archaeological approach, and explore topics such as ethnic diversity and cranial modification. In her article “A Mediterranean Mosaic”, Rachel Dewan discusses the Greek settlement of Pithekoussai, which was home to a diverse range of ethnic groups. Dewan argues that the interactions between ethnic groups at Pithekoussai should not be viewed as primarily driven by nations, where cultural powers strove to gain resources and wealth. Instead, Dewan maintains that these interactions should be seen as part of an integrated system of trade between smaller groups, largely free of xenophobic tendencies and ethnic barriers. In the following article, Aaron Fehir provides an overview of artificial cranial modification in Mesoamerica and South America. In his overview, Fehir discusses the following: the most common types of artificial cranial deformation, the techniques used to produce artificial cranial deformation, the unintentional consequences of artificial cranial modification, the purposes of artificial cranial modification, and the process of diagnosing skeletal remains with artificial cranial modification.

The second set of articles looks at issues that deal with discourse and gender constructions from a sociological perspective. The first article of this section,

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by Lauren Camara, examines the discourse of clinical risk in the case of Human Papillomavirus (HPV) and Gardasil in Ontario. Following Amrita Mishra and Janice Graham, Camara argues that the reception of vaccines, such as Gardasil, is the result of complex interactions between corporations, policies, news media, marketing, scientific research, and social perceptions. In particular, Camara examines social control via the individualization of responsibility, the idea of ‘patients as consumers’, and the ways in which moral factors surrounding HPV exploit and reinforce gender stereotypes. In the next article, Myscha Burton looks at how hegemonic masculinity is constructed in contemporary Western societies. Burton investigates how the construction of hegemonic masculinity relates to male fertility, arguing that infertility is often seen as a masculine failure, and is increasingly regulated as an ‘illness’. Burton claims that medical discourses function in a way that pushes men to accept hegemonic norms rather than adopting an alternative male identity.

The final pair of articles explores issues of a political nature. In the first article of this section, Daniel Vanclieaf looks at the relationship between aboriginal communities in the Canadian Arctic and the BHP Billiton Ekati Diamond Mine. Vanclieaf argues that the inclusion of aboriginal voices and aboriginal traditional knowledge in the development of the mine has been fundamental to fostering a space where corporations and aboriginal communities can coexist. After highlighting relevant policies and institutional frameworks, Vanclieaf identifies several challenges to implementing traditional knowledge. To overcome these issues, Vanclief proposes that a top-down and bottom-up strategy should be adopted, a strategy that would strengthen existing policies and help to overcome language and educational barriers. In the final article of this issue, Jinelle Piereder examines the work of Imam Muhammad Ashafa and Pastor James Wuye in the fields of peacemaking and interfaith dialogue in Nigeria.

Piereder begins by outlining recent conflicts in Nigeria, and then highlights some of the successes and challenges of Ashafa and Wuye’s work. Piereder argues that in conflicts where religion is a relevant factor, religious peacemaking offers unique tools that conventional conflict resolution strategies are unable to provide.

We hope you enjoy the writings of your peers, students, and friends: the authors of the 2014 Laurier Undergraduate Journal of the Arts.

William Webb Editor-In-Chief Kevin Gerlach Chairperson of the Management Board

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A Mediterranean Mosaic: The Archaeological Evidence for Ethnic Diversity at Pithekoussai Rachel Dewan

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he Greek colonies of Magna Graecia are some of the finest examples of the Greek spirit of exploration. These large settlements in the Southern Italian peninsula have long been regarded as indicative of the extent to which Greek culture spread in the 7th and 6th centuries BCE. Where, however, did this colonization first begin? The idea that the Greek polis was directly transported from the Greek mainland to regions overseas seems too ambitious, especially given the fact that the polis was not “ready for export� in the early Archaic period (Ridgway 109).

The discovery of the 8th century BCE site of Pithekoussai on the small Italian island of Ischia was therefore of significance to the study of Greek colonization, for it did not appear to be a full colony like those of later dates, yet was clearly a Greek settlement. Although its precise nature is still debated amongst scholars, Pithekoussai has been deemed a key stepping stone in Greek colonization as the earliest Greek foundation in the Western Mediterranean.

Despite the discovery of Pithekoussai in the late 18th century by a local priest who noticed large numbers of pottery sherds and the presence of tombs near the Ischian town of Lacco Ameno, it was not until 1952 that excavations began (Ridgway 39). Giorgio Buchner, conducting work for the Naples Archaeological Superintendency, led these excavations for thirty years, carefully and systematically uncovering various parts of the vast and remarkable site of Pithekoussai. In 1966, David Ridgway joined Dr. Buchner on the project, and together they revealed three distinct areas of the settlement: the expansive cemetery in the Valle di San Montano; a treasure-trove of pottery in the Acropolis Dump on the east slope of the Monte di Vido; and the Mazzola industrial area on the hill opposite the acropolis, where the metalworkers and artisans engaged in their craft (Ridgway 40). Excavations at the site remain incomplete, but the enormous amount of material collected from thirty years of work has left the excavators and other scholars with a great deal to study before further excavations are conducted. These examinations raised a number of questions and theories, leading to ongoing investigations and discoveries.

One central issue of any type of colonization is the interaction between the colonists and the natives in whose homeland the colony is founded. Such social rela-

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tions are often difficult to identify in the archaeological record; however, Pithekoussai has yielded a variety of evidence which not only indicates relationships between the Greek colonists and the Italic natives, but with other Mediterranean peoples as well. Far from being a homogeneous Greek city-state, Pithekoussai seems to have been a hub of commercial activity for much of the Mediterranean, creating an EastWest crossroads and being home to diverse ethnic groups including Euboean and Corinthian Greeks, indigenous Italic peoples, and Phoenicians or Levantines. By investigating the available ceramic evidence, fibulae types, burial traditions, imported goods, and various written sources, it is possible to shed light on “the international community of merchants and craftsmen resident at Pithekoussai”, and try to understand how cultural identities affected commercial relations in the Archaic Mediterranean (Ridgway 121).

I. Bronze Age Interactions: Mycenaeans in the West

In order to discuss Greek contact with the Western Mediterranean in a comprehensive way, it is important to begin many centuries prior to the foundation of Magna Graecia’s colonies, and even before early Archaic Pithekoussai. The Mycenaean Greeks and perhaps other Bronze Age peoples of the Aegean islands were in fact the first Greeks to make contact and establish trade with their contemporary populations in the Italian peninsula (Smith 5). Although much debate continues to surround the issue of permanent Greek settlement in Italy at this time, the influence of their presence is undeniable, particularly in the ceramic evidence.

While some scholars speculate that contact between Italy and the Aegean may in fact have begun in the 3rd millennium BCE, the period from 1400 to 1200 BCE (LHIIIA and LH IIIB) has been identified as the time when the Aegean saw the greatest expansion in trade. Contemporaneous pottery of the type produced by the Mycenaeans, a Late Bronze Age peoples originating from the Greek Mainland, has been found in Anatolia, the Levant, Egypt, and forty-five sites in Italy and its adjacent islands, providing evidence for a large, pan-Mediterranean trade network in this period (Smith 5-6). It is difficult to tell, however, if Mycenaean traders themselves were sailing throughout the Mediterranean, stopping from port to port to exchange goods; if these traders were in fact living amongst foreign locals for periods of time; or if, rather than conducting trade directly, they collaborated with other Mediterranean peoples in order to establish a complex, multi-ethnic trade network. Gert Jan van Wijngaarden, for instance, has assumed the viewpoint that there was a “conditioned coexistence” in the LH IIIA and LH IIIB Mediterranean, in which thalassocracies did not exist. Instead, trade was likely conducted between many different cultures, as demonstrated by the Uluburun shipwreck and its ‘international’ cargo (van

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Wijngaarden 7). Moreover, Moses Finley notes that references to trade and traders are not present within Linear B tablets, indicating the seemingly insignificant role that long-distance commerce played in the Mycenaean economy (Finley 206; Vianello 87).

Fig. 1. Distribution map of Mycenaean pottery in Sicily and South Italy (Ridgway 1992, Fig. 1).

Whether or not the Greeks were heavily invested in their overseas partnerships, the archaeological record reveals that the Italic peoples of Italy with whom they traded certainly valued the connection. Mycenaean pottery became a popular trade commodity, with ceramic evidence having been uncovered at all 42 sites represented on the map (see fig. 1). Greek imported pottery first appeared in the Aeolian Islands and Vivara in the Late Helladic I and II and grew in popularity throughout the early LH III period. Specific regions, including south-eastern Sicily, parts of Apulia, and

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Vivara, became distribution centres, facilitating the supply and demand of Mycenaean and some Minoan pottery for the Italian peoples (Vagnetti 163). In LH IIIB and IIIC, the majority of the ‘Greek’ pottery in Italy was actually locally-produced imitation (van Wijngaarden 204). The lack of direct imports at this time has led some scholars to believe that the Mycenaean trade partnership with the Italians either dramatically decreased or ceased altogether in the Late Helladic period. The imitations were therefore a way for the Greek pottery market in Italy to remain active at a time when there was no longer any direct contact with the Greeks.

The production of these imitations began in earlier periods, but exactly how they began is unknown. While some scholars believe that Italics may have simply amalgamated Greek techniques, including the use of the potter’s wheel and red burnish, into their own ceramic manufacturing, others feel that the level of craftsmanship and extreme similarities of the Italic imitations to the Greek originals are too great to have simply been adopted (Blake 22). Instead, scholars suggest that Mycenaean artisans lived and worked amongst the natives, perhaps in exchange for Italic commodities such as metal (van Wijngaarden 7; Smith 164). Such a reciprocal trade relationship would continue to be very familiar to the Italic peoples and the Greeks in the years to come, but it would take several centuries for Greek-Italic relations to be re-established after the so-called Greek Dark Age from the 11th to 9th centuries BCE. II. A History of Pithekoussai

The collapse of the Mycenaean palaces in the Late Bronze Age had a profound effect on the Greek world, marking the beginning of the end of the Bronze Age. Although the Mycenaeans and their island counterparts had played an important role in the extensive trade routes which spread throughout the Eastern and Central Mediterranean in the Bronze Age, the collapse of their economic and administrative system left Greece unable to continue such commercial relationships, and communication between Greece and Italy ceased for several centuries (Coldstream 223). As current scholarship often emphasizes, this Dark Age was not quite as ‘dark’ as was once thought, and the discovery of sites such as Lefkandi prove that Greek culture was far from completely extinguished at this time (Papadopoulos 192). Generally, however, the peoples of Greece remained self-contained, engaging in few relations with other cultures, for several centuries.

With the dawning of the 7th century BCE, this cultural isolation changed. The earliest evidence for renewed Greco-Italic relations appears at Veii, where the discovery of imported Greek drinking vessels and Middle Geometric II chevron skyphoi in Italic burials indicates the reintroduction of Greek pottery to the Italian peninsula

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(see fig. 2) (Ridgway 129). Over a mere few decades, the creation of Italic imitations of these vessels began just as they had when the Mycenaean trade was at its peak centuries before, positive proof that the Greek presence in Italy was off to a healthy start (Blakeway 129).

Fig. 2. Chevron skyphoi from the Villanovan cemeteries at Veii (Ridgway 1992, Fig. 34).

Although this first contact took place at Veii in west-central Italy, the first official settlement established by Greeks on Italian soil was on the small, volcanic island of Ischia, 300 km away at the entrance to the Bay of Naples (Coldstream 49). Pithekoussai was located on the north-west corner of the island, and afforded the colonists multiple advantages (see fig. 3). In addition to its easily defensible location, the settlement was able to utilize the two natural harbours for effective trade and commerce (Coldstream 225). The reason for Pithekoussai’s founding, however, is not yet fully understood. Although the first century writers Strabo and Livy, Greek and Roman historians respectively, both reference the site in their writings, neither provide much detail, which is in contrast to the lengthy foundation stories of many of the later Greek colonies. It is possible that this is where the trouble lies, for Pithekoussai may not officially have been a Greek colony at all.

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Fig. 3. Island of Ischia with the site of Pithekoussai marked in the NW corner (Coldstream 1994: Fig. 4.1).

During the heyday of later Greek colonization in the 7th and 6th centuries BCE, the founding of a Greek colony, or apoikia, required a very involved process.

Regarding colonization as a sacred act, Greeks who intended to establish a colony, regardless of their mother-city, were required to send a representative to Delphi, where it was necessary to secure oracular consent before a colonizing expedition could be dispatched (Graham 26). Once this permission had been obtained, an oikist was chosen to lead the group of colonists to establish the new Greek city. This oikist was highly regarded and was often worshipped as a hero after death (Graham 27). For this reason, the names and stories of various oikists and their colonies were frequently passed down through history, usually in the writings of ancient historians. In the case

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of Pithekoussai, however, no such name or story seems to have been recorded, and nowhere is the site clearly identified as a colony. It is of course possible that, as the first Greek settlement in the West, the protocol of such colonization had not yet been developed and therefore no one felt the need to record the site’s early history. Alternatively, Pithekoussai may have been an emporion rather than an apoikia, which would have altered the relationship between the settlement and its mother-city (Graham 5).

The founding of an emporion or trading post would not have involved the rigorous procedure needed for an apoikia, thus explaining the lack of historical records about its establishment.

In modern scholarship, Pithekoussai is rarely considered a true Greek colony.

It is often identified as an emporion, which would indeed provide an explanation for the wide range of cultural material at the site. As a trading post, the settlement would have provided shelter to not just Greeks, but also foreigners involved in the expansive networks of the Mediterranean at the time. Although this is a plausible idea, the archaeological evidence suggests that the foreign residents of Pithekoussai were not temporary lodgers, but were permanent residents of the site. For this reason, David Ridgway argues that Pithekoussai was neither an apoikia nor an emporion. Instead, he maintains that a skewed view of Pithekoussai and its networks has been passed down to the present day by later Greeks who could not conceive of any type of Greek metropolis other than a polis, an apoikia, or an emporion. He claims that it is not fair to impose such definitions upon a site as early as Pithekoussai, when its people were, in all likelihood, not aware of such terms (Ridgway 186). The world of the early Archaic Period remains a rather mysterious one, but as new evidence continuously comes to light, it reveals a sophisticated world in which different cultures constantly mixed and interacted.

III. Ethnic Diversity at Pithekoussai i. Western Greeks: Euboeans and Corinthians

At the time of Pithekoussai’s foundation, the terms ‘Greeks’ or ‘Hellenes’ did not necessarily refer to a homogeneous group of people.1 Although the peoples of Greece generally shared a common language and culture, individual regions were largely considered their own autonomous entities. This is clear in the later foundation histories of various Greek colonies in which specific Greek city-states decided to send expeditions to found colonies from the mother-city (Graham 5). It is known from ancient sources that Pithekoussai, though an early settlement and not quite deserving of formal Greek ‘colony’ status, was founded in a similar way by Greeks from the eastern region of Euboea. Fortunately for modern scholars, Livy and Strabo discussed Pithekoussai in their writings, albeit rather briefly. Livy’s reference was 1

See Hall 2004 for more on this linguistic history and its effects on ethnicity studies.

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fairly indirect, for he mentioned the site only in connection with its own later colony of Cumae:

Cumae was their mother city, and the Cumani derive their origin from Chalcis in Euboea, thanks to the fleet in which they had sailed from their home, they enjoyed much power on the coast of that sea by which they dwell; having landed first on the island of Aenaria and the Pithecusae, they afterwards ventured to transfer their seat to the mainland. (Livy VIII.22.5-6)

Though short, Livy’s attribution of the founding of Pithekoussai to the Euboeans, and specifically the Chalcidians, is relatively clear.

Strabo’s description, on the other hand, is longer, and gives some clues as to why the site was originally founded:

Pithecussae was once settled by Eretrians and also Chalcidians, who, although they had prospered there on account of the fruitfulness of the soil and on account of the gold mines, forsook the island as the result of a quarrel; later on they were also driven out of the island by earthquakes, and by eruptions of fire, sea, and hot waters… (Strabo 5.4.9)

Mentioning two peoples of Euboea instead of only Livy’s Chalcidians, Strabo also hinted at the wealth of the settlement. He referred to this wealth only once more, writing, “[a]nd Timaeus, also, says that many marvellous things are told by the ancients about Pithecussae…” (Strabo 5.4.9). Strangely enough, the “marvellous things” so far uncovered at Pithekoussai have not included much gold, but Strabo’s description nevertheless reflects the importance of this settlement (Coldstream 226).

The material remains largely agree with the written sources, attesting to an Euboean foundation at Pithekoussai. Ceramic evidence is often considered to be the strongest support for this given that much of the pottery at Pithekoussai is Euboean in style. Importantly, the majority of these ceramics, an impressive 81%, have been found to have been produced locally, while a smaller yet substantial amount was imported (Ridgway 26). This very high percentage implies the presence of resident Euboeans at the site, rather than mere trade relations with Greeks.

The long history of Euboean pottery in Italy began around 800 BCE. It was at this time, when the revival of Greek-Italic relations was beginning after the Dark Ages, that Euboean pottery became popular amongst the people of Etruria. The Greek chevron skyphoi found in a grave at Veii reflect this Euboean presence (see fig. 2); they are typically Euboean vessels (Ridgway 129). Ceramics such as these soon be-

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came increasingly popular and found a wide distribution throughout Italy, showing the influence of Euboean styles by the middle of the 8th century BCE.

