This chapter explores how you can analyse your sources to best effect. Scrutinising primary sources – which often involves asking pertinent questions of your materials – is central to the professional practice of historians, and yet from the outside, this process can be rather opaque. As readers we are typically presented with the finished product, such as published book or journal article. Little explanation is usually given by historians on the significant stage between locating evidence and constructing a persuasive historical argument. To support researchers in this area, this chapter discusses the strengths and limitations of primary source types in relation to spatial histories, including buildings, archival materials, personal testimony, visual sources and material culture.

In recognising that freedom should not be kept apart from the conditions of its profitable exercise, a conception that blends congenially positive and negative ideals must, this book argues, propose a mode of organisation that moves beyond both the negative freedom of right-libertarianism and the positive freedom of welfare statism. In doing so, the associational anarchist conception of freedom is a distinct amalgamation of certain tenets from the self-determination and self-realisation traditions, parsed through structures that recast yet ultimately respect the inviolability of a sphere of life within which the individual is sovereign. This specific conceptual constellation may be thought of as a newly formed ‘anarcho-Marxist humanism’. Most centrally, a particular mode of egalitarian property rights is pictured that, fundamentally, is democratised to its pluralist cores. Moving beyond the bounds of statehood, political intermediation is arranged through a reinvigorated and anarchised functional devolution. Demarcated labour processes, when horizontally aligned with other equally differentiated functions, are the most enriching form of production and the optimal method of social provision. Significantly, if products are not manifested with autonomy and independent powers, so there is neither a personification of the inanimate nor a thingification of the subject, they will not exist as alienated entities, and neither will the workers who produced them. It is through these organisational forms that associational anarchism fills out in finer detail the categories that class-struggle anarchism has always rightfully endorsed.

Beginning in the middle of the eighteenth century, just as Vattel and Hübner were writing, an important new phase in the law of neutrality was beginning. Belligerents were starting to wage economic war upon one another in a more thoroughgoing fashion than before. Various innovations in belligerents' rights were not supinely accepted by neutrals. Attempts of various kinds were made by neutral states to defend their claimed rights. In the process, some far-reaching legal innovations were made. With the spectre of total war removed, at least for the time being, it would prove possible for the states of the world gradually to reach a degree of agreement on some of the specific issues of the law of neutrality, if not on its more fundamental points. A time of confrontation was about to give way to a time of accommodation.

This chapter focuses on the Hilfsverein der deutschen Juden (founded in 1901), the principal German Jewish philanthropic association, and its de facto leader Paul Nathan (1857–1927) and how they responded to the challenges that the war posed for their relief work in Eastern Europe. On the one hand, the Hilfsverein acted, knowingly and willingly, as a tool of German occupation policies in Eastern Europe. Whether the Hilfsverein liked it or not, it was part and parcel of the German war effort. On the other hand, the Hilfsverein tried to preserve its prewar co-operation with non-German relief associations, especially the American Jewish Committee and the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, which it had helped create in 1914. The chapter illustrates the Hilfsverein’s efforts to navigate its national and transnational loyalties, a dilemma that affected many philanthropic organisations at the time. Moreover, it traces the increasing ‘Americanisation’ of the philanthropic relief work in Eastern Europe, which became truly apparent in the postwar period. In the era of the Great War, the epicentre of Jewish philanthropic work irrevocably shifted from Europe to the United States.

People identified as members of ‘nomadic’ groups, irrespective of whether they in fact undertake a mobile lifestyle, are frequently cited among the groups that may be stateless or at risk of statelessness. The figure of the ‘nomad’ – which is typified by a mobile and self-reliant lifestyle (often across multiple borders), a lack of permanent residence, communal land use, and traditions of self-government – may seem challenging to the idea of the modern nation-state with its settled population, private land ownership, and centralised government structures within fixed boundaries. This chapter brings the findings of a research project conducted at the Peter McMullin Centre on Statelessness into conversation with the themes of the book. This project involved field research in three case studies – among marine Moken populations in Thailand and Myanmar, Fulbe pastoralists in Côte d’Ivoire, and Bedouin populations in Lebanon. The chapter examines how these nomadic or formerly mobile populations are considered in states’ governance and legal identity regimes. In particular, it provides a critical discussion of the practices relating to citizenship and legal identity that states employ and the difficulties they encounter in including populations with current or former mobile lifestyles. The chapter concludes with some observations about the importance of acknowledging and considering in policies and decision-making the agency and choices of these communities under rapidly changing ecological, economic, and socio-political conditions.

