It is an honour and a pleasure to be able to converse with four such generous and thoughtful readers. I am relieved that Guillaume Calafat agrees with me, rather than with Julien Duvivier, that prisoners of war are, as the saying goes, good to think with! I also appreciate their suggestions for future research avenues, which I think open up a number of exciting possibilities. In order to give those readers who have not read the book a sense of what they will get out of it, my response will focus on issues on chronology, historiography, and methodology.

This essay examines the history of what is commonly called the town-gown relationship in American college towns in the six decades after the Second World War. A time of considerable expansion of higher education enrollment and function, the period also marks an increasing detachment of higher education institutions from their local communities. Once closely tied by university offices that advised the bulk of their students in off-campus housing, those bonds between town and gown began to come apart in the 1970s, due primarily to legal and economic factors that restricted higher education institutions’ outreach. Given the importance of off-campus life to college students, over half of whom have historically lived off campus, the essay argues for increased research on college towns in the history of higher education.

This article argues that the now-widespread US practice of residency-based tuition differentials for public higher education institutions is a twentieth-century form of higher education exceptionalism carved out in law and state policy, contradicting otherwise cherished and protected rights of free movement. This contradiction has been enabled in part by the vague standard of constitutional protection for the right to interstate mobility and in part by fiscal deference to public universities that quickly recognized the potential benefits of higher nonresident tuition rates. By both defining higher education as outside of the “necessities of life” and upholding a narrative that the children of state residents had a special entitlement to lower tuition as a kind of “legacy” taxpayer inheritance, courts, legislatures, and educational institutions built a modern higher education finance structure that discriminates against the mobility of “newcomers” and any student with a complicated family structure or residency status.

This article examines a patenting conflict between the Halliburton Oil Well and Cementing Company and an independent inventor named Cranford Walker. It argues that Halliburton’s effort to lower the barriers to entry into the oil well depth measurement industry facilitated the re-emergence of materiality as a pre-condition for the patent eligibility of inventive processes. In 1941, Walker sued Halliburton for infringement of three of his patents, and Halliburton responded with an aggressive defense aimed at invalidating them. Over the next five years, the courts handling this conflict adopted very narrow legal theories developed during the Second Industrial Revolution to assess the patent eligibility of inventions that involved mental steps—processes such as mathematical computations, which people can perform in their minds. The resulting legal precedent cleared the path for Halliburton’s short-term industrial goals and continued to shape patent law for the rest of the century.

“Policing, Profits, and the Rise of Immigration Detention in New York's ‘Chinese Jails’” explains how Chinese exclusion law created a “detention economy” in upstate New York. From 1900–1909, Northern New York jails held thousands of Chinese migrants who had been apprehended by immigration authorities crossing the U.S.-Canada border, and had filed habeas corpus claims in district courts. While scholarship on Chinese Exclusion has addressed the legal battles around due process, it has overlooked the detention infrastructure that these claims produced. Because the federal immigration service had no detention facilities in the region, they “boarded out” Chinese detainees at local jails, paying counties a nightly rate for each migrant held. These contracts transformed Chinese migrants into a commodity for rural communities looking to secure federal cash, with four Northern New York counties constructing separate “Chinese Jails” in order to increase the number of Chinese migrants they could incarcerate. This article challenges the scholarship that has presented immigration detention as a Cold War era development, instead showing how communities profited off jailing migrants at the turn of the century. Through the case of U.S. v. Sing Tuck, I argue that immigration officials eventually turned to the courts to streamline deportations and reduce their need for jail space.

This article clarifies the precise connection between two early national Supreme Court decisions, the little-known Terrett v. Taylor (1815) and the landmark Dartmouth College v. Woodward (1819). The missing link between these cases is incorporation. Both disputes arose in the turmoil of post-Revolutionary disestablishment as state legislatures directly challenged the rights of colonial corporations. While Dartmouth College had been incorporated by a royal charter in colonial New Hampshire, the litigant in Terrett, a parish vestry, had been incorporated under common law in colonial Virginia. After the Revolution, Virginia's legislature disestablished the Anglican Church, disregarded its customary incorporation, revoked its post-revolutionary act of incorporation, and seized parish property. These radical policies set Virginia apart from other states and made these disputes a critical litmus test for the rights of all corporations. John Marshall opposed these policies while serving as a delegate in Virginia's legislature, and his views on these issues prefigured his opinion in Dartmouth College. Virginia's highest court upheld these policies as lawful, but the US Supreme Court's rejected them as unconstitutional in Terret. The Court's ruling in Terrett set a significant precedent for the standing of all private corporations vis-a-vis state legislatures and laid the groundwork for the Court's decision in Dartmouth College.

The history of the Social Security Amendments of 1967 illuminates the contours of fiscal citizenship. This watershed law created both work requirements for Aid to Families with Dependent Children (AFDC) recipients and new policy instruments, including federal child support enforcement, to compel poor men to fulfill their financial obligations to their families. Welfare reformers claimed that such changes were necessary to protect the rights of taxpayers against the “criminal” predations of welfare recipients. These policy changes initiated in 1967 redefined poor women's non-work, as well as their sexual and reproductive decisions, as crimes against taxpayers. Welfare recipients contested this logic and the policies that flowed from it by insisting on the value of their own domestic labor and rejecting a narrow view of taxpaying citizenship. The resolution of these questions played a critical role in revising the American social contract.