Though never mentioned by ancient authors, the archaeological finds indicate that, while the Euboeans controlled the ceramic market in the first half of the 8th century BCE, Corinthian masters began arriving in Italy in the middle of the century and soon rose to supremacy (Blakeway 144). With Corinthian pottery found both at Pithekoussai (see fig. 4) and throughout Italy, it is clear that this ceramic type was the major fashion throughout the late 8th and early 7th centuries. Furthermore, the detail with which the pieces are made suggests that Corinthians themselves immigrated to the Italic peninsula (Coldstream 52). Corinthian pottery was so popular, in Pithekoussai and the colonies which followed it in later decades, that a “hybrid colonial style� soon emerged. This fusion of Corinthian, Oriental, and local styles was unique to Pithekoussai, Cumae, and Magna Graecia, and is proof of the extent to which the Greek colonists living abroad affected the development of pottery (Coldstream 52).

Fig. 4. Sherds of imported Corinthian pottery excavated from the Acropolis Dump at Pithekoussai (Ridgway 1992, Pl. 13).

In addition to the ceramic remains at Pithekoussai, burial traditions have been examined in order to try and determine the ethnicities of the deceased. Pithekous-

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sai’s large and well-preserved San Montano cemetery has yielded over 1300 graves to date, but it is estimated that this represents only 5% to 10% of the total (Coldstream 52). Given that there is a great deal more to be excavated, it is difficult to draw any decisive conclusions about the nature of the cemetery and the people buried within it. Nevertheless, some helpful theories and inferences can be made. For example, of the graves excavated thus far, the large majority have yielded burial practices contemporary with types found in Greece, specifically those in the region of Eretria (Coldstream 52). These burial types include cremations on pyres prior to the burial of the ashes in a stone cairn or urn, pit inhumations for children and low-status adults, and jar-burials or enchytrismoi for infants. Firm parallels for all three types have been found in the Greek homeland (Shepherd 311). In fact, of the oldest graves of the cemetery (about one-fifth of those which have been excavated), no burial practice has been discovered which cannot be attributed to Greece, thus suggesting that the first people at Pithekoussai were Euboeans.

The Euboean, and even Eretrian, connection seems to extend to nearby Cumae, the first Greek colony on the Italian mainland. At this location, the discovery of a wealthy warrior burial has raised questions about the deceased’s ethnicity. The grave is a cremation in which the ashes were interred in a small cauldron and subsequently placed within a very large vessel of similar form. This was then surrounded by additional cauldrons, as well as jewellery, weapons, equestrian equipment, silver vessels, and foreign imports (Coldstream 54). Such a burial parallels the rich tombs of Eretria in which ashes were buried in bronze cauldrons with jewellery and weapons (Coldstream 55). These practices fit well with Livy’s narrative describing the foundation of Cumae, given that he claims that the Euboeans who settled Pithekoussai eventually moved to the mainland.

Although most scholars today accept Pithekoussai’s identification as an Euboean foundation, some maintain that the Euboean presence has been exaggerated by both ancient authors and archaeologists. This contention has become a long-running debate amongst scholars, even 50 years after the site’s excavations. The leading scholars in this argument are David Ridgway and his supporters, who have been called the “pro-Eubian [sic] faction” (Papadopoulos 201), and John Papadopoulos, whose refusal to acknowledge the Euboeans as major players in the founding of Pithekoussai has been deemed “an anti-Euboean campaign” (Ridgway 24).

Ridgway’s advocacy for the Euboeans at Pithekoussai stems mainly from the popular reasons discussed above, and he often stresses the ceramic evidence and written sources as major explanations for the Euboean presence. He lays particular emphasis on the fact that the Euboean pottery found at Pithekoussai and throughout Italy does not consist of merely a few sherds, but involves large quantities that follow

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a clear chronology, from the end of the Dark Ages to the introduction of Corinthian wares. Ridgway claims that this amount of pottery cannot simply be dismissed (Ridgway 25). In addition, the pottery record matches the information recorded by Livy and Strabo so well that it is difficult to see how the Euboean narrative could be completely false. Although he acknowledges the dangers of blindly believing ancient authors who often had ulterior motives for what they wrote, Ridgway notes that in this case they would have had no reason to skew the truth. Indeed, he holds the fact that Livy and Strabo were both writing centuries after Pithekoussai had been founded, but still associated the site with the Euboeans as meaningful to the history of the site (Ridgway 27).

Unrelated to pottery or ancient writings, Ridgway strengthens his case by highlighting some of the findings within the Mazzola production quarter of Pithekoussai in order to prove Euboean authority in the 8th century BCE. He notes that the Euboean weight standard, a bronze-bound lead disc of 8.79 g known from mainland Greece, was used in the industrial complex at Pithekoussai (Ridgway 185). He argues that if Euboeans had not been the authoritative group within the settlement, it is unlikely that such a specific aspect of their culture would have been used in the economic activities of the site.

Finally, Ridgway highlights the role that the Greek alphabet can play in determining ethnic influence and authority. He points out the fact that the Etruscans adopted the Euboean alphabet for their written language following their interactions with Greeks at Pithekoussai (Ridgway 185). Although the Greek alphabet was common to all Greeks regardless of their mother-city, and thus does not help to pinpoint a precisely Euboean settlement, this linguistic evidence detracts from the theory that Pithekoussai may in fact have been founded by Phoenicians; this idea has sometimes been hinted at by Papadopoulos (Papadopoulos 193).

Papadopoulos’ major concern with the theories of Ridgway and others such as Coldstream and Boardman, lies in his disbelief that the presence of Euboeans automatically follows the presence of Euboean pottery. In other words, he rejects the “pots-equal-people” assumption (Papadopoulos 194). Although this is a fair concern and all archaeological study should bear this principle in mind, the quantity of excavated Euboean pottery, as Ridgway points out, is more than adequate to suggest an Euboean presence. Ridgway is not making an unreasonable assumption when he claims that the amount of Euboean pottery found in Italy suggests an Euboean-Italic relationship greater than that of mere trade interactions.

The other significant point raised by Papadopoulos regarding this issue takes more of a theoretical approach. As an advocate for the Mediterranean-wide influences of the Phoenicians and other Eastern cultures, Papadopoulos is wary of Helleno-

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centric interpretations, and is “alarmed at the sense of nationalism” in scholarship which sees the Greek world as the height of Mediterranean culture (Ridgway 193194). He views Ridgway’s theories as an oversimplification of the ethnic diversity apparent at Pithekoussai, and stresses the presence of other cultural groups in addition to the “few Phoenicians and a lot of Euboeans” (Papadopoulos 202). Despite Papadopoulos’ claims, a large portion of the finds suggest that the majority of Pithekoussai’s population was indeed Euboean. While Ridgway acknowledges the presence of additional cultures at Pithekoussai (Papadopoulos 202),2 the archaeological evidence unearthed so far simply does not indicate that the “phantom Euboeans” described

by Papadopoulos were as invisible as he believes them to have been (Ridgway 24).

Euboeans, and Corinthians a few generations after them, appear to have comprised the majority of Pithekoussai’s population. Far from being absorbed in their own Hellenic culture, the archaeological record shows that these people embraced the ethnic groups they came into contact with and founded a settlement of unique diversity. ii. Italic Peoples

Despite the controversy surrounding the ethnicity of the early Greeks who led Pithekoussai’s trade relations, scholars generally agree that the Greeks established relationships and trade connections with the native Italic peoples. One unanswered question here, however, regards the nature of these relationships; how did they begin and what sustained them?

Although the large amount of early Euboean pottery in Etruria suggests that interactions between the two cultures were positive and strong, there is the possibility that some distrust or even hostility existed. Despite the lack of fortifications in early Greek colonies, a few fortified Italian sites have been discovered inland, and were possibly built as a consequence of the natives’ fear or suspicion of the foreign newcomers (Morel 126). On the other hand, it has also been suggested that Greeks and natives were so eager to make the most of each other’s resources that hostility was never an issue. In fact, Greeks and indigenous Italics appear to have coexisted at a few native sites, including Siris, where Greeks and Italics were buried side-byside, and Morgantina, where funerary traditions evolved from purely-Italic rock-cut chamber tombs to mixed Greco-Italic burials (Morel 125; Ziskowski 12). While both Siris and Morgantina date to a period later than Pithekoussai, they show that coexistence between these two ethnic groups was indeed possible.

2 One need only refer to sources such as “Phoenicians and Greeks in the West: A View from Pithekoussai,” “Euboeans and Others Along the Tyrrhenian Seaboard in the 8th Century B.C.,” and “Seals, Scarabs, and People in Pithekoussai I,” to see that Ridgway advocates for a multi-ethnic population at Pithekoussai.

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Fig. 5: The oldest fibulae, all Italic types, found at Pithekoussai (Schiavo 2006, Fig. 1).

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Following his excavations of Pithekoussai’s cemetery, Giorgio Buchner took this idea of coexistence one step further and suggested that the women of Pithekoussai had not been Euboean colonists like their male counterparts, but rather Italic women whom the Greek men had married upon their arrival in Italy (59-86).

This concept is known as the ‘native wives theory’ and has generated much scholarly discussion and debate since its publication in 1975. Largely based on the jewellery and fibulae found in the San Montano cemetery at Pithekoussai, Buchner notes that, while the pottery and grave goods are principally Greek, the bronze fibulae which were buried with many of Pithekoussai’s residents are entirely Italic in type (Coldstream 53). Moreover, a recent study by Fulvia Lo Schiavo reveals that the fibulae styles seem to have evolved over time out of an Italic foundation. Schiavo identified the earliest fibulae at the site as those with catch-plates that were very different from those known in Greek types (see fig. 5). Instead, these fibulae are known from wide distributions in central and Southern Italy (Schiavo 252). Thus it seems that these Italic fibulae were produced within Pithekoussai itself, by metal craftsmen in the industrial quarter (Ziskowski 7). Experimental types such as the arch, serpentine, and ‘configurated’ arch fibulae have all been identified in both the craft area and the cemetery, proving that Pithekoussan artisans were integrating Italic metalworking traditions into their own developments (see fig. 6) (Schiavo 252).

Despite this undeniable integration on the part of the Greeks and their taste for Italic styles, it is difficult to uphold the natives wives theory based on fibulae alone. Overall, there seems to have been a general preference for Italic pins at Pithekoussai, rather than a specific connection between women and fibulae. In fact, a more prominent connection exists between children buried in the cemetery and the fibulae; nearly half of the 592 graves originally published in Buchner and Ridgway’s Pithekoussai I are child graves in which fibulae have been found (Shepherd 295).

Such strong comparisons cannot be drawn for the female occupants of the cemetery, and thus it seems too far of a stretch to extrapolate the high concentration of Italic fibulae to intermarriages at Pithekoussai. Instead, the Greeks may simply have been heavily invested in the metalwork of the indigenous Italics. After all, metal resources were likely one of the most sought-after commodities in Etruria (Shepherd 290; Schiavo 252).

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Fig. 6: Locally-produced experimental types of fibulae from Pithekoussai (Schiavo 2006, Fig. 3).

In order to investigate whether or not the native wives theory can be supported through other types of analyses, scholars have turned to literacy, linguistics, and osteological remains. Perhaps one of the most interesting sets of clues has been the appearance of ‘hybrid’ proper names inscribed on pots at Pithekoussai and Cumae.

These names often involve two separate titles; one which seems to be Greek and the other Etruscan (Ziskowski 7; Hall 41). For example, the Etruscan-Greek name Larth Telicles was found on a sherd at Pithekoussai and bears elements of both cultures, which perhaps is a sign that the child’s Etruscan and Greek parents wanted to have both of their ethnicities represented in the name of their child. These hybrids, however, disappear after the 7th century BCE, implying the steady integration and assimilation of the cultures (Ziskowski 7). Additionally, incised lettering has been found on a separate piece of pottery at Pithekoussai, and has been identified as an Etruscan

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inscription dated to 740 BCE (see fig. 7) (Woudhuizen 101). Although this does not in itself prove that Etruscans were living within Pithekoussai, it does reveal the close connection between the Greeks and Italics since the sherd was found in a Greek site amongst Greek pottery.

Fig. 7: Pottery sherd with Etruscan inscription from Pithekoussai (Woudhuizen 1988-1989, Fig. 2).

This inscription also helps to emphasize the point of literacy which has been applied to the native wives theory in addition to the debate surrounding the Euboeans.

As noted earlier, the Etruscans adopted the Greek alphabet for their written language. This adoption implies alphabetic literacy on the part of the Etruscans; a literacy which, some have suggested, would have been very difficult to assimilate simply through trade connections. Intermarriages, on the other hand, would have provided the presence of “teachers� directly within the families of a settlement, facilitating the spread of the language more effectively than it would have without intermarriage

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(Coldstream 90). This theory is, of course, very much based on conjecture, but it is a possible explanation for the rapid diffusion of the Greek alphabet throughout Italy in the 8th century BCE.

The teeth of the Pithekoussan burials have been analyzed in an effort to identify any morphological markers potentially helpful in determining the ethnicities of those buried in the cemetery. Many of the study samples revealed evidence of the bifurcation of the root of the first premolars (Ziskowski 6). It is known that this dental trait is common to the indigenous peoples of central Italy in this period (c. 900-600 BCE), but is not a trait commonly associated with ethnic Greeks (Ziskowski 6). Of significance is the observation that the earliest inhabitants of the cemetery exhibit no evidence of bifurcation, yet many of the later do. This development could be explained by the introduction of the morphological trait to the foreign Greek community through intermarriage. The bifurcation would then have been passed down to the mixed Greek-Italic offspring of these unions, resulting in its later appearance (Ziskowski 6).

Evidence for intermarriages may not be limited to Pithekoussai, but may also be visible at Cumae. Coldstream is a strong proponent of the theory that much of the mixed Greek-Etruscan population of Pithekoussai, the offspring of the original settlers of Pithekoussai, moved to Cumae in order to be involved in mainland commercial activity. This theory helps explain the decline in population at Pithekoussai after 700 BCE, the increased population at Cumae, and the diverse cultural material found in some of the graves at the same site (Coldstream 95). Coldstream applies this theory primarily to the rich warrior grave found at Cumae. Despite being buried in an Euboean fashion, this warrior was also interred with an Etruscan bronze shield, Etruscan Orientalizing fibulae, and a few other Italic high-status goods (Coldstream 54). The identity of this man has therefore been interpreted in various ways, including as an Etruscan warrior, an Euboean colonist, and, as Coldstream believes, the son of Etruscan-Euboean parents who immigrated from Pithekosusai to Cumae (Coldstream 95). Coldstream’s theory would explain the unique hybridity of the warrior’s grave. It is, however, important to remember that this is only a single burial and it is risky to make widespread assumptions based on a potential anomaly.

Ultimately, the level of uncertainty surrounding the native wives theory necessitates a cautious approach; only 5 to 10% of Pithekoussai’s cemetery has been excavated. While the evidence seems to suggest at least some cases of intermarriage, caution should be employed when making generalizations until further excavations are carried out.

Aside from intermarriage, evidence reveals that Etruscan-Greek relations were strong in the 8th century. Mutual trade and interaction facilitated cultural exchange,

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for the influence of Italic metalwork can be seen in the fibulae of Pithekoussai, both those of Etruscan import and locally-made imitations, while the Greek alphabet and pottery styles spread north, influencing the Etruscan written language and the ceramic market. iii. Levantines: Phoenicians and Eastern Peoples

Fifty years ago, Buchner wrote that in the 8th century BCE, “the masters of the trade between the Eastern Mediterranean and central Italy” were the Euboeans (12).

At the time, he believed that the Euboeans had commercial bases at both Pithekoussai and Al Mina, and were therefore able to dominate a central East-West trade route. However, it is now known that Buchner’s conclusions here are false because Al Mina was never an Euboean foundation, and “[t]rade empires and commercial monopolies…are fantasies in the archaic [sic] period” (Whittaker 77). Although the Euboeans were heavily involved with the commercial activity of the Mediterranean at this time, the Phoenicians were also a significant power. As active seafarers and merchants, it is not surprising that evidence at Pithekoussai indicates Phoenician influence and perhaps even habitation at the site.

When discussing the Archaic networks of the Mediterranean, it is important to remember that although Greece experienced a Dark Age, other cultures did not.

The Levant, for instance, flourished at this time and continued its interactions with various regions of the Mediterranean (Ridgway 182). As Greece emerged from its Dark Age, the Euboeans seem to have been the first Greeks to establish new and solid contacts with the Levant. Interested in the acquisition of precious metals from Etruria, the Levantines had maintained contact with Italy, while the Greeks, in contrast, had yet to establish the extensive networks they would rely upon so heavily only a few decades later. Though mere speculation, it is possible that it was the Levantines who helped to reintroduce the Greeks to the Italians and the trade networks of the Archaic Mediterranean (Ridgway 182-183). It has even been suggested that early Greek trade was conducted through the Phoenicians. In this model, Levantine traders and merchants acted as the “middlemen” within the Mediterranean trade routes, at least until the Euboeans became established enough to begin their own ventures (Ridgway 183).

Whether or not the Phoenicians directly assisted the Euboeans in ‘getting a foothold’ in the Mediterranean trade networks of the late 9th and early 8th centuries BCE, the two cultures undoubtedly began interacting by the mid-8th century, when Pithekoussai became “a free port at which native Greek and Near Eastern concerns freely mingled” (Markoe 61). In addition to the substantial amount of Phoenician Red Slip ware found in the Acropolis Dump at Pithekoussai, there has also been clear

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evidence found for Levantine residents within the settlement itself (Ridgway 39). The best support for the presence of this ethnic group has been found in Grave 575 in the San Montano cemetery, where an imported amphora was reused for a child’s burial in the Late Geometric period (Ridgway 113). The amphora bears three separate Semitic inscriptions, which in itself indicates contact with other cultures (see fig. 8). In this case, the meanings of the first and third inscriptions are of the most significance.

