To save content items to your account,
please confirm that you agree to abide by our usage policies.
If this is the first time you use this feature, you will be asked to authorise Cambridge Core to connect with your account.
Find out more about saving content to .
To save content items to your Kindle, first ensure no-reply@cambridge.org
is added to your Approved Personal Document E-mail List under your Personal Document Settings
on the Manage Your Content and Devices page of your Amazon account. Then enter the ‘name’ part
of your Kindle email address below.
Find out more about saving to your Kindle.
Note you can select to save to either the @free.kindle.com or @kindle.com variations.
‘@free.kindle.com’ emails are free but can only be saved to your device when it is connected to wi-fi.
‘@kindle.com’ emails can be delivered even when you are not connected to wi-fi, but note that service fees apply.
A wide range of Tokyoites took to the streets in protest in the early decades of the twentieth century, revealing competing understandings of public space and different visions of political life. Public spaces such as Ueno Park and Hibiya Park were originally planned by the Meiji government to promote state-driven nation building and imperial modernity. But citizens increasingly made their own claims on these spaces. Hibiya Park, used for official ceremonies and celebrations, also became the city’s preeminent site for unofficial mass political gatherings – a place where citizens exercised their freedom to assemble and to express criticisms of the government. In an era of popular violence, inaugurated by the Hibiya riot of 1905, citizens protested and wrought physical destruction on the city in expressions of economic discontent and in support of democracy, the emperor, and the Japanese empire.
Following military defeat by France in 1806 and domestic reforms in the Napoleonic era, after 1815 Berlin became capital of a larger and more important Prussian state, stretching from eastern outposts by the Baltic to western provinces in the Rhineland. As trade and industry grew, Berlin began a further striking transformation: from being primarily a princely residence and garrison town to a rapidly expanding industrial city. A new sense of German nationalism began to develop, alongside the development of bourgeois culture and associated institutions and buildings, while early industrialisation also meant the growth of an impoverished working class. Political eruptions in France in 1848 sparked unrest across central Europe, including Berlin. Following defeat of the revolutionary and nationalist movements in 1848–49, authoritarianism backed by military might prevailed over liberalism in a new period of reactionary conservatism under Chancellor Bismarck. In 1871, Bismarck brought about the unification of ‘small Germany’, excluding Austria, by policies of ‘blood and iron’.
In what would turn out to be the twilight decades of early modern Edo, cracks appeared in the foundations of its society and politics. Scholars of Western medicine discovered that the Chinese philosophical ideas that underpinned not just scientific understanding but also morality and the political order could be wrong. The appearance of American warships at the mouth of Edo Bay in 1853 challenged the government and culminated in the signing of humiliating treaties with foreign powers, exacerbating concerns about the shogunate’s ability to govern. And two years later, the fierce Ansei earthquake depleted government coffers, further demonstrated the limits of shogunate power, and fueled popular desires for world renewal. After the Tokugawa regime was toppled in 1868, bringing an end to the early modern order and the very notion of a shogunate, Edo was renamed Tokyo and strategically remade into the capital of an emergent modern nation.
The moment that Albert the Bear conquered the Wends is often viewed as foundational. So too are the moments when the two settlements of Cölln and Berlin are first mentioned in written records. The chapter sketches the development of the emerging twin trading towns during the medieval centuries, marked by continuing immigration and punctuated by periodic violence and bouts of plague. It concludes with the advent of Hohenzollern rule, when citizens lost their powers of self-government and the city began to be transformed into a courtly residence.
The elections of Donald Trump and Jair Bolsonaro, as well as the strengthening of the radical right globally, brought back debates of the similarities and differences between populism and fascism. This volume argues that fascism and populism are similar in so far that they constructed the people as one; understood leadership as embodiment; and performed politics of the extraordinary. They are different because there is a consensus that fascism occurred at a particular historical moment, and what came after was postfascism. There is not such an agreement to restrict populism to a historical moment. These isms also differ in the use of violence to deal with enemies, and on how they constructed their legitimacy using elections or abolishing democracy. Whereas fascism destroyed democracy and replaced elections with plebiscitary acclamation, populists promise to give power back to the people. Yet when in power the logic of populism leads to democratic erosion.
Crackdown on religious institutions characterised the onset of the postwar communist dictatorships in East Central Europe. The literature commonly assumes that the new religious policies were influenced by the Soviet Union. However, the adoption of the Soviet blueprint was not straightforward and manifested differently across various regions. This article analyses the implementation process by examining the treatment of nonlegalised religious minorities in early Cold War Czechoslovakia. It argues that beyond adopting the legal framework, the strategy was not seriously informed by the Soviet realities. Through an analysis of the state's attitude towards Jehovah's Witnesses, the Pentecostal movement and the Seventh-day Adventist Church, this study concludes that the Czechoslovak Communist Party did not have any clear plan of action. The relationship with the religious organisations developed organically. It was heavily influenced by confessional distinctions among denominations and ad hoc local decisions, highlighting a deeply decentralised approach to creating religious policies.