Nineteenth-century colonial jurists, sociologists, and Indian nationalists revived the ancient Indian legal concept of rakshasa marriage by bride capture after vanquishing her kinsmen, which the Hindu “lawgiver” Manu condemned but permitted to the warrior caste alone. Only the Kshatriyas, India's designated sovereigns, could break patriarchal and brahmanical authority in this way. But rakshasa marriage was also identified with the demon Ravana, who abducted Sita in the epic Ramayana, and with Hindu nationalism's Muslim enemy. Preoccupied with the loss of kshatriyahood, Hindu nationalism uniquely premised sovereignty on the power to dispossess enemy Fathers of their women: from Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay's celebration of epic hero Arjuna and Krishna's own rakshasa marriages, to the appropriation of this supposedly Muslim method by the architect of Hindutva, Vinayak Damodar Savarkar (1883–1967). Transcending the “sexual contract” in the Indian case, rakshasa marriage's association of bride capture and miscegenation with sovereignty sheds new light on gendered Partition violence, beyond brahmanical notions of (defiled) purity and honor.

Political constitutionalism understood in terms of autonomy of political judgement rather than allocation of powers – Irish case studies as example – Judicial doctrines recognise political discretion concerning rights – However, legalism or legal constitutionalism arises within the sphere of political judgement itself – Legal constitutionalism restricts political autonomy epistemically as well as institutionally

This article explores the removal or exclusion in the late 1940s of people in interracial marriages from two corners of the newly formed Commonwealth of Nations, Australia and Britain's southern African colonies. The stories of Ruth and Sereste Khama, exiled from colonial Botswana, and those of Chinese refugees threatened with deportation and separation from their white Australian wives, reveal how legal rearticulations in the immediate postwar era created new, if quixotic, points of opposition for ordinary people to make their voices heard. As the British Empire became the Commonwealth, codifying the freedoms of the imperial subject, and ideas of universal human rights “irrespective of race, color, or creed” slowly emerged, and claims of rights long denied seemed to take on a renewed meaning. The sanctity of marriage and family, which played central metaphorical and practical roles for both the British Empire and the United Nations, was a primary motor of contention in both cases, and was mobilized in both metaphorical and practical ways to press for change. Striking similarities between our chosen case studies reveal how ideals of imperial domesticity and loyalty, and the universalism of the new global “family of man,” were simultaneously invoked to undermine discourses of racial purity. Our analysis makes a significant contribution to studies of gender and empire, as well as the history of human rights, an ideal which in the late 1940s was being vernacularized alongside existing forms of claim-making and political organization in local contexts across the world.

The workhouse remains a totemic institution for social historians, yet we still know very little about the day-to-day experiences of the indoor poor. Nowhere is this clearer than in discussions about workhouse clothing, which remain overwhelmingly negative in the literature and consistent with the predominant view of the workhouse as a place of suffering and humiliation. Yet more often than not, this view is based on relatively shallow empirical foundations and tends to rely on anecdotal evidence or on the uncritical use of subjective sources such as photographs, newspaper editorials and other cultural products. This article takes a different approach by looking again at the whole range of meanings that workhouse clothing held for paupers and those who oversaw its allocation, and at the practical and symbolic usages to which it was put by them. On the basis of this evidence the authors argue that, contrary to the orthodox view, workhouse clothing was rarely intended to be degrading or stigmatising; that it would have held very different meanings for different classes of paupers; and that, far from being a source of unbridled misery, paupers often found it to be a source of great strategic and practical value.

This study examines the transplantation and evolution of business law in the late Ottoman Empire and the early Turkish republic, drawing broader implications for the economic and political determinants of legal transplantation for late industrializers. We show that the underlying political economy context was influential in shaping the way commercial law was transplanted and evolved in Turkey. Extraterritorial rights in the nineteenth century eroded the incentives to demand legal change by providing alternative legal rules to the non-Muslim commercial elite; the nation-building efforts of the twentieth century cultivated a new Muslim business class that was reliant on the state's goodwill for success and could not effectively push for more open access to novel forms of business organization.

This article examines Libyan–US relations through the historical lenses of decolonization, international law, the Cold War, and the international political economy. The Libyan government exercised its newfound sovereignty in the postwar era through the negotiation of ‘base rights’ for the US government and ‘oil rights’ for corporations owned by US nationals. They did so in conjunction with other petrostates and through international organizations such as the United Nations, the Arab League, and the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries. Libyan leaders’ strategy of using sovereignty to promote corporate competition relied on connections with similarly situated nations, and it was through global circuits of knowledge that they pressed the outer limits of economic sovereignty. At the same time, the US government consistently accommodated Libyan policies through Cold War arguments that linked the alliance with Libya to US national security. Those deep foundations of sovereignty and security created the conditions for the transformation of the global oil industry after Libya’s 1969 revolution.