Fig. 8: Semitic texts and symbol (highlighted in yellow) inscribed on an imported amphora from Pithekoussai’s Grave 575 (Ridgway 1992, Fig. 29).

The specific language of the first inscription has been identified as Aramaic, and seems to have been a type of ancient customs declaration (Ridgway 240; Ridgway 113). This inscription would have pertained to the original usage of the amphora as the container for a trade commodity, perhaps olive oil or wine, and is a testament to the active pan-Mediterranean trade of the time. Furthermore, this inscription, as well as the second one below it, was not translated from its original language, which seems

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to indicate that the Semitic label would have been understood by the receivers. In this case, the receivers may have been Levantines who were based in the Greek settlement of Pithekoussai, or, though less likely, Greeks who had had enough interaction with Levantines that they could understand the language (Ridgway 113). Either way, this inscription attests to the strong Levantine presence at Pithekoussai.

Following its use as a commercial storage vessel, the foreign amphora was recycled by Levantines at Pithekoussai, and used in the enchytrismos of a child buried in the settlement’s necropolis. The third inscription appears to match this context, for the incised representation of a triangular symbol is well-known from religious and funerary contexts at Carthage and other Phoenician sites in the Mediterranean (see fig. 8) (Ridgway 114). The use of this foreign religious symbol here suggests that at least one of the parents of the deceased child felt the need to observe Levantine religious practices, presumably because of their own cultural traditions (Ridgway 114). It is an especially interesting observation that this non-Greek child was interred amongst the other inhabitants of Pithekoussai, with no differential treatment in his or her burial apart from the religious symbol. This once again reflects the nature of Pithekoussai as a place of diversity, which had little concern for ethnic or racial divides.

Fig. 9: Imported Lyre-Player Group seals from the Valle di San Montano cemetery, Ptihekoussai (Ridgway 1992, Fig. 15).

An examination of the burial goods found within the San Montano cemetery confirms this inclusivity, revealing that ethnic boundaries were loosely drawn.

Many Greek burials, for example, contain foreign grave goods, and the necropolis as a whole has yielded a large amount of Eastern exotica or orientalia, including seals of the North Syrian Lyre-Player group (see fig. 9), Egyptian scarabs, and Levantine aryballoi (Ridgway 115; Ridgway 235). Although these were not all Phoenician goods, they were most likely brought to Pithekoussai by Phoenician merchants and Levantine residents because of the Greek taste for exotic goods. In fact, the San Montano graves have yielded the largest collection of Egyptian type paste scarabs found at

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a Greek cemetery, and 89 seals and scarabs alone have been found in 60 Euboean graves (Ridgway 235; Ridgway 65).

Grave 433 is a good example of a burial which shows the many different cultural influences apparent in the Pithekoussan cemetery. Within this fossa grave was found a locally-made oinochoe, an iron knife, five miniature bronze double axes with parallels in the Peloponnese, a bronze fish-hook, a bead of white glass paste, and a Lyre-Player seal in a silver pendant (Ridgway 240; Macnamara 270). This last object is of particular interest because it shows a unique amalgamation of craftsmanship.

As noted, Lyre-Player seals are known to be predominantly from Northern Syria, but Syrian seals are without silver attachments. Silver-mounted seals were instead extremely popular in Etruria, most likely produced there using imported seals brought to Italy by Phoenicians (Markoe 63). This single object (see object 420 in fig. 10) is therefore able to reveal the complex trade routes often taken by goods before reaching Pithekoussai, and the influences that multiple cultures can have on material goods.

Fig. 10: The burial goods of Pithekoussai’s Grave 433 (after Buchner and Ridgway 1993, Tavola CLXII).

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While there is little doubt that Phoenicians visited and resided at Pithekoussai, Glenn Markoe contends that their most significant commercial market was more northerly. It was in Etruria, he explains, that Levantine traders continued to obtain the precious metals they had been procuring through the Etruscans for years. Although Phoenicians continued their trade with the Euboeans at Pithekoussai and other sites throughout Italy, Markoe argues that the Eastern influence visible in the silverwork of the North is a clear indicator that the Phoenician presence was in fact stronger in Etruria than in central Italy (61). Particularly interested in the silver resources of northern Italy, Phoenician artisans may have lived and worked amongst the Etruscans, as the large number of 8th and 7th century BCE Cypro-Phoenician silver bowls in the region suggests (Markoe 65).

A Phoenician presence in Etruria would also help to explain the strong Oriental influences visible in Etruscan silverwork of the period. Such robust trade relations and interactions between the two groups would have facilitated the spread of Eastern motifs and contributed to the emergence of the Oriental style in Italy. This theory has found support with the discovery of an Etruscan Orientalising workshop which produced pieces extremely similar to original Cypro-Phoenician metal goods (Markoe 68).

Despite the strong Phoenician-Etruscan connection to the north, Pithekoussai was by no means excluded from the advantages of such trade relations. Rather, Markoe suggests that the Phoenicians and the Greeks held a symbiotic relationship at this time; although both groups traded with the Etruscans, they never competed because each desired separate commodities. The Greeks were interested in iron and copper, while the Phoenicians wanted silver, thus their market interests never infringed on one another (Markoe 80). In this way they were able to maintain shared contact with the Italics, while also trading amongst each other in a tri-cultural exchange within the Italian peninsula.

Inevitably, this exchange led to many mutual influences, particularly between the Phoenicians and the Corinthians, who dominated Pithekoussai’s ceramic market by the late 8th century BCE. The Corinthians were impressed by the Oriental goods and Eastern motifs of the Phoenicians. As they began to integrate such styles into their own pottery and art, a new style emerged and eventually made its way back to the Greek homeland, initiating the rise of the Greek Orientalizing Period (Markoe 61). Likewise, the Phoenicians seem to have been quite taken with the ornate Corinthian ware, for they began to imitate it in their silverware (Markoe 61). Interestingly, this same silverware is that which influenced Etruria, revealing just how intertwined these markets and networks could be.

The widespread influence of Phoenician goods and motifs demonstrates the

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strong trade activity within the Italian peninsula during the 8th and 7th centuries BCE. Commercial and cultural interactions were not always linear, and it was this intricacy which enabled cultural exchange to take place in such an inhibited and dynamic way; a cultural exchange which is perhaps best exhibited at the multicultural site of Pithekoussai.

IV. “A Small Greek World”3

Despite the debates that continue to surround various aspects of Pithekoussan life, it can be said with confidence that though Pithekoussai was a Greek settlement founded by Euboeans in the early 8th century BCE, it was also home to a diverse variety of ethnic groups. Native Italics seem to have maintained strong connections with the Greeks, not only on a commercial level, but also on a personal one. While the widespread distribution of Euboean and Corinthian pottery and the Etruscan adoption of the Greek alphabet attest to the strong relations between these groups, it is possible that interactions sometimes evolved into intermarriages, with Greek-Italic families residing at Pithekoussai. Although Buchner’s native wives theory remains one of the most contested aspects of Pithekoussai’s diverse population, the Italic fibulae, Etruscan inscriptions, dental analysis, burial traditions, and culturally-mixed names suggest that intermarriages were not a rarity.

Alongside the Greeks and Etruscans, a minority of Levantines also appear to have called Pithekoussai home, burying their dead beside their Greek neighbours and sharing their Eastern artistic techniques with the willing Greeks. Additional strong Phoenician interactions with the Etruscans to the North created interwoven networks throughout the Italian peninsula in which Greeks, Italics, and Levantines shared in a mutual exchange of culture.

At present, the situation at Pithekoussai appears to have been a rather unique one. Although other sites have yielded evidence of coexistence, and the large trading hub of Al Mina saw these same diverse cultural groups pass through its port, few sites provide evidence for diversity to this extent (Coldstream 224). However, the question should be asked, ‘was Pithekoussai truly so unusual in this regard?’ If the Mediterranean world was so intertwined, as evidence suggests, then such multi-ethnicity must not have been quite so unusual. One challenge facing archaeologists in answering this question is that such coexistence is not always visible in the archaeological record (Morel 126).

From a theoretical standpoint, it is challenging to define ethnicities, and ethnic coexistence. This is especially true when mobility is involved and new ethnic 3 The title of Malkin’s (2011) work is used here to conclude this article because it summarizes how the far-reaching networks connected with Pithekoussai facilitated the feeling of a small, accessible Mediterranean world in the Archaic period.

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identities form as populations move and settle amongst different groups of people (Malkin 209). The same is true of culture; when one group integrates aspects of another group’s culture, that culture becomes appropriated into its own. This idea can be seen in Greek-Italic relations, when, in the centuries following Pithekoussai’s foundation, elites of the Italic natives used elements of Greek culture, including hoplite armour, symposia, and Homeric-style burials, within their own ethnic context as symbols of their authority (Hall 45). Not only would the characteristics of Greek culture and Italic culture change because of this incorporation, but the way in which these cultures are now identified in the archaeological record would also be altered.

With this in mind, the networks of the Archaic Mediterranean should be regarded as simply that – Mediterranean. Rather than visualizing the interactions between groups as nationally-driven, where large cultural powers strove to gain resources and wealth, the evidence suggests that these interactions took place within an integrated system of trade between smaller groups, largely free of xenophobic tendencies and ethnic barriers.

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In a Bind: Artificial Cranial Deformation in the Americas Aaron Fehir

A

rtificial cranial modification, more commonly referred to as â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;head bindingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, is the practice of deliberately altering the development of the cranial skeleton with the intent of changing the shape of an individualâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cranial vault.

This process is accomplished through the prolonged application of a relatively low intensity compressive force to the skull of an infant or neonate. Artificial cranial modification ultimately manifests as an irreversible and highly visible cultural modification which, when interpreted bioarchaeologically, can convey a wealth of social information.

Although a contemporary audience may view the concept of head bindings as inhumane or bizarre, artificial cranial modification is surprisingly widespread; it is not only practiced by a number of geographically dispersed cultures, but it is also found at different points in time throughout history. In order to demonstrate this point, the following is a brief list of evidence and occurrences of artificial cranial deformation with its corresponding culture, time period, and/or geographic region.

Artificial cranial deformation has been observed in, but is not limited to: Iraq ca.

45,000 BCE as evidenced by the Shanidar 1 man, the Nile Valley during the 5th century BCE, according to the Hippocratic book entitled de Aere, aquis et locisi, the Pre-Columbian Americas as observed across the Olmec, Mayan, Paracas, and Incan culture, as well as prehistorically in the Andean regions (Obladen 672-673). This diversity makes a complete discussion on the topic of artificial cranial deformation impossible for an article of this length. Instead, this article will focus on artificial cranial modification as it has appeared in the geographical regions of Mesoamerica and South America. For convenience of both the author and the reader, this geographic entity will hereafter be referred to as the Americas. The decision to focus on the Americas is motivated by the reason that the Americas have a higher frequency of artificial cranial modification in comparison with other geographic regions.

This article will discuss the following: the prevalent categories of artificial cranial deformation present in the Americas and the techniques which produced them, the unintentional consequences of artificial cranial modification, the purposes behind

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artificial cranial modification, and the process of diagnosing skeletal remains with artificial cranial modification.

I. Categories and Formative Techniques

There are three common types of deformation found in the Americas: tabular erect, tabular oblique, and annular. Erect tabular deformation is created by flattening the back of the cranial vault, resulting in occipital deformation. This occipital deformation, in combination with frontal deformation, results in a vertical distortion that is commonly referred to as tabular erect (Buikstra and Ubelaker 160). The typical visual effect in a living individual whose skull has undergone tabular erect deformation is a high and broad head with the possibility of acute asymmetry. In instances where the tabular erect deformation is not designated intermediate or severe, it may only be reflected as a flattening of the occipital or occlusal planes.

Tabular erect deformation is widespread across the Americas, though the frequency varies considerably between burial assemblages. Because of this variation, some cultures are particularly well known for their prevalent use of tabular erect deformation. Cultures that are best known for their use of tabular erect deformation are the Olmec and the emulation of Olmec deformation found in Pre-Classical Maya.

The tabular erect deformation was so ingrained into the Olmec culture that it also influenced their art; the Olmec figure style “Les Bocas” baby predominantly depicts children with tabular erect cranial deformation (Goodrich and Ponce de Leon 82).

In addition to tabular erect, there is another type of tabular deformation called ‘tabular oblique’. Both varieties of tabular deformation involve the use of hard compression instruments to create the desired cranial shape. However, tabular erect and tabular oblique differ in the specific instruments used, as each is produced by distinct stresses placed on the developing bones. The procedure for altering an infant’s skull to produce a tabular erect shape involves binding an infant’s head to a single compressive surface. The compressive surface used to produce tabular erect deformation is most often a cradleboard, which has the potential to create extreme irregularities in the cranial skeleton of an individual (provided there are irregularities in the compressive instrument) (Tiesler 293). As is true for every category of artificial cranial deformation, the severity of the deformation is dependent on the total amount of time exposed to compression in combination with the amount of compressive pressure (Tiesler 293). Tabular oblique deformation is a subcategory of tabular deformation, but has the implication that the desired morphological alteration of the skull takes place through the use of hard compressive instruments. Unlike tabular erect deformations, tabular oblique modifications are typically produced through the use of free headboards. The employment of pads during tabular oblique deformation has

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the potential to generate sinuous skull contour (Tiesler 293).

In contrast to tabular deformation, annular deformation eschews the use of hard compressive instruments. Instead, annular deformations are fabricated through the process of circumferential binding (Buikstra and Ubelaker 162), which is in turn made tangible through the use of compression bands, bandaging, string, rope, pads, textiles, and tight hats (Tiesler 293; Hoshower et al. 14; Blom 9). Annular deformations are strongly associated with the Tiwanku culture, as discussed in José Imbelloni’s research. Imbelloni mentions that annular deformation is extremely prevalent in the Tiwanku culture, with several kinds of annular deformation within Tiwanku skeletal remains (Hoshower et al. 152). From a visual standpoint, annular deformation results in a cranium that displays a circular contour (Hosthower et al. 149), albeit annular deformation may produce an elongation of the skull, depending on the extent and severity of the deformation.

II. Unintended Consequences

Artificial cranial deformation has often been regarded as having negative secondary effects on an individual’s health. The earliest writings on the matter date to when the church banned the practice in the Americas in 1585 (Obladen 673). This section of the article will investigate the effects of artificial cranial deformation, and the primary results of altering the shape of the cranial vault. There are two types of secondary changes caused by artificial cranial deformation: additional unintentional modification of the crania and an impact on neurological capabilities due to modification of the cranial vault.

The act of artificially deforming the cranial vault should theoretically impact the rest of the cranial skeleton given that both are part of an interconnected skeletal unit. While changes across the entire cranial skeleton are somewhat inconclusive, artificial cranial deformation has recently been proven to both alter facial morphology and leave occlusal traits unchanged (Jiminez et al. 40). To summarize the findings: artificial cranial deformation in the central Andean region was found, using a combination of bioarchaeology and statistical analysis, to cause changes in the growth of upper facial height, minimum frontal breadth, nasal height, orbital breadth, orbital height and bizygomatic breadth in males. In females, artificial cranial modification altered the maxilla-alveolar breadth, upper facial height, orbital height, and bizygomatic breadth (Rhode and Arriaza 463-468).

In addition to the changes that take place to the skull’s facial metrics, artificial deformation effects the elements of the cranial skeleton that articulate with the occipital bone. The two most common examples of this are lambdoid ossicles and occipitomastoid intrasuturial bone, which appear ubiquitously in crania that have

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undergone any type of artificial cranial deformation (Obladen 675). Despite these examples, the proposed effects of artificial cranial deformation are somewhat inconclusive. Weindel Feindel proposed that artificial cranial modification might have resulted in seizures and epilepsy due to the application of pressure on the hippocampus.

Feindel cites the neurological impact of artificial cranial modification as one possible reason for the collapse of the Mayan civilization (Goodrich and Ponce de Leon 9394). Obladen, however, concluded that artificial cranial deformation of the cranial vault within a year after birth would have no adverse effects on the brain provided the modification took place over an extended period of time (672). Despite the apparent conflict, it is possible that both Feindel and Obladen are correct: artificial cranial modification may be safe as long as it is performed within one year of an individualâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s birth and over an extended period of time, but the consequence of seizures and epilepsy may manifest should one perform the deformation outside of these parameters.

Nevertheless, such a proposition remains speculative given that one would need to perform artificial cranial modification on a living infant to be certain.

III. Proposed Purposes

This section of the article will outline the hypothesized purpose, or purposes, behind the practice of artificial cranial deformation within the Americas. In particular, this section will focus on kinship, ethnicity, status, and sex.

The association between kinship groups and artificial cranial deformation occurs in most articles that discuss artificial cranial deformation. This association is probable for at least two reasons. First, artificial cranial deformation is only possible during a stage of development when an individual cannot give or withhold consent to undergo cranial modification. This suggests that the modification is performed by an individualâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s family, and thus is part of a continuous symbolic representation of ancestry (Tiesler 290) in the form of descent group traits (Blom 5). This makes studying the relationship between kinship and artificial cranial modification a relatively straightforward task when compared to more complex factors, such as ethnicity.