A compellingly complex portrait of humanitarianism in the era of the First World War has emerged in the past decade. Characterised by sharply different interpretations and disagreements about basic definitions, histories of humanitarianism display vibrant scholarly debates. Widening their horizons beyond the North Atlantic world, newer histories consider the interrelationship of imperial networks, secular and faith-inspired aid associations, and relief operations in the Americas, Africa, Asia, and the Middle East. They have deepened our understanding of populations afflicted by war such as Polish peasants, prisoners of war, and European academics who attracted focused attention by humanitarian agencies and how entangled in statecraft – belligerent and neutral – were all aid initiatives to the benefit of some peoples and the detriment of others. Efforts to save lives and rebuild societies continued long after the war officially ended because human misery did not cease upon the forging of peace settlements. These extended humanitarian endeavours comprise what is now called the ‘Greater War.

The chapter charts Argentine engagement in global humanitarian action during the First World War, tracing numerous fundraising campaigns as well as the recruitment of volunteers to serve as doctors, nurses, and stretcher-bearers in the battlefields. Like other Latin American countries, Argentina was linked to Europe through strong historical, cultural, economic, and demographic connections. The First World War thus deeply affected Argentine society on many different levels and resulted in a high degree of social, and humanitarian, mobilisation around the conflict. This chapter is the first to chart Argentine relief efforts to Europe and their significance during the Great War. It analyses, in the first place, the humanitarian mobilisation of different ethnic and social groups of Argentine society after 1914, including European immigrant communities. It shows that their initiatives became part of a transnational humanitarian effort, as demonstrated by their co-operation with the International Red Cross Committee, the belligerent countries’ Red Cross societies, and the Commission for Relief in Belgium. In the second place, the chapter reveals the competing aims of these often strongly nationalist humanitarian campaigns and the increasing challenge they posed to the neutrality adopted by the Argentine state. The chapter illustrates how humanitarian aid could become a means of social and cultural mobilisation in places that were seemingly far removed from the war’s main theatres. At the same time, it lays bare the tensions between a transnational sphere of humanitarianism and the intense nationalism of the belligerents and their local supporters.

According to international law, a person is considered ‘stateless’ if they are not recognised as a national by any country under the operation of its law. International law, then, provides an important dimension to understanding statelessness, and it is a dimension that has often been privileged. This chapter sets out to open out the discussion of statelessness to include consideration of more dimensions and how they intersect with each other. It shows how opening out the discussion of statelessness in this way provides new avenues for examining the often messy and complex ways in which the structures that govern society move people into and out of recognition. Central to this work is identifying the ‘problem’ that is being examined. While the traditional legal focus can make it easy to frame statelessness – and so also stateless people – as a ‘problem’ to be solved, a broader governance approach challenges this. Examining the relationship between governance and statelessness indicates that situations of statelessness are often underpinned by problems rooted in the governance of citizenship: in how citizenship is allocated, experienced, and even removed. Framing statelessness through governance, then, opens the way for new directions for studying both statelessness and governance. Crucially, this also makes it possible to develop new ways of both understanding and addressing statelessness and its implications.

This short chapter provides a speculative account of what the realm of freedom in associational anarchism entails. Here desires are not ranked in any order in the sense that no reference is made to the collective or individual higher-self. Where uniform procedures emerge, they will be accommodated within the civic sphere of a functional mode of organisation. This social domain is constituted through the cultural and health councils, which are required to work in union with the corresponding education and health guilds. In the process of stabilising a cooperative and complementary relationship with the civic guilds, the civic councils will assume an additional role insofar as they will also maintain the public arenas through which the physical and spiritual pursuits of local populations, the aim-independent ‘ends in themselves’, will take place. Their method of operation is explained through an inquiry into whether Marx’s communism has any role in liberal freedom, which includes a discussion on the contrast between the values of pluralism and monism. The chapter argues that this book’s redirection of Marx’s critique of capital along an associational anarchist path has profound consequences for life in the realm of freedom, which departs radically from how it turns out wherever the realm of necessity is planned and administered through a centralised authority. Certain conjectures are put forward that suggest the realm of freedom will, within its anarchist-sensitive value-pluralism, engender a very different set of values to those typically endorsed in bourgeois society.