The segregation laws known as “Jim Crow” are often understood as legislative efforts to promote White supremacy by shielding White southerners from contact with other races. This was not the case, however. By analyzing early railway segregation laws–in particular, the 1890 Louisiana law that was challenged in Plessy v. Ferguson–this article shows that the first post-Reconstruction segregations laws used an expansive definition of the “white race” as everyone who was not Black. In short, White purity and separation were the pretext, not the purpose, of early Jim Crow laws. Instead, the structure of legal segregation was initially determined by White, Democratic legislators' efforts to isolate and subjugate Black Americans by reinstating the racial logic of slavery, which had divided the world into Black people and everyone else. To achieve this end, White supremacist lawmakers framed laws that strategically integrated “white” train cars, all the while claiming the laws did the opposite.

This article examines the limits that academics from peripheral countries might encounter while trying to influence the decision-making process inside an international organization. Although there are different mechanisms whereby academia might influence non-academic debates, we highlight here the use of policy papers, in order to examine and discuss the non-textual barriers which might be faced by those academics. After an analysis of primary sources this article presents some pragmatic limits in the use of policy papers and discusses the consequences of this condition for the legitimation of international organizations. As such, relevant international organizations still seem to be unresponsive to some initiatives in particular: closed to the spontaneous participation of academia; and not willing to call for contributions from academic communities. This is particularly relevant for contributions from peripheral academia and other non-state actors, who lack the capability to disturb the traditional ideational power exercised by core (Western) countries and by state-centric ideology in current international law.

Historians know a great deal more about the laws and policies that first created unauthorized status than the people who had to live within these constraints. What if we tell the history of the undocumented as a history of a people, rather than a history of a state-constructed category? Scholars have noted that unauthorized status exerts broad effects on the conditions of migrants’ everyday lives, but they have focused primarily on Latinx migrants in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. The case of unauthorized migrants produced by the Chinese exclusion laws (1882–1943) demonstrates how the study of the undocumented must begin a century earlier. In order to denaturalize the conditions of the present, we must interrogate the shifting nature of undocumented life in the past.

This essay revisits the debates and legal contests that grew in Cameroon at the turn of the millennium but failed to bring justice for members of the lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer (LGBTQ) community. Several members of sexual minorities were tried in Cameroon courts and sentenced to serve jail time. In order to reflect on the state of legal limbo for LGBTQ people in Cameroon, I also revisit the South African case Minister of Home Affairs and the Director General of Home Affairs versus Marie Adrianna Fourie and Cecelia Johanna Bonthuys, which led to legalization of same-sex relationships and marriage in South Africa. In the first and longer part of the essay, I discuss the situation in Cameroon and South Africa. In the second part, I briefly discuss the different legal outcomes in the two countries. I conclude with a brief discussion of signs of hope in the critical dialogue on justice in the debate on same-sex relations in Africa. My goal in this essay is not to offer expert opinion on the legal entanglements on the question of same-sex relations, but to demonstrate that legal and constitutional protections offer the best chance for gaining the rights of LGBTQ people in Africa.

The right to privacy has long been regarded as a liberal progressive principle, one that guarantees gender-based equality and liberty in the domain of reproductive rights. Since the US Supreme Court’s renowned articulation of privacy in Roe v. Wade, privacy’s opponents have condemned the right as an illegitimate judicial invention with no basis in the Constitution. This article addresses the puzzle of why a coalition of Christian conservative legal organizations, conservative foundations, Trump administration officials, Republican party lawmakers, and trans-exclusionary radical feminists has assembled to redefine the right to privacy in service of anti-transgender politics. While much attention has been paid to the proliferation of religious liberty-based challenges to the rights of sexual and gender minorities, these accounts miss how central the fight to reassociate privacy has become in conflicts waged in state and federal courts, city and state legislatures, and ballot referendum campaigns. Although this coalition eschews any mention of Roe or reproductive rights, it does adopt a substantive due process-based interpretation of privacy’s mandate despite the typical conservative disdain for that doctrine. Additionally, the coalition frames its project as one that balances competing rights claims by defending (cis) women’s rights against allegedly lopsided trans-inclusive reforms.

Diversity, equity, and inclusion (“DEI”) in the workplace is a complex issue at any time and in any organization. However, in this time of great upheaval—COVID-19, a renewed racial reckoning in the United States, and increased climate consciousness and social justice awareness—profound issues about work and the role of organizations are being raised simultaneously. This confluence of systemic issues highlights three critically important broad concepts that can help evolve our approach to addressing workplace inequities.

Legal scholarship in Australia is under-researched. Without detailed empirical investigation, it is difficult to understand the characteristics of the scholarship in terms of topics and method/approach. Legal scholarship, like all scholarship, claims to make a contribution to knowledge. To understand and evaluate the scholarship, this article adopts an empirical method. Using a case study approach and citation counts, the article provides an analysis of all the articles published by a leading law review over ten years: 2008–2018. The article identifies the types and methods of legal scholarship in the journal and examines a sample of its most highly cited articles. The study then evaluates the impact of this scholarship with recommendations for the future.