Second, kinship is frequently an integral part of both ethnicity and status, two other proposed purposes, throughout the Americas. Tiesler postulates that cultural change may have stimulated ethnogenisis and kinship bonds during the Mayan Pre-Classical Period (308).

Ethnicity is defined for the purposes of this investigation as the action of assigning importance to a real or perceived affiliation between multiple individuals, as well as acknowledging differences between groups (Suttter 183). Archaeologically, ethnicity is represented through shared material culture and behaviour. As the cranium would have been deformed artificially to convey social information (Tor-

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res-Rouff 170), cranial deformations can be classified as material culture (Blom 2).

Accordingly, artificial cranial deformations can be used as evidence of intragroup solidarity and intercultural differences (Torres-Rouff 163) in both living populations and the archaeological record.

The culture that provides the best evidence for use of cranial deformation to express ethnic identity is the Andean culture. According to ethnohistorical sources (Blom 3-4), the Andeans wore a variety of headdresses and clothes to signify distinct subdivisions of their geographic region. Each headdress had a corresponding cranial modification, resulting in a highly visible sign of group affiliation which acted as evidence of ethnicity; this was a highly diversified practice that provided rigid symbolic affiliations (Hoshower et al. 147; Blom 3-4). The Andean expression of ethnicity through artificial cranial deformation is not without criticism. In a statistical analysis of several Azapa Valley mortuary sites, cranial deformation was regarded as the least definitive indicator of ethnicity when compared to grave goods, genetic relatedness, and dental pathologies (Sutter 196-198). However, the same analysis demonstrated a weak correlation between tabular oblique deformation and annular deformations, and the Capruza culture and “coastally ethnic” populations, respectively (Sutter 196198). Sutter’s observation of a correlation between annular deformation is also noted

by Blom, who uses this information in her alternative explanation for the distribution of annular versus tabular deformation in the Andes; Blom claims that the distribution of cranial deformations was based around ethnicities (15-16). These two theories can be hybridized if one considers that the coastal populations and the populations living in the highlands regarded themselves as two separate and distinct ethnic groups.

Many scholars note that artificial cranial deformations can indicate socioeconomic status (SES), although they concede that this is not necessarily true in all societies within the Americas. Evidence for the correlation between status and artificial cranial modification includes the high frequency of extreme skull elongation in conjunction with Incan burials with highly valuable grave good assemblages. This association may be due to the correlation between lineage and SES in Incan society (Blom 5). Use of cranial deformation to represent status is also present in the Andean culture, but may be misrepresented in the archaeological record. For instance, it was possible for parents with a low SES to emulate the artificial cranial deformations present in elite populations on their own children (Hoshower et al. 146). Nevertheless, between the correlation with high grave goods and the ethnohistorical accounts of punishing those who deviated from their region’s artificial deformation (Blom 3), such emulations seem unlikely.

Scholars tend to cite any observed difference in artificial cranial deformation between males and females as statistically inconclusive (Tiesler 304), or as evidence

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for the practice of exogamy. In sites within the Atacama region, such as Solcor 3, Toconao Oriente, and Coyo 3, there is evidence for high frequencies of female cranial deformation in a different style than the male populations at the same sites; annular deformation was more common for females, while tabular deformation was more prevalent in males. This discrepancy in cranial deformation can be explained as the result of either colonization or exogamy. These are likely explanations given that females who immigrated into these cultures would be unable to alter the cranial deformations they had previously received as infants or neonates. Perhaps the strongest supporting evidence for this exogamy hypothesis are the differences in facial morphology between males and females on the site of Coyo 3 (Torres-Rouff 169).

While the previously mentioned sites are all within the Atacama region, this practice of immigration and exogamy may have taken place throughout the Americas, as evidenced by a stable isotopic analysis from Tlajinga 33 (White et al. 186, 194).

IV. Diagnosis: Indicators, Problems, and Differential Diagnosis

The primary methodology for establishing the taxonomy of artificial cranial deformation was originally developed by Imbelloni, and has since been altered to better reflect data in Mesoamerican cultures by Tiesler and Romano (Tiesler 293).

Tiesler and Romanoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s methodology requires complete descriptions of both metric and nonmetric cranial traits with an emphasis placed on the description of each compression plane and constructional groove. The indicators for diagnosing an observed abnormality in a human cranium as the direct result of artificial cranial deformation varies depending on the type, formative processes, and severity of the cranial deformation present in the skeletal remains. One indicator of artificial cranial deformation, regardless of the type of deformation, is the presence of lambdoid ossicles and occipitomastoid intrasuturial bone because both of these lesions occur in culturally modified skulls in higher frequencies than in unmodified skulls (Obladen 675).

One of the primary obstacles in correctly diagnosing artificial cranial deformation is its subtlety when expressed by a less severe alteration. As previously stated, less pronounced forms of tabular artificial cranial deformation are indicated by flattening of the frontal plane, frontal curve, occlusal curve and occlusal plane. Unfortunately, it is possible for these slight alterations to the cranial shape to go unrecognized (Tiesler 293).

The primary causes for misdiagnosing artificial cranial deformation lies in the prerequisites of artificial cranial deformation. Misdiagnoses can occur in at least two ways: cranial deformations which were unintentional, and those deformation which were intentional but which took place rapidly. The most common misdiagnosis for artificial cranial modification occurs rapidly and unintentionally in the form of spon-

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taneous moulding during vaginal birth. While moulding occurs to a limited degree in every vaginal birth, the effect of rickets can restrict the size and shape of the motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pelvis (Glencross 2013), and cause severe cranial deformation during delivery. This abnormal pelvic morphology results in depressions in the infantâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cranium, and in severe cases can cause the slippage of the parietals over the occipital or frontal bone (Obladen 675-676). Moreover, Craniosynostosis, the fetal position, breech head, brow head, Crainiotabes, and premature birth can all result in unintentional cranial deformations that are easily misdiagnosed as artificial cranial deformation (Obladen 677). Another diagnosis that can be misconstrued as artificial cranial deformation is the spontaneous and intentional cranial deformation performed by midwives using head-massages. The rapid nature of cranial deformation caused by head-massage is ultimately damaging to the health of those who receive it.

V. Conclusion

Artificial cranial deformation was a widespread cultural practice across the Americas. While the tabular and annular deformation processes and their formative processes are well documented, a great deal of information about artificial cranial deformation in the Americas is not yet understood. An example of this gap in the literature is the conflicting opinions on the effect of artificial cranial deformation on the brain; artificial cranial deformation was shown to affect morphology of the facial bones. Currently, the purposes responsible for the creation and continued use of artificial cranial deformation have been unsatisfactorily explained, though they likely involve a combination of kinship, status, ethnicity and sex. These interpretive issues, however, will likely decrease as archaeologists find more skeletal remains in the Americas, and have a greater sample size from which they may conduct their studies.

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Works Cited Blom, D. E. “Embodying Borders: Human Body Modification and Diversity in

Tiwanaku Society.” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 24 (2005): 1-24.

Print.

Buikstra, J. E., and D. H. Ubelaker. “Cultural Modifications of the Living:

Trepanation and Artificial Cranial Modification.” Standards for Data

Collection from Human Skeletal Remains. Ed. Buikstra J. E. and D. H.

Ubelaker. Fayetteville: Arkansas Archaeological Survey, 1994. 160-163. Print.

Goodrich, J. T., and F. C. Ponce de Leon. “Medical and Surgical Practice as

Represented in Cultural Figures from the Pre-Conquest Mesoamerican Territories.” World Neurosurgery 74.1 (2010): 81-96. Print.

Hoshower, L. M., et al. “Artificial Cranial Deformation at the Omo M10 Site: A

Tiwanaku Complex from the Moquegua Valley, Peru.” Latin American Antiquity 6.2 (1995): 145-164. Print.

Jiminez, P., et al. 2012. “Maxillary Changes and Occlusal Traits in Crania with

Artificial Fronto-Occipital Deformation.” American Journal of Physical Anthropology 147 (2012): 40-51. Print.

Obladen, M. “In God’s Images? The Tradition of Infant Head Shaping.” Journal of

Child Neurology 27.5 (2012): 672-680. Print.

Rhode, M. P., and B. T. Arriaza. “Influence of Cranial Deformation on Facial

Morphology Among Prehistoric South Central Andean Populations.”

American Journal of Physical Anthropology 130 (2006): 462-470. Print.

Sutter , R. C. 2001. “A Bioarchaeological Assessment of Prehistoric Ethnicity

Among Early Late Intermediate Period Populations of the Azapa

Valley, Chile.” Us and Them: Archaeology and Ethnicity in the Andes. Ed.

R.M. Reycraft. Los Angeles: Costen Institute of Archaeology, 2005. 183-206.

Print.

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White, C. D., et al. “Immigration, Assimilation, and Status in the Ancient City of

Teotihuacan: Stable Isotopic Evidence from Tlajinga 33.” Latin

American Antiquity 15.2 (2004): 176-198. Print.

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Human Papillomavirus and the Gardasil Vaccine: Medicalization and the Gendering of Bodies and Bodily Risk Lauren Camara

H

uman Papillomavirus (HPV) is a sexually transmitted infection (STI) that has been at the centre of public health discussions over the past decade. It is one of the most common STI’s in the world, and appears most frequently in adolescents and young adults. If fact, HPV is so common that one in every two sexually-active people will contract at least one HPV infection at some point during their lifetime (Abdelmutti and Hoffman-Goetz 422). With over one-hundred identified strains, most infections present either minimal or no risk to health in “immunologically-competent” individuals (Abdelmutti and Hoffman-Goetz 422). HPV infections are typically “asymptomatic and harmless; most people never know they are infected, and most infections typically resolve on their own” (Dailard 6). In Ontario, however, HPV is represented as a serious health risk that must be dealt with through mass inoculation. Both the provincial government of Ontario and Merck & Co., Inc. (the pharmaceutical company behind the preventative HPV vaccine Gardasil) have served to create a “blockbuster vaccine embedded in a discourse of individualized risk and pharmaceutical control centred on female bodies” (Mishra and Graham 57). As a result, hundreds of thousands of young Ontarian females have been pre-emptively protected against HPV through a “government-sponsored immunization cohort” (Mishra and Graham 59). The risk discourse surrounding HPV in Ontario reflects Conrad’s claim that medical experts, patients, and biotechnological corporations “interact in complex ways that affect social norms in changing definitions of behaviours and interventions” (11).

Both the communication of HPV risk and the push for HPV immunization are part of the medicalization process, wherein disease-related risks become a marketing platform for pharmaceutical companies. HPV risks have been constructed in ways that disguise the moral implications of the infection as sexually-transmitted in order to soften the sensitive moral and political nature of HPV vaccines. Discussions of HPV and immunization offer an example of the ways in which gender segmentation in the medical realm acts as a strategy for exploiting and reinforcing gender boundaries (Conrad 11). Thus HPV risk communication exemplifies the “deeply gendered control and surveillance of bodies and bodily risk” (Mishra and Graham 58).

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The risk communication of HPV infection, the risks associated with the STI, the appeal to individualized responsibility, and the appeal to decision autonomy to get immunized all fit within Ontario’s broader medical context. This context concerns the way that:

neoliberal policies effect shifts in public health priorities such that increasing emphasis is placed on the individual citizens who are expected to minimize their exposure to risks for disease through increased medical and self-surveillance and the purchase of particular drugs and devices. (Polzer and Knabe 345)

This context can be understood as part of the medicalization process, in which the marketing efforts of Merck & Co., Inc. and The Government of Ontario suggest that corporate interests have become co-opted into public health policy (Mishra and Graham 58). In the 1980s, pharmaceutical companies promoted their products to physicians and the public, and patients came to be viewed primarily as consumers or potential markets (Conrad 4-5). This shift increased the pharmaceutical industry’s “impact on the boundaries of the normal and the pathological”, and the cultural influence of medical professionals (Conrad 11). In Ontario, female bodies have become objects marked for biotechnological intervention via Gardasil inoculation as a result of the “prevailing cultural attitude that women, specifically, are morally obligated to take responsibility for their health and the health of their children, or suffer the consequences” (Polzer and Knabe 346).

The risk that an HPV infection poses to the public is extremely low (Abdelmutti and Hoffman-Goetz 423). In fact, of the more than one-hundred strains, only four types have been associated with future complications, such as the onset of genital warts and different types of cancer (Abdelmutti and Hoffman-Goetz 423). These complications, however, only occur in the rarest of cases, and typically when HPV infection goes undetected and untreated (Polzer and Knabe 345). Despite this, HPV infections have been depicted by the medical community, government health agencies, and the makers of Gardasil as “a singular entity…conflated with cervical cancer” (Polzer and Knabe 345). HPV vaccines have been marketed towards girls and young women “primarily as a means to prevent cervical cancer, rather than to control the spread of STIs” through awareness campaigns which “purposely cultivated public awareness of the linkage between HPV and cervical cancer” (Polzer and Knabe 345).

In 2005, Merck & Co., Inc. launched a campaign called ‘Make the Connection’, where print advertisements and brochures were distributed with beaded bracelet kits. The campaign was designed to bring awareness to the connection between an HPV in-

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fection and cervical cancer onset, and was sponsored by the Cancer Research and Prevention Foundation (CRPF) and the Step Up Women’s Network (SUWN). The campaign used the tag line “make the connection between cervical cancer and Human Papillomavirus” (“Make the Connection”, 2005). Arguably, the beaded bracelets symbolically formed the connection between HPV infection and cervical cancer.

The introduction of regular cervical cancer screening into Canada’s public health care system in the 1970s has both successfully increased early detection of precancerous lesions and decreased cervical cancer incidence and mortality (Polzer and Knabe 345). Additionally, cervical cancer accounts for only one percent of all cancer-related deaths among women in Canada (Polzer and Knabe 345). Nevertheless, Gardasil has been marketed as “the only cervical cancer vaccine that helps prevent against four types of HPV” (Robertson, 2008). Interestingly, Gardasil is not marketed as an HPV vaccine which can help prevent against cervical cancer, but is marked as the cervical cancer vaccine that helps protect against HPV. This trend appears again in the ‘Tell Someone’ campaign, which consisted of a series of print and television advertisements that employed the phrase “cervical cancer, caused by a virus. Now that you know, tell someone” (Vogels, 2009). The television advertisement features a series of women, ranging in ages from mid-teens to seniors, saying, “I want to tell someone I love [sister, granddaughter, younger cousin, friends back home] that I just found out cervical cancer is caused by certain types of a common virus, HPV” (UDirectNYC, 2008). Given that “knowledge that cervical cancer is associated with an STI may affect women’s attitudes toward the disease including perceptions of cancer risk” (Marlow, Waller, and Wardle 373), it is unsurprising that Merck & Co. Inc. utilized the risk for future diseases, such as cervical cancer, as the primary marketing platform for its Gardasil advertising campaigns (Polzer and Knabe 345).

The risk communication of HPV has been infused with elements of medicalization for the purpose of constructing one’s health as a goal that is achieved through individual effort (Polzer and Knabe 346). This strategy is “symptomatic of neoliberal policies that aim to stimulate the biotechnology sector and transform health from a public good into a commodity and resource for economic growth” (Polzer and Knabe 346). Furthermore:

the current emphasis on risk identification, assessment and management in health promotion and public health expands the scope of medicalization by linking everyday life behaviours (e.g. sexual activity) with the potential for negative health outcomes in the future.

Even when well-intended, these risk-based approaches multiply opportunities for surveillance and pre-emptive intervention, and are,

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Gardasil has been successfully marketed as an urgent and severe risk because it has framed all girls to be at risk “as a result of their being on the cusp of passing through a normal life stage from childhood to adulthood” (Polzer and Knabe 346).

The suggestion that pre-adolescent girls should receive a preventative vaccine for a sexually-transmitted infection initially received mixed feelings from parents.

As a result, Merck & Co. Inc. promoted Gardasil by framing it as a cancer control strategy (Polzer and Knabe 345). In their efforts to promote Gardasil, Merck & Co. Inc.’s was supported by the Canadian Cancer Society, the Ontario Ministry of Health and Long Term Care, the Society of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists of Canada, and numerous local public health authorities (Polzer and Knabe 344). Upon its approval

by Health Canada in July of 2006, Gardasil was seen as a major advance in public health, particularly public health for women, by these organizations (Abdelmutti and Hoffman-Goetz 423). Moreover, in March 2007, The Government of Canada allocated $300 million to support provincial and territorial HPV vaccine programs over the following three years (“The budget plan, No. F1-23/2007-3E”, 2007). By September 2007, Ontario had introduced the Gardasil vaccine into its school-based and publicly-funded immunization programme. Along with publically administered vaccinations against viruses such as Diphtheria, Tetanus and Acellular Pertussis, Meningococcal, Poliovirus, Measles, Mumps and Rubella (“Publicly Funded Immunization Schedules...”, 2009), Gardasil has become depicted as a normal and necessary public health procedure. As a result, Gardasil has since been administered to nearly 700,000 Ontario female students aged eleven to thirteen (“Ontario’s HPV Vaccination Program”, 2008).

The rapid implementation of Gardasil as a public health strategy into the school-based immunization programme precluded wide consultation and agreement between stakeholders (Mishra and Graham 57). Given that risk, risk messages, and risk prevention manifest at a number of different levels (Maule 17), there is the potential for conflict between consumers’ interests in their own health and manufacturer’s economic and political interests. In a culture of increasingly market-driven medicine, medical and biotechnological fields “are driven more by commercial and market interests than by professional claim-makers” (Conrad 10).