From the mid-seventeenth to the mid-eighteenth centuries, the law of neutrality came of age. This was achieved by the growth of a network of bilateral treaties of 'amity and commerce' between the principal European states. Resolution of neutrality issues by means of bilateral treaties was not an invention of the seventeenth century. The most striking feature of the treaty network of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was its liberality towards neutrals. Neutral ships sometimes attempted to undermine the visit-and-search process in unscrupulous ways. One was by destroying crucial evidence, for example by hastily throwing the ship's papers overboard as a belligerent ship approached. If Britain was gradually emerging as a consistent advocate of broad rights for belligerents, certain other states were moving in the opposite direction. From the 1780s, the effect of British free riding was set to become more apparent, to the particular discomfiture of France, Britain's long-term enemy.

This chapter introduces the wide variety of primary sources that can be fruitful in our investigation of urban space or the built environment. In addition to giving advice about how and where to begin looking for evidence for a research project, this discussion also provides an overview of different categories of source material. These are loosely grouped as: buildings and built environments; archival materials (like inventories, government regulations, contemporary descriptions); visual sources (such as plans, maps and photos); material cultures and oral history interviews. A strong theme across this chapter is the extent to which doing spatial history demands that you use a variety of source types and engage in interdisciplinary research practices.

Throughout the nineteenth century, the code-of-conduct school of thought would have the doctrinal field largely to itself. But it continued to be a broad church, with the split between the deductive wing and the pragmatic line remaining very much in evidence. It was, accordingly, an age of diversity within this framework. More significant, though, was the fact that state practice was pushing the law in the direction of a certain uniformity, with a broad consensus for redressing the juridical 'balance of power' more in favour of the rights of neutrals than of belligerents. The high point of this trend was the adoption of the Declaration of Paris in 1856, when the world definitively resolved that the 'free ships-free goods' principle should become a rule of general law. In the nineteenth century, practice rather than theory continued to play the leading role in the evolution of the law of neutrality generally.

The chapter offers a survey of the debt of the Fletcher canon to Shakespeare’s Roman plays in general and then focuses on Valentinian, Bonduca, The False One, and The Prophetess. Valentinian is in conversation with Julius Caesar. Bonduca is shown to refashion motifs from Cymbeline and Antony and Cleopatra. The False One draws upon both Julius Caesar and Antony and Cleopatra. The discussion of The Prophetess sheds light on Fletcher and Massinger’s appropriation of Julius Caesar and Antony and Cleopatra, particularly as concerns the depiction of Diocletian, who is modelled more after Shakespeare’s Antony than the historical emperor. Fletcher appears to put Shakespeare’s Roman plays on the same level as the accounts of the classical historians, interweaving Shakespeare’s dramatic retellings of Roman history with actual historical accounts. The Shakespearean example seems to direct the choices and decisions of the Fletcherian characters by bestowing on them a kind of prescience of future events. When Fletcher’s Roman plays are considered in the broader context of the King’s Men’s repertory, the possibility arises that the effect of this Shakespearean memory could have been enhanced if the same actors performed different roles in different plays. While Fletcher’s conversation with Shakespeare’s Roman plays spans his entire career, it intensifies in 1619–23, when he seems to have been attracted to previously unpublished plays and when work towards the publication of Shakespeare’s First Folio was under way. The chapter ends by wondering whether Fletcher might have had a role in the First Folio’s preparation

Chapter 4 reads the interest in the archive among artists and art writers in light of the persistent tension between the materiality and immateriality of the archive. Much artistic practice at the turn of the twenty-first century engages with the specifically material connotations of the archive, in ways that mobilise nineteenth-century Romantic views of the archival document as containing traces of the past. This chapter argues that it is no coincidence that the timing of the archival turn in art coincided with the shift from analogue to digital media. The interest in archives is related to the sense that the indexicality – material trace – of analogue photography, established in theories of photography (Walter Benjamin, Susan Sontag, Roland Barthes), was perceived to be under threat from the advent of digital media. The phenomenon of archive art is thus shown to be tied to another pervasive trend among artists in the same time period: artistic engagement with obsolete or soon-to-be obsolete technology. Artworks such as Zoe Leonard’s Analogue (1998–2007) and Joachim Koester’s Message from Andrée (2005) anchor the discussion in specific artistic practices, where these material associations between archive and analogue media are processed.