The last 20 years have seen growing attention in Scandinavian archaeology towards the study of the Iron Age household. The aim of this paper is to challenge the conceptions of what the household is and argue for the potential in approaching households as heterogenous, emergent assemblages, with an untapped potential in diachronic and spatial studies. Inherent in the vast archaeological record of the Scandinavian Iron Age is a capacity for broader perspectives to explore household processes’ duration and change. Drawing on theoretical insights from the Communities of Practice (COP) framework and assemblage-based thinking, the paper accentuates the household as a key arena for learning, knowledge and identity formation and a heterogeneous unit bound up in changing spheres of interaction. Household practices, or the shared repertoire of households, represent analytical mechanisms that allow for the study of variation, continuity and recalibration, thus providing essential entry points to studies of social processes.
The Czechoslovak oppositional initiative Charter 77 produced dozens of documents on human rights between 1977 and 1992. Yet it never dedicated a separate document to women's rights, even if the issue of women's equality was well represented in global human rights discourse at the time. This article explores this absence in Charter 77's intellectual production. It analyses in detail several Charter documents and samizdat publications that touched upon issues of women's equality, showing that some Charter signatories were ready to acknowledge that the socialist state granted women formal equality, while suggesting that neither material conditions nor cultural norms provided full emancipation. However, a more prevalent critique marked the socialist agenda of women's emancipation as something that restricted women's individual freedom in their personal lives. I argue that in their legalistic approach, the Charter milieu largely lacked the conceptual tools to explore discrimination against women as the manifestation of the broader imbalance of power between men and women beyond the law.
Whether referendums, initiatives, and other mechanisms of direct democracy enhance representative systems is a matter of debate. Skeptics note—among other criticisms—that turnout tends to be low in referendums, often lower than in candidate elections in the same country. If citizens do not care enough to participate, how useful can these mechanisms be for improving the quality of democratic systems? We argue that low referendum turnout has as much to do with parties’ disincentives to mobilize voters as it does with voter disinterest. Prior research on political behavior in referendums has focused largely on Europe and assumes that voters view them as elections of lesser importance. By shifting focus to Latin America, we introduce more variation in the features of political parties that influence levels of turnout. We draw on cross-national evidence, qualitative research in Colombia, and quantitative analysis of municipal-level referendum voting behavior in Brazil. The key to understanding low voter turnout in these settings is the relatively weaker incentives that political parties have to turn out the vote when control over office is not at stake. We demonstrate that, in clientelistic systems, party operatives have particularly weak incentives to get their constituents out to the polls.
Returning from a four-month tour in America, the Romanian historian Nicolae Iorga (1871–1940) stopped for a few days in Switzerland, on his way home. On May 7, 1930, he gave a lecture in Bern on medieval peasants and their struggle for freedom in the 14th century. Peasants against feudal armies inspired memories from America. However, Iorga, who was at the time preoccupied with questions of world history and comparative research, did not simply associate the War of Independence with the victory of the Swiss “peasants” at Sempach against Duke Leopold III of Tyrol. He drew a parallel between the military success of the Eidgenossen of 1386 and the defeat inflicted 56 years earlier upon the king of Hungary, Charles I, by Romanian peasants. The battle, on the 600th anniversary of which Iorga delivered his lecture, was illustrated in the Hungarian Illuminated Chronicle. The Romanian historian was convinced that the illustrator had been an eyewitness or, at least, somebody informed by a participant. There is no mention of peasants in the text of the Chronicle, but on the basis of the last illuminations in the manuscript, Iorga thought he could recognize the dress of the Romanian peasants of his own time: the woolen hat (căciulă, a sort of Phrygian cap); the long, braided hair; the leather jacket doubled with wool; the leggings; and the leather sandals (opinci). The Romanians fought like peasants as well: they cut trees in the forest, which they then pushed over King Charles and his heavy cavalry. Iorga did not find this detail either in the text or in the illuminations of the Hungarian Chronicle. He got it from the Chronicle of the Prussian Land by Peter of Dusburg, although that source is not mentioned in the lecture.
This article discusses the Swedish Business Fund (Näringslivets fond) from its creation in 1940, over the postwar decades of welfare state consensus and the radicalised 1970s into the privatisation drive of the 1980s. The article shows that the Fund was created to break the business interest out of the corporatist model and establish it as a market liberal voice in Swedish politics. In doing so, a main ambition of the Fund was to act as a battle instrument for business, and the article shows that it demonstrates a continuous presence of Hayekian thinking with the welfare state. The article revisits the story of the so-called wage earner funds debate (1976–83) and argues that the Fund saw anti-funds mobilisation in view of the preparation of a larger programme of privatisation.
While increased focus in recent decades has been paid to conceptions of time in archaeological interpretation, comparably less attention has been afforded to the way in which we ourselves conceive of time in the construction of chronologies to periodize the past. In this paper, I focus on the tripartite chronology utilized by scholars of the Precolumbian Maya as a case study to explore the potential of a critical approach to archaeological chronologies and periodizations. By examining the chronology's origins and the intellectual histories which underpin it, I demonstrate that the issues at stake are more than questions of temporal accuracy but, rather, matters of reflexivity. Through a process of ‘sublimation’, problematic assumptions and mentalities upon which periodizations were originally constructed are obscured in contemporary usage, leading to the perpetuation of outdated tropes and a conceptual path dependency in narratives of the past. Conversely, appreciating the arbitrary nature of chronological demarcations and treating such frameworks as negotiable and open to revision is a powerful tool in opening up new interpretive possibilities to the narration of the past.