There is also an increasing emphasis on citizens to mitigate risk through individual initiatives. Public health campaigns often appeal to personal responsibility by explicating “what it means to be a responsible spouse, parent or friend” (Guttman and Ressler 118). For instance, in the ‘Tell Someone’ campaign, there is an emphasis

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on the responsibility of a parent, sibling, cousin or friend to ensure that others are aware of HPV health-related risks. One television advertisement ended with a woman saying “I want to tell someone… you should too” (UDirectNYC, 2008). Moreover, the Ontario Ministry of Health and Long Term Care website on HPV urges parents to protect their daughters “from this deadly disease” (“Ontario’s HPV Vaccination Program”, 2008). In public health campaigns, the notion of personal responsibility is often employed for persuasive appeal because, while “the biomedical language of risk is linked to probabilities, its definition depends on social values and cultural norms” (Guttman and Ressler 118).

Given that risk is both ideologically and culturally constructed, what is considered irresponsible depends largely on a particular society’s designation of risky behaviours. Guttman and Ressler suggest that contemporary risk factors have emerged to replace ancient sins, such as gluttony, sloth, and lust (118). Accordingly, they propose that risky health-related behaviours are often associated with sin or moral weakness. In response, the HPV awareness and Gardasil promotional campaigns, specifically the ‘Make the Connection’ and ‘Tell Someone’ campaigns, strategically omit the provocative sexual themes by “neglecting the clinical and sexual facts of the spread and prevalence of HPV” (Mishra and Graham 57). The failure to mention that HPV is sexually transmitted obscures the provocative nature of STI’s. This allows discussions of the disease to avoid the argument that sexually-transmitted infections “are a result of promiscuity, and therefore, do not pose a significant risk to so-called moral sexual persons” (Vogels, 2009). In avoiding the morally-questionable aspects of sexually-transmitted infections, Merck & Co., Inc. ‘simply’ explicates the links between girlhood, risk of future disease, and preventative vaccination (Polzer and Knabe 347).

The emphasis on personal responsibility and moral behaviour coincides “with social and political climates in which the individual is viewed as the appropriate focus for interventions to control health risk factors” (Guttman and Ressler 118). The ‘One Less’ and ‘I Chose’ campaigns exemplify such a view, whereby healthiness is deemed “a moral responsibility and goal, that is achieved through individual effort and enterprise” (Polzer and Knabe 346). In the ‘One Less’ campaign, a series of adolescent females state that because they chose to vaccinate against HPV, there will be “one less woman whose life will be affected by cervical cancer”, and if you vaccinate with Gardasil, “you could be one less” too (Modelinthecity, 2006). Similarly, the ‘I Chose’ campaign presents a selection of women who explain why they chose to vaccinate with Gardasil. One woman stated, “I will do everything I can to protect myself against cervical cancer”, while another said, “I chose to get vaccinated because my dreams don’t include cervical cancer” (Robertson, 2008). Through these messages, vaccinating is articulated as an act of responsibility and self-protection, whereas

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non-vaccination is lack of action and irresponsible. In short, one has the choice to either ‘protect with Gardasil’ or ‘suffer the consequences’.

The idea of individual responsibility, the effort towards ensuring one’s health, and the acceptance that individuals “are culpable for adverse consequences when they do not adopt preventive measures” is “enshrined in a utilitarian philosophy according to which responsible people will choose to behave rationally and avoid health risks” (Guttman and Ressler 118-119). To do otherwise would not only “evoke an unpleasant state among receivers about the negative consequences of their behaviour” (Visschers et al. 260), but it would also indicate that one is imprudent and irresponsible (Guttman and Ressler 118). Therefore, being at risk is “a disease state that frames the individual as responsible for ensuring that risk does not become reality” (Batt and Lipman 50).

In Ontario, there is a prevailing cultural attitude that women are morally obligated to take responsibility for their health and the health of others. The risk communication of HPV is “symptomatic of the ways in which women’s bodies and lives have been subjected to and transformed by processes of medicalization” (Polzer and Knabe 345). On the one side, Elder women are placed in positions of responsibility to ensure that those they love and care about are adequately informed about the risks they face. On the other, young women who choose to get vaccinated are depicted as “practicing ‘decision autonomy’ by acquiring the ‘facts’ about HPV and cancer” in order to protect their bodies (Mishra and Graham 57). Thus the act of immunizing against HPV becomes an act of empowerment (Mishra and Graham 58).

The gender segmentation in the marketing of Gardasil is a “propitious strategy for defining problems and promoting medical solutions” that serves to exploit and reinforce gender boundaries (Conrad 11). HPV is a virus that affects males as often as it does females, and poses similar risks, such as anal cancer and genital warts (“HPV Vaccines”, n.d.) The Canadian National Advisory Committee on Immunization recommends HPV vaccination for males ages nine to 26 years (Canadian Cancer Society, n.d.). Nevertheless, the “possession of an innately female biological body part is the clinically endorsed criterion for inclusion into a government-sponsored immunization cohort” (Mishra and Graham 59). As such, the HPV vaccine is marketed for females only. The framing of HPV as a women’s issue “obscures evidence that HPV is carried by both males and females” (Polzer and Knabe 345) and reiterates how women’s bodies have become objects of medical control (Conrad 11). Additionally, the responsibility to get immunized, and encourage the immunization against HPV “burdens women with a commitment to good prophylactic behaviour” (Mishra and Graham 59).

The case of HPV and Gardasil in Ontario demonstrates the way in which cor-

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porations, organizations, institutions, and pathogens come together in discourses of clinical risk. More specifically, “the reception of a new vaccine is the product of a complex interplay of science, marketing, healthcare politics and practices, media representations and social perceptions” (Mishra and Graham 64). These actors interact in intricate ways that affect social norms in “changing definitions of behaviours and intervention” (Conrad 11). Since the first announcement by Merck & Co. Inc. for their HPV vaccine, there have been a range of conflicting views about Gardasil, yet the vaccine still remains a prominent aspect of public health policy in Ontario.

In addition, the HPV infection discourse, the risks associated with it, and the push for individualized responsibility to mitigate risk by inoculation demonstrate how processes of medicalization operate as a mode of social control. The risk discourse surrounding the case of HPV is grounded in the ideas of ‘patients as consumers’ and ‘individuals as responsible citizens’. Furthermore, the moral implications of inoculating pre-teenage girls against STI’s for the purpose of achieving public acceptance are neglected. These factors serve to exploit and reinforce the prevailing cultural attitude that women bear the responsibility for preventing illness.

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Works Cited Abdelmutti, N., and L. Hoffman-Goetz. “Risk Messages About HPV, Cervical

Cancer, and the HPV Vaccine Gardasil: A Content Analysis of Canadian and

U.S. National Newspaper Articles.” Women & Health 49.5 (2009): 422-

440. Print.

Batt, S., and A. Lippman. “Preventing Disease: Are Pills the Answer?” The Push to

Prescribe: Women and Canadian Drug Policy. Ed. A. Rochon Ford and D.

Saibil. Toronto: Women’s Press, 2010. 47-66. Print.

Conrad, P. “Medicalization and Social Control.” Annual Review of Sociology 18

(1992): 209-232. Print.

Conrad, P. “The Shifting Engines of Medicalization.” Journal of Health and Social Behavior 46.3 (2005): 3-14. Print.

Dailard, C. “The Public Health Promise and Potential Pitfalls of the World’s First

Cervical Cancer Vaccine.” Guttmacher Policy Review 9.1 (2006): 6-9. Print.

Guttman, N. and W.H. Ressler. “On Being Responsible: Ethical Issues in Appeals to

Personal Responsibility in Health Campaigns.” Journal of Health Communication 6 (2001): 117- 136. Print.

“HPV Vaccines.” Canadian Cancer Society, n.d. Web. 26 November 2013. <http://www.cancer.ca/en/cancer-information/cancer-101/what-is-a-risk- factor/virusesbacteria-and-other-infectious-agents/hpv-vaccines/?re gion=on>.

“Learn About Gardasil.” Gardasil. Merck Canada Inc., 2012. Web. 28 November 2013. <http://gardasil.ca/what-is-gardasil.html>.

“Make the Connection.” Cancer Research and Prevention Foundation, Step Up

Women’s Network, Merck & Co., Inc., 2005. Web. 28 November 2013. <http://www.michigancancer.org/gefiles/MTC_Brochure_9-12.pdf>.

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Marlow, L., Waller, J., and J. Wardle. “The Impact of Human Papillomavirus

Information on Perceived Risk of Cervical Cancer.” Cancer Epidemiology,

Biomarkers & Prevention 18.2 (2009): 373-376. Print.

Maule, A.J. “Translating Risk Management Knowledge: The Lessons to be Learned

From Research on the Perception and Communication of Risk.” Risk

Management, Special Issue: Translating Risk Management Knowledge

into Practice 6.2 (2004): 17-29. Print.

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Web. 1 December 2013. <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hJ8x3KR75fA>.

Mishra, A. and J. Graham. “Risk, Choice and The ‘Girl Vaccine’: Unpacking Human

Papillomavirus (HPV) Immunisation.” Health, Risk & Society 14.1 (2012):

57-69. Print.

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Schedules for Ontario. Toronto: Queen’s Printer for Ontario, 2008. Web. 28

November 2013. <http://www.health.gov.on.ca/en/ms/hpv/>.

Polzer, J. and S. Knabe. “From Desire to Disease: Human Papillomavirus (HPV)

and the Medicalization of Nascent Female Sexuality.” Journal of Sex Research

49.4 (2012): 344-352. Print.

“Publicly Funded Immunization Schedules for Ontario – January 2009.” Ministry

of Health and Long Term Care Schedules for Ontario. Toronto: Queen’s

Printer for Ontario, 2009. Web. 30 November 2013.

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December 2013. <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZHUamYNSH9c>.

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Web. 30 November 2013. <http://www.budget.gc.ca/2007/pdf/bp2007e.pdf>.

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2008. Web. 1 December 2013. <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4yV7S pHOcrw>.

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Visschers, V. H. M., P.M. Wiedemann, H. Gutscher, S. Kurzenhäuser, R. Seidl, C.G.

Jardine, and D.R.M. Timmermans. “Affect-Inducing Risk Communication:

Current Knowledge and Future Directions.” Journal of Risk Research

15.3 (2012): 257-271. Print.

Vogels, S. “Good Girls and Gardasil: The HPV Vaccine and Sexual Health

Discourse in Popular Media.” University of Calgary, 2009. Web. 26 November

2013. <http://comcul.ucalgary.ca/GoodGirls.>.

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Negotiating Masculinity: How Infertility Impacts Hegemonic Masculinity

I

Myscha Burton

n contemporary Western society, hegemonic masculinity is constructed as an ideal for all men to portray. A system of binary oppositions is created wherein any behaviours or characteristics that deviate from this construction are seen either as feminine or as a subordinate version of maleness. Men are socialized to strive towards a particular kind of physical body, a lack of emotional display, power and dominance, and the pride associated with trumpeting one’s sexual prowess and fertility. Men whose masculinity differs from this construct, such as those who are infertile, are often shamed and viewed as more feminine. Infertility is seen as a masculine failure, effeminate, and is increasingly regulated as an ‘illness’. Infertility is seen as a medical problem due to the ways in which infertility transgresses the norms of hegemonic masculinity. Medical discourses function in a way that moves men towards accepting the hegemonic norm rather than an alternative male identity. Infertile men are seen as deviant based on the norms associated with hegemonic masculinity; infertility causes men to reconstruct and renegotiate their own male identity because they deviate from the constructed norms of hegemonic masculinity.

Moreover, a diagnosis of infertility directly impacts the day-to-day experiences of infertile men and how their masculinity is constructed, and therefore shapes one’s constructions of their masculinity in relation to this ‘illness’ outside of what is defined as normative.

I. Hegemonic Masculinity

Before discussing the impact of infertility on one’s sense of masculinity, it is helpful to examine the Western construction of hegemonic masculinity. The masculinity that is deemed ‘normative’ in Western culture is closely linked to a masculine identity that is historically based and reflective of white patriarchy. The kind of masculinity that is constructed as the ideal to which all men should strive is closely tied to physical strength, dominance, and heterosexuality (Millington and Wilson 1670).

There is also an emphasis on physical size and muscularity as a reflection of masculinity (Grogan and Richards 224). In addition, men are expected to deny help (as they are too strong to need it), exhibit a lack of emotional display, and display sexual

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virility in accordance with heteronormativity (Gannon, Glover, and Abel 1169). It is important to note that these stereotypically masculine characteristics are not innate male characteristics. Instead, they are socially constructed characteristics that have become intrinsic to the gendered performance of masculinity in a way that links masculinity to power and dominance.

A body with these physical traits is characteristic of hegemonic masculinity in that it displays self-control; self-control is required for the cultivation of a large and muscular body. Those who do not achieve this ideal are seen as lacking self-control, a trait that is valued in hypermasculine identity (Grogan and Richards 226). As part of a larger patriarchal structure, hegemonic masculinity is rooted in characteristics that reflect and maintain a system of gender hierarchies wherein men dominate (Courtenay 1394). Socially constructed ideals of masculinity, however, can also be harmful to men. The physical realization of these constructions is often unattainable or unrealistic, and is based on a hypermasculine identity that is unnatural for many men.

Consequently, a hierarchy is formed within masculinity wherein men who do not embody this ideal are seen as subordinate (Grogan and Richards 229). The emphasis placed on size as part of the ideal male body negatively impacts men’s self-identity if they do not measure up to the constructed norm (Grogan and Richards 220).

II. Infertility as a Social Construction

A diagnosis of infertility is a social construction that enables a hierarchy between bodies and gender oppression. Apart from adverse health effects that may be associated with various causes of infertility, is infertility itself an illness? Most medical responses to this question are in the affirmative. Nevertheless, while infertility itself is typically viewed as an illness, it is critical to examine the reasons behind this classification.

Infertility is a prime example of the process of ‘medicalization’, or the “process by which certain behaviours come to be understood as questions of health and illness” (Griel, McQuillan and Slauson-Blevins 736). This critical perspective calls attention to the ways that a diagnosis of infertility is laden with negative meanings and marked as an illness (Conrad and Barker 67). For instance, infertility affects both men and women, albeit in different ways. The medicalization process reflects the existing system of constructed binary oppositions and stereotypical gender roles wherein women are expected to be mothers, and men are expected to demonstrate high degrees of virility. Infertility is viewed negatively for both men and women because of the ways that it forces the renegotiation of a gendered identity outside of hegemonic norms. Moreover, patriarchy is evident in the construction of infertility as an illness because infertility is more often attributed to women, and thus associat-

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ed with femininity. Accordingly, infertility poses a threat to one’s masculinity since the diagnosis is antithetical to the values of hegemonic masculinity (Griel, McQuillan, and Slauson-Blevins 741). Men are socialized to embody the hegemonic form of masculinity, and to fear and degrade that which exists outside the norm. These socialization norms serve to regulate the kind of masculinity that men strive to embody; fear about infertility encourages men to conform to hegemonic masculinity.

While the diagnosis of infertility may be based on biology, the negative views that surround infertility and the need to treat infertility are social constructions rooted in the ways that infertility transgresses norms of hegemonic masculinity.

The role of patriarchal power is closely linked to the formulation of infertility as a medical problem. Gender norms are constructed, legitimized, and maintained by androcentric medical knowledge, which reflects Western social and cultural notions of gender in which rigid definitions of gender normativity are constructed and any behaviours or traits existing outside of these norms is seen as deviant (Conrad and Barker 73). Several of the ways that medical institutions in Western society express social anxieties about female sexuality are similar to the ways that they express anxieties about male sexuality (Conrad and Barker 73). For instance, research on men and infertility suggests that social anxieties about male infertility are found in the treatment options available for Klinefelter Syndrome. Studies show that men with Klinefelter Syndrome, or the presence of an additional X chromosome, risk an increased difficulty in coping with social situations (Van Rijn et al. 1635). Findings of increased stress are linked to the presence of the additional X chromosome, yet there is little discussion in the medical literature that looks at men with Klinefelter’s and a distinctly different physical body. It is possible that this stress may be a result both of the physical markers of difference, and the ways in which men perceive their own concepts of masculinity as being judged against the hegemonic norm rather than the additional X chromosome.

Linking observed emotional traits in Klinefelter men with autism is also a failure to acknowledge the impact that physical differences in a masculine identity can have on one’s social interactions (Van Rijn et al. 1638). Although infertility may be linked to other health problems, it is premature to isolate emotional stress to an additional X chromosome. Though viewed as an illness, the health implications of Klinefelter’s Syndrome are not well known. While it is assumed that Klinefelter men may experience adverse health problems, such as breast cancer, testicular cancer, cardiac disease, and various metabolic diseases, there is little evidence that the additional X chromosome is linked to any of these illnesses (Sokol 263). Although there is little known about the direct health implications for men with Klinefelter’s Syndrome, one probable reason that there is an emphasis on treatment for this ‘syn-

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drome’ is because of the stigma that surrounds male infertility. Accordingly, these ‘treatments’ can be seen as an attempt to medically shape masculinity around defined norms, such as sexual virility as obtained through hormone replacement therapies.

This demonstrates the way in which discourse is constructed to reflect social anxieties about infertile men. Rather than looking at social and cultural expectations on masculinity and how these create stress, infertility is seen as a health problem and is linked to other health issues.

