In 1992, amid intense controversy among both hydraulic engineers and the general public, the proposal for the Three Gorges project was submitted to the National People’s Congress for a vote. Li Peng, the Premier of the PRC, who had received training in hydroelectric engineering in the Soviet Union in the early 1950s, oversaw the submission. Despite the fact that proposals submitted to the Congress typically receive unanimous support, the Three Gorges project proposal was passed with vocal oppositions. Despite this, the launch of the massive project on the Yangtze River was seen as a triumph for individuals like Li Peng who were proponents of a technology-centered approach to development. It was broadly perceived as a statement of the Communist Party’s firm control over the Chinese people as well as the country’s land and waterways. Viewing through the lens of environmental history, water control is a crucial aspect of human societies’ relationships with the natural world. In the context of China’s long history of water management, the Three Gorges project elevated the country’s status as a major player in hydropower. From its inception, though, the project has been plagued with social conflicts and environmental difficulties. The full story of the interplay between this massive dam, the Yangtze River, and the Chinese people is yet to be told.

This chapter probes the relation of both science and Indigeneity to nationalism – and of all of these to gender. Rosemblatt focuses on a controversy that began in 1949–1950, when remains said to have belonged to Cuauhtémoc, the last Mexica emperor, were found buried in Ixcateopan, Guerrero. Two official commissions denied the authenticity of the burial, but local officials, along with the broader public, found the story expedient, and anthropologist Eulalia Guzmán lent support to their view. Intellectuals who grounded Mexican greatness in their own cosmopolitan scientific neutrality faced off against those who stressed the Indigenous roots of Mexican national identity. The episode reveals differing views of what constituted scientific proof and how science and indigeneity were related to nationalism and politics more generally. Because the pro-authenticity group was led by a woman, it provides a window onto the gendering of scientific authority. The village of Ixcateopan, the chapter argues, actively engaged science along with Guzmán and her allies.

Major founded a discipline for arranging collections, "the Taxis of Chambers." Taxis was a military term for the strategic mobile arrangements of troops and supplies. Major understood all forms of order, from nature to society, as a form of taxis. In order to advance knowledge of these other forms of order, collections needed to be remade into dynamic repositories that both supplied materials for investigating taxis and themselves could be rearrangeable as knowledge of other orders shifted. To effect this redesign, Major surveyed practices of collecting around the world in a vernacular serial. He built a broad tent for museology while integrating knowledge from a public in ways that often undermined the authority of their views. Curators ought to be experimental philosophers, he maintained. He chided those who did not appreciate order, rather than monetary value, as the most precious part of a collection. He designed shelving, signage, and cataloging to make the museum into a tool of knowledge change. Through experimentation in the collection and discussions in the conference hall, he sought to transform the collection from a site that stupefied to one that awakened awareness.

This chapter shows how human sciences researchers in Puerto Rico faced pressure to abandon earlier traditions and embrace the methods and biomedical enterprise of the United States empire’s scientific modernity. Drawing on the history of mental testing and inmate assessment as well as designs for a new penitentiary, the chapter contends that while mid twentieth-century US-American social science engaged in intense processes of othering that aligned with imperial expansion, Puerto Rican social scientists combined US-American psychometrics with older Spanish ethnographic traditions that powerfully resurfaced in the 1940s. These diagnostic and descriptive tools revealed that incarcerated people required discipline, tutelage, and treatment, but that they also had redemptive potential regardless of social difference. Social scientists put mental test results into dialogue with ethnographic narratives of convicts to forge what to them were forward-looking treatment programs, illustrating how racialized racelessness and intersubjective exchanges transformed Puerto Rican corrections for a time. The result was a blended, “creole” nationalist science with decolonial aspirations, although one that was colonial-populist in practice.

In the sixteenth-century Lutheran university, anthropological studies related the human as a microcosm analogically to the world as a macrocosm. The great chain of being dictated hierarchies corresponding to parts of the human body, forms of knowledge, and cosmic structure. Major claimed to found a new anthropology that spurned analogy and related the human to nature through experiment. He set experimental anthropology as the basis for the entire encyclopedia of arts and sciences because human cognitive processes shaped all knowledge. Major first exhibited his anthropology in a public human dissection in 1666. He deployed it against both academic and Rosicrucian views of the microcosm such as those maintained by his nemesis Johann Ludwig Hannemann. He also countered profit-driven arguments about humans. Having already argued in 1665 that the anatomist could correct Biblical interpreters’ views of black skin, he orchestrated in 1675 a public human anatomy of a Black woman, which was the first anatomical study of skin pigmentation. His colleague, Johann Nicolaus Pechlin, performed the dissection, arguing against Hannemann that skin color offered no justification for the slave trade.

In 1996, along the Yangtze River in Zigui 秭归, Hubei Province, the villagers of Guilin were in the middle of packing their belongings. Their friends and relatives were helping them to remove tiles, doors, and windows from the soon to be deluged homes. Down the hill, people were loading farm tools, furniture, and other essentials onto boats anchored along the river’s banks. Amid the din of firecrackers and farewells from their fellow villagers, the first group of Three Gorges migrants set off for their government-designated places of resettlement. Because of the low-altitude location of their residence, Zhang Bing’ai 张秉爱, together with her disabled husband, and two children, were supposed to be part of the first group of migrants. For years, thanks to the help of her maternal family, Bing’ai had been able to cope with the burdensome farm work during busy seasons. Therefore, she insisted on staying for “moving up” resettlement, requesting a flat area for residential use at a higher altitude above the state designated displacement line, which was at odds with the government’s resettlement policy. “I am just attached to this land. With land, you can have everything.” Bing’ai refused to cooperate with the government’s resettlement plan, but it was to no avail. Her home, along with what remained of those of her fellow villagers, was soon underwater. Her family ended up living in a temporary hut not far from the rising water.

Chapter 4 delves into the “great leap” of small hydropower during the Maoist period. It analyzes the distinctive feature of the expansion of the hydropower nation as it was influenced by Maoist ideology: Mass participation. Despite the common assumption that Communist China blindly pursued mega dams, Mao believed in “walking on two legs”: Large Soviet-style dams on the one hand, and small indigenous hydro projects that could be built and operated by the masses on the other. With the goal of boosting agricultural productivity and rural electrification, the PRC state mobilized communes nationwide to harness local rivers for the generation of electricity. This chapter examines local experiences of small hydro campaigns, focusing on Yongchun in Fujian Province. Across the country, tens of thousands of small hydroelectric power stations were constructed within a few years. The lack of prior hydrological investigations and professional knowledge, however, meant that many of these stations were not able to deliver stable electrical output, while they also resulted in the fragmentation of local rivers.

Chapter 1 investigates the introduction of knowledge about the conversion of river flows into electricity to China in the late Qing and early Republican periods. Despite the prominence of fossil fuel energy in the industrialized world, certain Chinese intellectuals advocated harnessing the country’s abundant river resources to produce electricity as a means of achieving full national independence. Local elites took the lead in constructing the first set of hydropower stations in southwest China, and afterwards an increasing number of Chinese elites recognized the potential of hydropower in the country. As a result, in the context of a long-term national crisis, hydropower came to be, for many people, synonymous with the strengthening of the Chinese nation.