Infertility is seen as a problem in that it compromises male power and what has been defined as normative. There tends to be an overemphasis on a man’s sexual prowess that has been derived out of the norms within hegemonic masculinity. Infertility is not simply a medical issue, but also a socially defined problem that is reflected through treatments which move men closer towards the norms of hegemonic masculinity.

III. Infertility as Deviance

Since hegemonic masculinity is rooted in norms of hypermasculinity and heteronormativity, infertility poses a direct threat to the image of the ideal man (Gannon et al. 1170). There is a high level of stigma against infertile men because they are seen as transgressing the constructed form of idealized masculinity (Gannon et al.

1170). Moreover, research has tended to emphasize concerns about the ‘social deviances’ observed in men who are infertile over the health implications of infertility itself (Van Rijn et al. 1634). These concerns can partially be attributed to the role of heteronormativity in the construction of the ideal male. Sexuality is vital to this construction, and infertility poses a threat to these norms (Gannon et al. 1172). There is a high degree of stigma around infertility largely because of the way it is viewed as a taboo subject. Regarding men, infertility is taboo because it forces the embodiment of an alternative masculinity that is outside of hegemonic norms (Elliott 300). Men who do not achieve the idealized form of masculinity are viewed as deviant from other men because they do not fit within the rigid norms of hegemonic masculinity (Dudgeon and Inhorn 39).

IV. Infertility and Body Image

Being diagnosed as infertile changes one’s identity and body image because infertility conflicts with the norms of hyper-masculinity. While some men do not root their identity in their ability to procreate, procreation is nevertheless a key aspect of hegemonic masculinity. Often, “a man’s sense of masculinity, his ability to perform sexually and his capacity to be a biological father…” are a large part of what constructs a man’s concept of his own masculinity (Elliott 297). Based on the ideal-

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ized construction of masculinity in Western society, a “social [and] cultural expectation [exists] that in order to fulfil his masculine role, an able-bodied man must be simultaneously sexually functional and fertile” (Elliott 300). Infertility may not only influence one’s perceived self-image of their gendered identity, but it may also accompany differences in one’s physical body. For example, Klinefelter Syndrome is often linked to physical traits that deviate from the ideal masculine body, such as a low sperm count, decreased testosterone production, decreased size of the penis and testicles, less facial and body hair, wide hips, and gynecomastia (enlarged breasts tissue in males) (Van Rijn et al. 1634). The physical markers that may accompany infertility can negatively affect one’s psychological perception of self and increase levels of stress because they differ from the ideal masculine body. As a result, men may try to compensate for their diagnosis of infertility and these physical markers by becoming hypermuscular (Millington and Wilson 1682).

V. Infertility as Deficiency

Infertile men are viewed as deficient (Gannon et al. 1174). This deficiency violates the norms associated with masculinity, and therefore causes a crisis in the identity of an infertile man. Based on the constructed ideals within hegemonic masculinity in Western society, a burden is placed on infertile men since they are seen as “not being a ‘complete’ man” (Elliott 299; Dudgeon and Inhorn 31). The concept of masculinity itself is often measured in relation to the characteristics that define hegemonic masculinity. Men who are infertile do not embody these traits, and thus are viewed as lacking. As such, infertility is a marker of deficiency in one’s masculinity because it does not fit within these norms, thus marking the individual as less masculine (Dudgeon and Inhorn 45).

VI. Masculinity and Health Care

Infertility poses an additional problem to constructions of masculinity since a diagnosis of infertility is often accompanied by an increase in contact with health care professionals. In the United States, men tend to engage in more risk taking behaviours and underutilize health care options as a way of demonstrating their masculinity (Courtenay 1388). Correspondingly, men who seek help from others are viewed as weak and unmasculine. Thus infertility forces men to renegotiate their identity in relation to health care practices. The result of men having to increase their contact with health care practitioners is viewed as seeking help, and thus “undermine[s] men’s privileged position and threaten[s] their power and authority in relation to women” (Courtenay 1397).

It is also important to examine the role of treatment options for infertility in

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relation to the construction of masculine ideals. The medical discourses that concern infertility are generally constructed in a way that attributes negative meaning to infertility, deems it a medical problem, and therefore shapes the relationship between an individual and their medical condition (Conrad and Barker 69). Rather than examining the health risks and side effects of infertility, there is a much greater emphasis on increasing one’s sperm count and remedying this transgression of masculinity (Quallich 279). Furthermore, current research on male infertility is overly focused on linking the additional X chromosome to behavioural problems (Sokol 261). While this research is not unimportant, there is a gap in the existing research that fails to examine the ways in which infertility conflicts with and forces an alternative to hegemonic masculinity (Dudgeon and Inhorn 37; Gannon et al. 1175). Medical discourses can be seen as contributing to existing stigmas and perpetuating the fear of infertility by suggesting that infertility is the cause of behavioural problems and increases the risk for adverse health conditions. Greater focus is needed in exploring the way a diagnosis of infertility impacts one’s mental health and self-image.

VII. Infertility as Feminine

The threat that infertility poses to masculinity is connected to the problematic assumption that anything which exists outside of the norms of masculinity must be attributed to femaleness, and thus men who deviate from these norms move closer towards embodying female attributes. In this way, infertile men are closely linked to qualities typically associated with femininity, such as being weaker and in need of aid (Gannon et al. 1173). Due to a system of binary oppositions that are maintained by hegemonic masculine discourses, “men’s sexuality is sanctioned and encourages, while women’s sexuality may be closely monitored, constrained and condemned” (Dudgeon and Inhorn 31). A binary opposition is formed here where men are expected to trumpet their sexual ventures and women are expected to hide them. However, for infertile men, a different form of gender discourse, and thus, a different kind of masculinity is constructed. Infertile men adopt similar techniques to women wherein they do not discuss their sex lives for fear of the stigma attached to infertility and the feminine traits associated with a lack of sexual prowess.

As previously discussed, infertility is often associated with other physical changes in the body, such as in the case of men who have Klinefelter’s Syndrome.

Certain physical differences in infertile men not only conflict with the norms defined within the “machismo discourse”, such as strength and virility, but also cause infertile men to have a greater concern for their body – a trait that is viewed as feminine (Grogan and Richards 229). Behaviour associated with hegemonic masculinity is constructed in opposition to normative feminine behaviours; where seeking help is a ste-

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reotypical feminine trait, the denial or refusal of help is viewed as masculine because “men are more powerful and less vulnerable than women” (Courtenay 1389). Men therefore reject behaviours that are deemed as feminine, such as seeking medical aid.

A diagnosis of infertility compromises this strategy since infertility is assumed to be a marker of weakness or deviance based on norms of hegemonic masculinity.

VIII. Conclusion

The socially constructed ideal of a male is rooted in notions of dominance, heteronormativity, and physical capabilities. The negative stigma that surrounds infertility is socially constructed and based on the ways in which infertility creates a new form of masculinity outside of the existing construct of what is defined as ‘normal’ for men. The ways in which infertility causes men to reshape their own definitions of masculinity threatens existing gender norms because new alternatives to masculinity are being shaped. Fear of infertility is largely due to the stigma associated with the diagnosis because one’s sense of masculinity, rather than potential health issues, is the primary concern. In keeping with hegemonic masculinity as the ideal, any form of transgression is critiqued and stigmatized in order to minimize difference. The pressures to perform hegemonic masculinity can be harmful to one’s sense of identity, and trigger anxiety in infertile men for fear of being shamed. One area of research that requires further exploration is how infertile men embody alternative forms of masculinity and how they negotiate their own sense of self relative to fertility.

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Works Cited Conrad, Peter, and Kristin K. Barker. “The Social Construction of Illness: Key

Insights and Policy Implications.” Journal of Health and Social Behaviour 50.1 (2010): 67-79. Print.

Courtenay, Will H. “Constructions of Masculinity and their Influences on Men’s

Well-Being: a Theory of Gender and Health.” Social Science and Medicine 50.10 (2000):1385-1401.

Print.

Dudgeon, Matthew R., and Marcia C. Inhorn. “Gender, Masculinity, and

Reproduction: Anthropological Perspectives.” International Journal of

Men’s Health 2.1 (2003): 31-56. Print.

Elliott, Stacy. “The Relationship Between Fertility Issues and Sexual Problems in Men.” The Canadian Journal of Human Sexuality 7.3 (1998): 295-303. Print.

Gannon, Kenneth, Leslie Glover, and Paul Abel. “Masculinity, Infertility, Stigma

and Media Reports.” Social Science and Medicine 59.2 (2004): 1169-

75. Print.

Greil, Arthur, Julia McQuillan, and Kathleen Slauson-Blevins. “The Social

Construction of Infertility.” Sociology Compass 5.8 (2011): 736-46. Print.

Grogan, Sarah and Helen Richards. “Body Image: Focus Groups with Boys and

Men.” Men and Masculinities 4.3 (2002): 219-32. Print.

Millington, Brad and Brian Wilson. “Context Masculinities: Media Consumption,

Physical Education, and Youth Identities.” American Behavioural Scientists 53.11 (2010): 1669- 88. Print.

Sokol, Rebecca Z. “It’s not all About the Testes: Medical Issues in Klinefelter Patients.” Fertility and Sterility 98.2 (2012): 261-65. Print.

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van Rijn, Sophie, Hanna Swaab, Andre Aleman and Rene S. Kahn. “Social

Behaviour and Autism Traits in a Sex Chromosomal Disorder: Klinefelter

(47XXY) Syndrome.” Journal of Autism and Developmental Disorders

38.9 (2008): 1634-41. Print.

Quallich, Susanne. “Examining Male Infertility.” Urologic Nursing 26.4 (2006):

277-88. Print.

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Extraction and Empowerment: The Application of Traditional Knowledge Within the Development of the NWT BHP Ekati Diamond Mine Daniel Vanclieaf

I

n the midst of a widespread resource boom, the Canadian Arctic plays host to a crucial balancing act between aboriginal subsistence and the pressures of modern economic development. The recent resource attention in the Northwest Territories (NWT) has jeopardized the traditional practices of aboriginal communities, forcing government agencies and private corporations to implement new and innovative institutions that allow the corporations and the communities to coexist.

The inclusion of traditional knowledge in the development process has been fundamental in accomplishing these goals and ensures the needs of aboriginal peoples within the context of the broader Canadian economy. Traditional knowledge has allowed the preservation of aboriginal subsistence, but has also yielded pertinent information to private corporations to minimize environmental impacts and reduce production costs, exemplified in the BHP Billiton Ekati Diamond Mine. This article will define traditional knowledge in the context of northern development and highlight the established policy and institutional framework of its use in the NWT using the case study of the NWT BHP Ekati Diamond Mine. Furthermore, this article will identify current challenges and barriers to implementing traditional knowledge and formulate a possible solution that tackles these issues.

I. What is Traditional Knowledge?

Traditional knowledge can be defined as the â&#x20AC;&#x153;knowledge, innovations and practices of indigenous and/or local communities developed from experience gained over the centuries and adapted to local culture and environmentâ&#x20AC;? (Kwaitowski 435).

This knowledge, sometimes known as Traditional Ecological Knowledge (TEK), is qualitative in nature and is built through years of experience identifying patterns and processes within the local environment and wildlife. These observations are documented in contrast to modern scientific observations taking a more holistic, abstract approach (Berkes 1251). These differences can lead to significant conflict, but have also allowed traditional knowledge to provide new insights into the development process. Traditional knowledge is able to capture what scientific analysis cannot, adding to the depth of ecological information and encouraging an appreciation of

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the relationship between aboriginals and the environment (Huntington 1273). This relationship between external knowledge collection and the greater institutional context is highlighted by Berkes, who identifies the application of TEK into a number of different fields, as seen in Figure 1 (1257).

Fig. 1. Level of analysis in traditional knowledge and management systems (Berkes 1257).

In its application, TEK can help predict and prevent adverse environmental effects, and has been incorporated into development processes in order to reduce the overall impact on both wildlife and the environment (Ellis 67).

II. Traditional Knowledge in Policy

The incorporation of traditional knowledge into northern development practices is unique to the NWT and represents a new, innovative process. Government policy that mandates aboriginal participation and institutions that are developed to foster traditional knowledge serve to empower aboriginal communities, and enable them to have some control over their own future (Ellis 69). Linking traditional knowledge and development relies on a two-tiered system, broken down into the policy framework and the supporting initiatives, or top-down and bottom-up approaches. The policy framework is the official acceptance of traditional knowledge, as applied through government policy and institutions (Ellis 67-69). The second tier is primarily initiative driven and focused on developing and maintaining traditional knowledge and ensuring it has an effect on policies and development (Ellis 69). The applicability of these bottom-up initiatives varies with each development and will be

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explored in the context of the Ekati Diamond Mine.

In 1993, the territorial government established the Traditional Knowledge Policy, acknowledging “aboriginal traditional knowledge is a valid and essential source of information about the natural environment and its resources, the use of natural resources, and the relationship of the people to the land” (Usher 184). According to this guiding principle, the main avenue for the incorporation of aboriginal traditional knowledge within the NWT is through Environmental Assessment (EA). EA emerged in the NWT as a result of comprehensive land claims – which established a series of local and regional management boards responsible for issues of wildlife –community development, and land use planning, ultimately ensuring traditional aboriginal lifestyles (Ellis 68).

Within this process, efforts to institutionalize requirements for traditional knowledge stem from the Mackenzie Valley Resource Management Act, 1998 (MVRMA). The MVRMA establishes a series of public boards to manage the use of land and water within the Mackenzie Valley region, as well as establishes mechanisms to monitor the cumulative impacts of development (MVRMA, 2007). The Act defines the Mackenzie Valley as the entire Northwest Territories, excluding national parks and encompassing the aboriginal peoples of the Gwich’in, Sahtu, Tlicho, Dene First Nations, and Metis located in the North and South Slave regions (MVRMA 2007).

The Act created two formal institutions, the Mackenzie Valley Land and Water Boards (MVLWB) and the Mackenzie Valley Environmental Impact Review Board (MVEIRB). The MVLWB, operating at a regional scale, grant permits for the use of water and land by development and acts as a pre-screening mechanism for environmental assessment (Ellis 68). These boards review proposed developments and refer certain projects to the MVEIRB for a comprehensive assessment. The Impact Review Board is the authoritative body responsible for environmental assessment, replacing the Canadian Environmental Assessment Agency in the region (Ellis 68).

These boards cooperate to ensure the needs of aboriginal communities and to form a unique link between land use permitting and environmental assessment (MVRMA, 2007).

Under this framework, each project is subject to a preliminary screening conducted by the MVLWB, which identifies the level of public concern and environmental impacts. If necessary, projects are referred to an EA or an impact review, in which a more comprehensive study is conducted by the MVEIRB. Within this framework, aboriginal groups have the ability to make recommendations in the pre-screening process, based on the need to incorporate aboriginal traditional knowledge (Ellis 68). TEK is also mandated within EA and impact reviews, through public hearings and requirements for aboriginal consultation. These hearings provide an avenue for

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groups to express concerns and work with developers to identify issues associated with traditional land use, such as the movement of wildlife (Ellis 68). Aboriginal peoples represent half of the panel members of the MVLWB and the MVEIRB, serving as advocates for aboriginal groups and ensuring mandated commitments to traditional knowledge.

III. BHP Ekati Diamond Mine

Working in cooperation with this framework, the developments of the BHP Ekati Diamond mine represent the unique nature of development within the NWT. In 1994, BHP Diamonds Inc. submitted a project proposal for the development of the regionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first diamond mine. Completed in 1998, the requirements laid out in the EA process served as the benchmark for future development in the NWT, adapting a series of bottom-up institutions encouraging the use of traditional knowledge.

The BHP project served as the catalyst for the aforementioned policy framework, establishing many of the institutions and practices that became mandated under the MVRMA.

The site of the Ekati mine lies within a complex network of aboriginal land uses and areas of traditional hunting, mainly that of the Tlicho and Dene First Nations.

The siteâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s location is also in conflict with a caribou migration route that is essential for the survival of these aboriginal communities and a watershed from which several communities draw drinking water (Fitzpatrick 98).

Currently producing three percent of the global diamond output, the Ekati mine is of critical importance to the economy of the NWT, but also has a significant impact on the environment (Infomine, 2013). To mitigate these effects, the project was recommended to partake in a public panel review within the EA process. The panel consisted of four members with expertise in aboriginal peoples (Fitzpatrick 100). Under this process, traditional knowledge was made mandatory in the collection of baseline information, impact prediction and monitoring, thus ensuring a commitment to aboriginal traditional land use and socioeconomic well being (Kwiatowski 434).

In the early stages of the assessment process, ten scoping hearings were conducted in affected aboriginal communities, establishing a series of guidelines required in the EA report (Kwiatowski 435). Most of these guidelines revolved around aboriginal communities, but also included the consideration of health, cultural patterns, infrastructure, resource use, employment, education, and training (Kwiatowski 435).

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IV. Application of Traditional Knowledge in the BHP Process i. Prior to Development

To fulfil these commitments, a series of bottom-up initiatives were created, working in combination with the established policy framework, to introduce aboriginal TEK into the mine development process. One of these initiatives was the Interim Resource Management Assistance Program (IRMA), which allowed aboriginal peoples to participate in the EA process, providing them with financial aid to ensure the consideration of TEK (MVRMA, 2007). Funding was also provided by BHP, totalling $255,000 for participation within the EA process (Fitzpartick 100). This type of support is fundamental in that it subsidizes the cost for those who wish to participate for lost income.

This financial backing was accompanied by numerous studies and monitoring programs developed within the assessment process, including the Traditional Knowledge Study on Community Health and the West Kitikmeot Slave Society (WKSS).

The first of these initiatives created an independent community based monitoring program that was conducted by the Lands and Wildlife Committee and was comprised of members of the regionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s youth, elder committees, and the band council. The program established a series of indicators representing the most pressing concerns of aboriginal peoples within the Ekati EA process. These indicators assisted in allowing BHP to understand the true scope and origins of aboriginal concerns (Fitzpatrick, 2007). This first initiative has continued into present day development negotiations, recording and collecting previous studies and ensuring their use within the BHP Ekati Diamond Mine operations.

In response to the guidelines set out in the assessment process, BHP assisted in the development of the West Kitikmeot Slave Society, which directed a research program focused on collecting baseline information for the EA Report. The study was primarily socioeconomically based, like the Traditional Knowledge Study on Community Health, collecting indicators on â&#x20AC;&#x153;traditional and scientific knowledge, development of cross-cultural research linkages, and the implementation of community research training opportunitiesâ&#x20AC;? (Fitzpatrick 99). Prior to the development of the Ekati mine, the WKSS conducted three major studies: The Community-Based Monitoring Project, Traditional Knowledge Study on Community Health and the Community-Based Monitoring Cycle Three (Mining Watch, 1999). Furthermore, the society has the ability to choose which projects it funds, granting them a significant amount of power in setting the research agenda (Fitzpatrick 100). Through direct monitoring and evaluation of aboriginal needs, these initiatives directly incorporate traditional knowledge into the development process.

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ii. Post development

In cooperation with the pre-development initiatives, BHP created Impact Benefit Agreements (IBA) in consultation with affected aboriginal communities upon completion of the project. These agreements outline specific commitments ensuring aboriginal communities receive a benefit from development. This is largely accomplished through employment targets and economic development, but also establishes commitments to mitigate the adverse socioeconomic effects of development (Mining Facts, 2012). In forming these commitments, traditional knowledge is often applied, developing baseline information regarding aboriginal lifestyles and establishing sustainable levels of environmental and wildlife disturbance (Fitzpatrick 102).

Throughout the Ekati process, seven of these agreements were adapted with separate aboriginal communities, more than any other diamond mine project in the territory (IBA Research Network, 2013). Agreements were established between BHP and the Lutsel Kâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;e Dene, Yellowknives Dene, Tlichno, Akaitcho, Kuglukuk, Kitikmeot Inuit and North Slave MĂŠtis communities (see fig. 2).

Fig. 2. IBA List for the Ekati Diamond Mine (IBA Research Network, 2013).

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In many cases these IBA contain what Fitzpatrick called “superadded responsibilities”, which require the company to maintain specific commitments to aboriginal peoples (102). These responsibilities are usually outlined in environmental and socioeconomic agreements. Of particular importance, the environmental agreement outlines provisions for an environmental monitoring board, composed of members from First Nations groups and all levels of government. These monitoring programs ensure the application of traditional knowledge past initial project development (Fitzpatrick 102).

Finally, upon completion of the EA, BHP, in cooperation with the government of NWT, established the Community Harvesters Assistance Program. This program, applied across the Mackenzie Valley, grants subsidies geared at supporting traditional aboriginal land use and subsistence activities, lowering the costs associated with its practice. As explained by Ellis, “such subsidies help ensure that traditional knowledge is continually being updated through people’s experiences on the land” (Ellis 69). This allows traditional knowledge to make a significant impact on future developments in the region, working in cooperation with the monitoring programs identified above to ensure the growth of traditional knowledge within aboriginal communities.

V. Challenges

Although the BHP Ekati mine has incorporated a significant amount of aboriginal traditional knowledge in the development process, the full extent of TEK has yet to be realized. Huntington explains that this lack of acceptance is due to issues of inertia and inflexibility (1237). Issues of inertia represent the resistance faced by traditional knowledge due to its foreign nature, which significantly differs from conventional methods of data collection. Challenges are also presented by the changes required in applying traditional knowledge, and the inflexibility of established institutions. In many cases, traditional knowledge faces a significant amount of doubt, largely due to the contrast existing in relation to scientific knowledge, which questions the reliability and the effectiveness of knowledge obtained by these non-scientific sources (Huntington 1273).

The overarching policy framework identified above is monumental in mandating aboriginal consultation, but is vague regarding its implementation (MVRMA, 2007). In many circumstances, organizations and companies are able to carry out these mandates on a case-by-case basis, which are often primarily business-oriented. These interpretations place the onus on aboriginal peoples to discuss traditional knowledge within development. This is explained by Ellis, who argues “many agencies perceive the participation of aboriginal people in environmental governance process as constituting consideration of traditional knowledge” (70). Vague interpretations

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undermine the goals of the act, passing participation as an application of TEK (Ellis 70).

Aboriginal traditional knowledge is also threatened by the ideals of “Euro-Canadian Institutions” (Ellis 75). The information resulting through traditional observations conflicts with scientific knowledge, and is seen as challenging conventional power structures by giving a voice to objectives opposite the institutional status quo (Ellis 74). For this reason, the practice has gained little ground. Modern research techniques conflict with the methods employed throughout the traditional knowledge process, which are focused on social science and oral traditions. This conflict is exacerbated due to the long process needed in documenting TEK, which in many cases is limited by the temporal and financial abilities of research collection. For this reason, thorough studies of traditional knowledge are not always justifiable in terms of development, and therefore reduce the ability of aboriginal peoples to apply TEK in the development process (Huntington 1273). In many cases, this has resulted in reduced application, aptly summarized by Huntington, who argues, “insistence on a TEK component of every ecological research and management activity will only succeed in reducing TEK to a token” (Huntington 1273). This argument highlights the point that stricter enforcement of traditional knowledge is not necessarily the best solution.

There are also a number of practical challenges that limit the ability of aboriginal communities to convey important issues. The aforementioned processes requires a significant amount of scientific and technical understanding of a number of fields, an understanding that is extremely difficult to achieve within northern aboriginal communities. This difficulty is due in part to the lack of available resources and barriers between the Euro-Canadian and aboriginal educational models (Ellis 74). In many cases, this requires aboriginal communities to hire third party representatives, thus reducing the effectiveness of their own observations, as seen in the Ekati Diamond project. The technical and scientific nature of the assessment process represents the inflexibility of modern institutions, restricting the ability of aboriginals to participate effectively within it (Ellis 75). There is also a significant language barrier, both in understanding aboriginal oral traditions and specific modern terms. Traditional knowledge is often difficult to interpret because it is often recorded in highly metaphorical and analogical language, leading developers to glaze over certain issues due to a lack of understanding (Ellis 72-75).

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VI. Solutions

In addressing these challenges, solutions must, in part, originate from topdown authorities, ensuring the application of traditional knowledge in development through formal laws and regulations. The existing policy framework is a good starting point, but it needs to be improved by applying strict mandates regarding the implementation of traditional knowledge requirements. These changes must be made primarily within the MVRMA, where there is no direct reference to the implementation or consultation of traditional knowledge exist, and no formal definition of aboriginal traditional knowledge (MVRMA, 1998). Many of the issues regarding the misuse of traditional knowledge are due to a lack of understanding of TEK, amongst both policymakers and developers (Usher 184). Clearing up the language within the act can be critical in applying consistency to what is considered traditional knowledge, forcing companies to discuss traditional knowledge, where applicable.

Accompanying this policy change, a number of bottom-up approaches must be taken as well. As explained above, the territorial government, in cooperation with companies such as BHP, have developed a number of initiatives that foster the growth of traditional knowledge, but other fields, such as education programs, are significantly underdeveloped. As identified by Ellis and Huntington, aboriginal peoples face a noteworthy language and educational barrier when entering the development process. Bottom-up initiatives need to be applied, focusing on the development of education programs and ensuring aboriginal peoples have the ability to affectively participate in decision-making processes. Policy change can only go so far and must be accompanied by an increased capacity among aboriginals to participate, thus helping to overcome barriers that dull the potential of TEK in development (Ellis 74).

VII. Conclusion

The past 15 years have yielded significant growth in the policy framework regarding traditional knowledge within the NWT. The BHP Ekati Diamond Mine environmental assessment process has had a significant impact in shaping this growth, establishing landmark institutions and initiatives to foster traditional knowledge at the local level. Despite these developments, there are significant challenges regarding its implementation, resulting in the misuse and neglect of certain aboriginal issues.

The proposed solutions outlined in this article seek to address these concerns from both a top-down and bottom-up approach, defining the use of traditional knowledge and encouraging the ability of aboriginals to participate in the development process.

In doing so, these solutions assist in overcoming the issues of inflexibility and inertia during a time of rapid northern development. Aboriginal traditional knowledge is

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essential in the development process because it encourages consideration about environmental effects and aboriginal land use, and provides a wealth of unique ecological knowledge.

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Works Cited Berkes, Fikret, Johan Colding, and Carl Folke. “Rediscovery Of Traditional

Ecological Knowledge As Adaptive Management.” Ecological Applications 10.5 (2000): 1251-262. Print.

Cheechoo, Ben. “Aboriginal Peoples and Mining in Canada: Six Case Studies.”MiningWatch. MiningWatch Canada, 1 September 1999. Web.

12 November 2013. <http://www.miningwatch.ca/aboriginal-peo ples-and-mining-canada-six-case-studies>.

Ellis, Stephan C. “Meaningful Consideration? A Review of Traditional Knowledge

in Environmental Decision Making.” Arctic Institute of North America 58.1

(2005): 66-77. Print.

Fitzpatrick, Patricia J. “A New Staples Industry? Complexity, Governance, and

Canada’s Diamond Mines.” Policy and Society 26.1 (2007): 93-112. Print.

Huntington, Henry P. “Using Traditional Ecological Knowledge in Science:

Methods and Applications.” Ecological Applications 10.5 (2000): 1270-274.

Print.

Kwiatkowski, Roy E., and Maria Ooi. “Integrated Environmental Impact

Assessment: A Canadian Example.” Bulletin of the World Health Organization 81.6 (2003): 434-38. Print.

“List of Known IBAs.” IBA Research Network. Impact and Benefit Agreement

Research Network, 2012. Web. 12 Nov. 2013. <http://www.impactandbenefit.

com/IBA_ Database_List/>.

“Mackenzie Valley Resource Management Act (S.C. 1998, C. 25).” Legislative

Services Branch. Government of Canada, 1998. Web. 12 November 2013. <http://laws-lois.justice.gc.ca/eng/acts/M-0.2/>.

“NWT Environmental Assessment.” Government of Canada; Aboriginal Affairs and

Northern Development Canada; Communications Branch. Government of

Canada, 15 September 2010. Web. 12 November 2013. <http://www.aandc. gc.ca/eng/1100100027510/1100100027511>.

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Parlee, Brenda, Manseau Micheline, and Lutsel Ke Dene First Nation. “Using

Traditional Knowledge to Adapt to Ecological Knowledge Change:

Denesoline Monitoring of Caribou Movements.” Arctic Institute of North America 58.1 (2005): 26-37. Print.

“The Mackenzie Valley Resource Management Act.” Government of Canada;

Aboriginal Affairs and Northern Development Canada; Communications Branch. Government of Canada, March 2007. Web. 12 November

2013. <http://www.aadnc-aandc.gc.ca/eng/1100100023530/1100100023532>.

Usher, Peter J. “Traditional Ecological Knowledge in Environmental Assessment

and Management.” Arctic Institute of North America of the University of Calgary 53.2 (2000): 183-93. Print.

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The Imam and the Pastor: Attempts at Peace in Nigeria using Interfaith Dialogue Jinelle Piereder We are grateful to God that we have learned this ability to hear one another, and create a safe space to dialogue. Without which, we would always be assuming things from afar. And you can kill somebody based on assumption.

We have learned a bitter lesson.

N

- Pastor James Wuye, The Imam and the Pastor

igeria is burdened with a history of violence that is particularly entrenched in conflict between Christian and Muslim groups. These clashes seem endemic, with the Plateau and Kaduna States experiencing some of the worst violence. More recently, the disenchanted Islamist group Boko Haram has been responsible for numerous brutal attacks and hundreds of deaths in Yobe State and Borno State (Johnson, 2013). Religion is only one factor in these conflicts; other factors include ethnic divisions, disputes between locals and migrants, land ownership, class conflict, and the burden of a colonial past. Efforts have been made by local administrators towards conflict resolution, but different aspects of these proposed solutions have been rejected by the Christian and Muslim communities. Since 1995, however, a new effort has taken place in Kaduna, Plateau, and other areas, with notable success and growing international recognition. This article examines the work of Imam Muhammad Ashafa and Pastor James Wuye in the field of peacemaking via interfaith dialogue in Nigeria. More specifically, this article focuses on a five-day interfaith workshop for Christian and Muslim youth held in Kaduna in 2003. Led by Imam Ashafa and Pastor Wuye, the workshop focused on confronting and revising religious stereotypes, misconceptions, and prejudices among the youth. Following the founding of the Interfaith Mediation Centre in Nigeria in 1995, Ashafa and Wuye gradually gained the attention of the international community regarding their faithbased peacemaking strategies (Smock 17).

After establishing some historical context for the current conflict in Nigeria, this article introduces the personal histories and belief systems of Ashafa and Wuye.

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The focus then turns to the five-day youth workshop in Kaduna with a focus on the goals of the conference, the experiences of the participants, and the short and longterm results of the event. The next section highlights some successes and critiques of this workshop, and of Ashafa and Wuye’s approaches. Finally, the current context of Nigeria is examined in order to provide insight into the challenges and gaps for this kind of peace work in the future. The goal of this article is to demonstrate that in conflicts where religion is a significant factor, it is perhaps more effective to use both religious and secular peacemaking strategies rather than ignoring the former. Even if religion is not the main source of conflict, religious peacemaking offers unique elements that conventional conflict resolution strategies do not necessarily provide.

According to David Smock, “[w]hen communal identities, particularly religious identities, are key causal factors in violent conflict, traditional diplomacy may be of little value in seeking peace or conflict management” (1). For example, a religious environment may be especially conducive to expressions of apology, repentance, and forgiveness. While religion is often seen as part of the problem and an instigator of conflict, Ashafa and Wuye offer a case that demonstrates religion can be part of the solution (Bennett, 2012).

I. History and Context

In situations of Muslim-Christian conflict, religion tends to overshadow other factors that contribute to these disputes. While there may be tensions between religious groups, the conflicts themselves are usually grounded on much more. In fact, the conflict in Nigeria is based more in colonial burden, territory disputes, ethnic divide, poverty and injustice than religious difference or intolerance. Religion is simply one of the easier identifiers in a country where 50 percent of the population is Muslim, 40 percent is Christian, and 10 percent identifies with other indigenous traditions. Nigeria is incredibly diverse and complex, with a current population of over 160 million, composed of nearly 350 ethnic groups speaking 250 languages (Johnson, 2013). During the Colonial period, Muslims were put in charge of the North, while the white Christian colonists and missionaries ruled the South. Even after Nigeria’s independence, this North-South divide deepened, perpetuating cycles of violence (Bennett, 2012). The Niger Delta, Kaduna, and Plateau States, or the “Middle Belt”, are where the predominantly Muslim North meets the predominantly Christian South (Reuters, 2013).

One of the main conflicts is between Muslim nomadic herders and Christian farmers – the two groups clash as herders travel through farmland. Furthermore, climate change and an ever-growing Sahara desert also means herders have to travel further south for resources. The oil-rich Niger Delta is also a source of tension as the

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resource is developed by mostly transnational companies, with little profit trickling down to Nigerians (Markoe, 2012). Additionally, religion is frequently used to incite violence in an effort to fight political or ideological battles, as is the case with Boko Haram. The group, whose name colloquially translates as ‘Western education is sinful’, is an Islamist group that operates predominantly in northeast Nigeria, and upholds the vision of a fully Islamic State. Nigerian analyst Chris Ngwodo calls Boko Haram, “a symptom of decades of failed government and elite delinquency finally ripening into social chaos” (Johnson, 2013). As with many extremist groups, their reasons for existing are based on experiences of poverty and injustice (Johnson, 2013). President and Founder of the Tanenbaum Center for Interreligious Understanding, Georgette Bennett, put it as follows:

For Christians, how does a gospel of love turn into a gospel of hate toward

fellow countrymen in Africa? For Muslims, how does a religion of peace get

turned into a mandate for murder in Iraq, the Sudan, Nigeria and elsewhere?

The answer: religion, misused for political purposes, makes a combustible

mixture that distorts religion’s core values and leads to mass

destruction. (Bennett, 2012) In 1992, a violent conflict broke out in Zongon Kataf, Nigeria; this is where our main actors, the Imam and the Pastor, came onto the scene.

II. The Pastor and the Imam

The son of a soldier in the Biafra war, James Wuye, was born in a small town in Zamfara State. As a child, Wuye was brought up in the Baptist Church but attended Catholic schools and was baptized as a Catholic (Marshall, 2011). Wuye claims that after an adolescence involving heavy alcohol consumption and womanizing, he felt a call from God, via a sermon, to change his life. Wuye went on to pursue a Bachelors and Masters of theology in Kaduna, and eventually became a Pentecostal minister in the Assemblies of God Church, and vice president of the Christian Youth Association of Nigeria. In the late 1970s, Wuye became a Christian activist, and in response to what he understood as religious persecution, began a Christian youth militia group in 1992 (The Imam and the Pastor, 2006). In contrast, Mohammed Ashafa came from a very strong religious background. Born in Mani Katsina State, Ashafa is the 13th generation of Imamship in his family. In the late 1970s, this generation of Imamship was astutely aware of the Iranian Revolution. The Saudi ‘brand’ of Islam concerned with societal purification was especially present in Nigeria at the time. The Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt had a strong influence on Nigerian Muslim youth. In con-

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trast to his father’s generation, which was traditional Sufi, these Islamic trends were Salafi and much more concerned with social and political practices than merely the spiritual elements of Islam. Ashafa eventually became the first Secretary General of the Muslim Youth Council, which pressed for Sharia law and Islamicization, and the leader of a combat center defending the “real” Islam against Christians and “false” Muslims (Marshall, 2011).

In 1992, Wuye and Ashafa fought on opposite sides of a conflict in Zongon Kataf. During the clashes, Wuye lost his right hand, and Ashafa lost his 70-year old spiritual mentor and two cousins (Smock 17). Wuye expresses, “My hate for the Muslims then, had no limits” (The Imam and the Pastor, 2006). For years, the two young men plotted revenge against each other, but they did not meet face to face until May 1995 at a UNICEF meeting at the Governor’s house (Marshall, 2011). A mutual friend challenged them to make peace when he said, “[t]he two of you can pull this nation together, or you can destroy it. Do something” (Bennett, 2012). Ashafa’s epiphany came after hearing an Imam talk about the power of forgiveness, stating:

Yes, it is written in the law that you can invent an evil equal to the evil done to you. You have right to take a redress. However, the Koran teaches further.

That it is better to turn the evil to that which is good. The Muslims who are here today: you refuse to forgive those who hurt you, those who persecute you. How can you be an embodiment of Mohammed? (The Imam and the Pastor, 2006)

Wuye’s epiphany came later after a pastor told him, “[y]ou cannot preach Christ with hate. Christ is love, and the message he carries is love. If you will truly do this work, you must learn to forgive them for every hurt against you or against anyone that you have loved” (The Imam and the Pastor, 2006). Through several meetings and exchanges when Ashafa came with a team to visit Wuye’s mother in the hospital, Ashafa and Wuye gradually built a foundation of trust and mutual respect, and helped found the Interfaith Mediation Centre (IMC) in 1995.

Ashafa and Wuye’s relationship, however, is not without its challenges. While they have gained increasing support, there are still religious leaders and communities who question or condemn their actions and motivations. Moreover, although sometimes they do not talk for days out of frustration, Wuye states, “We are like a husband and a wife that must not divorce. If we divorce, our children will suffer. And because of our children, which is the global community, the Nigerian youth, and Christians and Muslims, we cannot separate” (The Imam and the Pastor, 2006). The IMC, now with over 10,000 members, reaches into the militias and trains Nigeria’s youth, wom-

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en, religious figures and tribal leaders to become peace activists. They also lead Muslim and Christian youth in rebuilding the mosques and churches they once destroyed through violence (Bennett, 2012). An interview with the two men provides insight into how they understand and follow their faiths now. For Ashafa,

[t]he essence of Islam is faith, tradition, to shift people from hate to love, from hate to cooperation. It started from Muhammad in Mecca when he insisted that there are no slaves and no masters, we are all equal before God. When he had victory over Mecca, instead of transferring hate, he transferred love to the people of Mecca. Instead of vengeance, he transferred the hand of cooperation. (“The Imam and the Pastor: Cooperating for Peace”, 2008)

Ashafa also emphasizes religion as a compass for one’s life, and the need to love and respect all God’s creations. Similarly, Wuye focuses on the need to live out one’s faith in their character and actions, working towards divinity. Speaking about the importance of understanding one another’s faiths, Wuye states:

We are not preaching compromise…We are preaching that people should accept that they differ and they can do nothing about that but accept the reality. Now, in accepting the reality you explore the basic tenets of each other’s faiths: While that is done, mutual respect will grow, but also you begin to love, respect and listen to the other one. (“The Imam and the Pastor: Cooperating for Peace”, 2008)

In the film The Imam and the Pastor, Ashafa says about Wuye, “[e]ven though he’s not a Muslim, I like him. I would give my life to protect his honour and dignity. This is what Islam taught me to do. And I live by these principles.” Likewise, Wuye states, “I love him because I’m told to love my neighbour as myself. I live by that principle” (The Imam and the Pastor, 2006). The story of Ashafa and Wuye’s personal conversions to peace are part of what makes their work so effective. Both Ashafa and Wuye aim to demonstrate what they ask of their fellow believers – to forgive and to understand others.

III. The Youth Workshop

While there are many examples of Ashafa and Wuye’s interfaith work, this article will focus on a five-day youth workshop in Kaduna that was held in anticipation of the 2003 Nigerian elections. The two religious leaders were especially concerned

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about youth because they are one of the most vulnerable demographics in Nigeria due to high unemployment rates, and the general attitude that youth are merely “hoodlums-for-hire” (Look, 2012). Militia groups often use religious or ethnic slogans for recruitment; these tactics easily attract disenchanted and unemployed young people.

Nevertheless, Ashafa and Wuye believe that young people have a great potential for peace work and conflict resolution (Ashafa and Wuye 21). The participants for Ashafa and Wuye’s workshop were chosen from across Nigeria, and all held positions of influence among their peers. The program had the following goals:

• transform religious youth from being in the vanguard of violence to instruments of peace by exposing them to conflict resolution skills; • increase understanding and improve relationships between Christian and Muslim youth nationwide; • set up a network of peace advocates among religious youth and extend religious dialogue to the grassroots; and • establish conflict monitoring and de-escalation structures in all six geopolitical zones [of Nigeria]. (Ashafa and Wuye 21)

Religious and government officials as well as media representatives were invited to attend and observe key moments in the conference; the workshop received substantial publicity in Nigeria (Ashafa and Wuye 21).

During the first two days of the Kaduna conference, the Muslim and Christian youth communities met separately, and engaged in discussions about a number of topics, such as the rights of nonbelievers in religious communities, the concept of ‘neighbour’, respect of religious minorities, and common beliefs and practices. In the divided groups, participants were also able to express fears and expectations about meeting the other group, which proved to be an important preparation for the rest of the workshop (Ashafa and Wuye 22-23). The next three days of the conference included exercises and dialogue for the entire group of youth, focusing on incorporating faith-based principles and references from the Quran and the Bible into mainstream conflict resolution strategies. Many observers were particularly impressed with the Imam and the Pastor’s ability to quote freely from each other’s holy books. The Muslim and Christian youth were able to share positive and negative statements about the other faith group, highlighting false stereotypes and misconceptions and engaging in an ongoing facilitated dialogue. For example, Christians said that Muslims are self-centered, lazy and very aggressive, but also that they are prayer conscious, have a sense of unity, and are generous. Likewise, Muslims stated that Christians are uncompromising and blackmail Muslims deliberately, but also that they cooperate

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effectively, have foresight, and are industrious. By addressing these misconceptions and stereotypes, this exercise and others allowed for open and intimate dialogue, and created a safe space to work on establishing a culture of peace (Ashafa and Wuye 23).

At the end of the five-day workshop, the participants had developed a 17-point Muslim-Christian Joint Communique regarding peace (see Appendix 1). It highlights some of the character-based causes of Nigeria’s religious conflicts, such as lack of understanding, respect and patience, and emphasizes the need to practice principles of honesty, restraint and forgiveness when handling conflict. The Communique also shuns religious bigotry in politics, expresses desire to cultivate a culture of nonaggression, emphasizes freedom of religion and cross-religious understanding, and resolves to promote equity, fairness and justice. Furthermore, it calls on the media to avoid inciting journalism and recommends the establishment of an interfaith media monitoring unit and a central interfaith body in Nigeria. Finally, the Communique expresses concern over the failure of security services to respond effectively to early warning signs of religious violence, and commits Muslim and Christian youth to cooperate with the government in exposing perpetrators of violence in the name of religion (Ashafa and Wuye 23-24).

IV. Successes and Challenges

According to Ashafa and Wuye, the workshop contributed to reducing violence during the April 2003 elections, and inspired efforts to establish interfaith centres and promote peace in communities across Nigeria. Furthermore, it brought about a renewed government involvement and support for interfaith peace initiatives (Ashafa and Wuye 24). The workshop is considered a great success in the field of religious peacemaking, and has contributed to the larger success of Ashafa and Wuye’s work. The religious leaders went on to use their methods in Yelwa-Nshar, Nigeria in 2004, successfully negotiating a community Peace Affirmation; a similar peace accord was also reached in the city of Jos (Smock 20). Ashafa and Wuye’s methods have since been applied in Kenya, Chad, Egypt, North and South Sudan, Burundi, northern Ghana, and Sierra Leone (Marshall, 2011). The religious leaders also travel internationally giving lectures, including a visit to Ottawa in November 2011 (Initiatives for Change International, 2011). Together they published The Imam and the Pastor: Responding to Conflict in 1999, and in December 2006, FLTfilms produced The Imam and the Pastor sponsored by Initiatives for Change International, who were eager to publish the leaders’ successes (IOC, 2006). The film has since garnered international attention, with screenings by World Vision and other NGOs (IOC, 2013), and, most recently, the film won the distinguished German Hessian Peace Prize in October of last year (IOC, 2013). A follow-up film, An African Answer, was produced in 2010

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depicting Ashafa and Wuye’s work in Kenya. Author David Steele has produced a facilitator’s manual for the films so that others can successfully use the documentary in their own workshops (Steele, 2011). Both leaders have also been awarded the Heroes of Peace Award from the New York City-based Tanenbaum Center for Interreligious Understanding (“The Imam and the Pastor: Cooperating for Peace”, 2008).

While some people take issue with upper-level interfaith dialogue (between elites or religious clergy), the kind of grassroots action embodied in Ashafa and Wuye’s work has been highly applauded. By addressing personal and practical life issues and teaching conflict resolution, interfaith dialogue offers youth participants basic skills they need for better life in Nigeria (Garfinkel 4-5). Some scholars also note that Ashafa and Wuye’s workshops are successful in part because the men are seen as long-term community members with both moral authority and non-sectarian goals (Hayward 5). Ashafa and Wuye’s own experiences of violence and peace are the basis of their credibility (Garfinkel 5). The two faiths represented in this conflict situation, Islam and Christianity, also share a vision of social justice which workshop facilitators were able to invoke through the quotation of Biblical and Quranic texts (Smock 38).

Renee Garfinkel emphasizes the need for evaluating the effectiveness of interfaith dialogue programs in order to learn important lessons for future efforts. In doing this, Garfinkel claims there is a necessity for programs to have clearly outlined goals and mandates (2-3). Of course, the goal of Ashafa and Wuye’s Kaduna youth workshop was not to put an end to all religious conflict or even all religious conflict in Kaduna. Outside of establishing conflict monitoring and de-escalation structures, the workshop achieved most of its goals, including teaching youth conflict resolution skills and helping them become instruments of peace, increasing understanding and improving relationships between Muslim and Christian youth, and setting up a peace advocate network, thus extending religious dialogue. This practical approach has given participants and their peers several tools to work towards peace (Ashafa and Wuye 21). Perhaps the largest contribution that has been made in these ethno-religious conflicts is the ability of religious leaders to re-humanize situations that have been dehumanized during times of conflict (Smock 2). The question remains, however, whether these various efforts at peace, including the youth Kaduna workshop, will hold for any length of time.

V. The Present Nigerian Context

In looking at the current context of conflict in Nigeria, it is difficult to be optimistic. Incidents of violence continue to occur, and while they are largely rooted in

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socio-economic injustice, conflicts are often played out with religious identity at the forefront. For instance, in 2006, caricatures of the Prophet Muhammad led to Muslim-Christian violence where more than 150 people were killed, and many mosques and churches were destroyed (Wee, 2001). Moreover, April 2011 saw post-election riots in Kaduna which turned into religious violence that left almost 700 dead (Look, 2012). More recently, the focus on Nigerian violence has turned to the Northeast and the actions of Boko Haram (Johnson, 2013). In June 2013, Nigerian President Goodluck Jonathan officially confirmed Boko Haram as a terrorist organization, and declared a state of emergency in Adamawa, Yobe and Borno states (ZeeNews India, 2013). In October 2013, over 260 people were killed in the region in armed attacks and military operations (Gansler, 2013). Following these events, a six month extension of the state of emergency was recently approved by Nigeria’s House of Representatives (Reuters, 2013).

Although incidents of violence continue in Nigeria, efforts towards peace continue. For example, The IMC now has a weekly talk show with over two million viewers (Look, 2012). In 2009, the Nigerian Annual International Conference on Youth and Interfaith Dialogue was launched. While this conference was a dialogue between state officials, many of the attendees were, and still are, also involved in mid-level and grassroots interfaith dialogue work (ICYID, 2012). Furthermore, effective dialogue among state leaders offers a powerful model for emulation (Smock 38). For instance, a film was created to document the events at a 2010 conference for delegates and state officials in Jos (ICYID, 2012). Additionally, 156 delegates met in 2013 to discuss the role of the media towards creating a peaceful society (Uri, 2013).

Overall, Ashafa and Wuye’s work has helped increase the legitimacy for religious approaches to peacemaking. Faith can have a unifying effect; a religious environment is especially conducive to apology and forgiveness, which is the foundation of restorative, long-term peace and justice (Smock 38). However, this workshop raises some further questions, such as the effectiveness of interfaith dialogue between Abrahamic and non-Abrahamic religions. Additionally, Ashafa and Wuye’s efforts only marginally involve women. While religious violence is typically focused on males, women are also affected by the violence, whether they are victims or perpetrators. If women are predominantly in charge of raising children in these communities, one would think that mothers should be a main aspect of peace education and interfaith dialogue. It is also important for interfaith dialogue to address the larger political and economic issues that factor into the conflict; religion often overshadows some of the other central motivations for violence. In these complex conflict situations, religious leaders should have the responsibility not only to teach faith and doctrine, but work towards overall equity and justice.

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Peace can be fragile. What takes years of thoughtful work and dialogue to build can quickly be eradicated. During times of conflict and violence, what is required is a renewed and continuing commitment to nonviolent alternatives in the pursuit of peace. Religion offers a unique approach to peacemaking that encourages looking beyond personal interests or agendas toward a concept of the greater good (Garfinkel 12). While there is no guarantee that religious peacemaking will work, “[w]hat is guaranteed is that without it, diplomatic efforts have no chance of working. Religion is here to stay; ignoring it won’t make it disappear” (Garfinkel 2).

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Appendix 1 — Training Peacemakers: Religious Youth Leaders in Nigeria Muslim-Christian Joint Communique: 1. We identified causes of Nigeria’s religious conflicts as: lack of tolerance and respect for each other’s faith and practices, ignorance, failure to forgive, lack of understanding, lack of dialogue, rumor mongering, godlessness, lack of patience and restraint.

2. Resolve that in handling conflicts, both Christians and Muslims need to pray for one another, exercise patience and restraint, respect each other’s faiths and holy books, be willing to forgive and pursue peace, be honest and sincere and transparent with each other.

3. Recommend that a central interfaith body be established with branches in states, local government areas (LGAs) and wards to monitor and evaluate interfaith dialogue in Nigeria.

4. Resolve to see and love each other, unconditionally and brothers and sisters, showing good-will at all times.

5. Resolve to educate and enlighten our respective adherents, especially at the grassroots, about the true tenets of the other’s faith.

6. Recommend that Muslims and Christians freely continue to preach and propagate their respective religions as enshrined in the Nigerian constitution.

7. Recommend that we shun religious bigotry in politics.

8. Resolve to cultivate a culture of nonaggression at all times.

9. Resolve to promote equity, fairness and justice even at the expense of our respective communities.

10. Call on the media to avoid biased and inciting journalism and to be objective and truthful in their reporting particularly as it relates to matters of religion.

11. Recommend that an interfaith media monitoring unit be established.

12. Recommend that guidelines for interfaith dialogue be published and circulated.

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13. Resolve to avoid using aggressive and abusive language [as well as] avoid finding fault and being confrontational.

14. Enforce basic human rights and redress of wrongs through compensation.

15. Resolve to ensure a peaceful and successful civilian-to-civilian transition come April 2003, for the survival of our nascent democracy in Nigeria.

16. Muslim and Christian youth resolved to cooperate with the government to checkmate and expose perpetrators of violence in the name of our faiths for punishment according to the due process of law.

17. Express concern about the failure of security services to make prompt and decisive responses to early warning signals of violent religious eruptions.

Ashafa and Wuye 21-24

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Works Cited 4th Annual International Conference on Youth and Interfaith Dialogue. New Era

Educational and Charitable Support Foundation, 2011. Web. 28

October 2013.

5th International Conference on Youth and Interfaith Dialogue. New Era

Educational and Charitable Support Foundation, 2013. Web. 28 October 2013.

“5th International Conference on Youth & Interfaith Dialogue held in Nigeria.” Uri.

21 November 2013. Web. 16 February 2014.

Ashafa, Imam Muhammad Nurayn and Pastor James Movel Wuye. “Training

Peace makers: Religious Youth Leaders in Nigeria.” Religious Contributions

to Peacemaking: When Religion Brings Peace, Not War (Peaceworks

No. 55). Ed. David R. Smock. Washington: United States Institute of Peace,

2006. 21-24. Print.

Bennett, Georgette. “Interfaith Peace in the Face of Escalating Christian-Muslim

Conflict.” Huffington Post. 3 January 2012. Web. 15 February 2014.

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