Georas analyzes different dilemmas that arise when we use robots to serve humans living in the digital age. She focuses on the design and deployment of carebots in particular, to explore how they are embedded in more general multifaceted material and discursive configurations, and how they are implicated in the construction of humanness in socio-technical spaces. In doing so, she delves into the "fog of technology," arguing that this fog is always also a fog of inequality since the emerging architectures of our digitized lives will connect with pre-existing forms of domination. In this context, resistive struggles are premised upon our capacity to dissent, which is what ultimately enables us to express our humanity and at the same time makes us unpredictable. What it means to be human in the digital world is thus never fixed, but, Georas argues, must always be strategically reinvented and reclaimed, since there always will be people living on the “wrong side of the digital train tracks” who will be unjustly treated.

Millar and Gray argue that mobility shaping is raising a set of unresolved ethical, political, and legal issues that have significant consequences for shaping human experience in the future. By way of analogy, they unpack how these emerging issues in mobility echo those that have been asked in the more familiar context of net neutrality. They then apply some of the ethical and legal reasoning surrounding net neutrality to the newly relevant algorithmically controlled mobility space. They conclude that we can establish and ensure a just set of principles and rules for shaping mobility in ways that promote human flourishing by extending some of the legal and regulatory framework around net neutrality to mobility providers.

Starting with a genealogical survey, the chapter charts how semantics shape epistemologies and explores how positionality, imagery, and the politics of referencing determine the meanings associated with certain concepts. Based on a deep reading of Murakami’s source compilations and translations, the chapter demonstrates how he forged an image of early modern gaikō by emphasizing specific events and actors and by singling out diplomatic documents. It traces how Murakami Naojirō, as the protagonist of the book, played an essential role in shaping the notion of narratives about Japan’s engagement with the outside world during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Through concrete terminological examples it also engages with the misconceptions and silences created through translational processes.

This chapter explains the rationale of the book and discusses Murakami Naojirō’s significance for Japanese historical scholarship. It sets the stage for exploring the practices institutionalized academic historians employed in constructing narratives of early modern Japan’s progressive foreign relations. Translation and hegemonic knowledge claims were major factors in this process, which had lasting consequences for global intellectual trajectories and perpetuated unequal power relations. The imperialist agenda of Murakami and his colleagues was at the forefront of hegemonic thinking about how history ought to be studied: which sources were relevant, whose actions and achievements were important, which groups had histories worth implementing into meta narratives, and whose voices were to be heard and included. The introduction also elaborates on key methodological frameworks such as entangled biography, empirical imperialism, and implicit comparison, and finally discusses important concepts as well as spatial and temporal dimensions of the study.

The epilogue discusses new and old challenges for history as an academic discipline that overemphasizes the written archive and fails to deliver on its promise to be transparent about the motivations behind and process of source selection. It highlights the shortcomings of the document-based and state-, male-, and literate-centric history-writing as a violent technology of European and Japanese imperialisms.

Before daybreak on March 1966, in a lush small town called Dunkwa-on-Offin, women traders of the Ghana National Trading Corporation, the United African Company, and the Ghana Fishing Corporation adorned their bodies with white clay and calico. Calico represented “victory.” Dunkwa-on-Offin sits halfway between Kumasi – the capital city of the formerly powerful Asante Kingdom to its north – and Cape Coast – the former colonial capital of the British Gold Coast. The women were celebrating the events from the previous month. On February 24, Ghana’s leader Kwame Nkrumah was en route to Hanoi, Vietnam, to visit Vietnamese President Ho Chi Minh via China when the National Liberation Council (NLC) instigated a military coup d’état. Nkrumah’s government collapsed. His statues and edifices followed suit. The Chinese embassy was ransacked; some of its personnel were attacked. Violence continued on the streets of Ghana, “anyone who resisted them (NLC) was brutally shot…. Even young children were hit with rifle butts.” The NLC burned any literature on socialism, communism, or Nkrumah. The women were not alone in celebrating the downfall of Nkrumah’s government. Pass-book traders, wide-eyed and impressionable high school students, and Christian and Muslim congregationalists flanked them. Unlike Nkrumah’s return to Colonial Ghana from the United Kingdom (UK) in January 1957, a few months before independence (March 6), where he was greeted by his supporters dressed in calico and dancing and singing to drums, the women traders in Dunkwa-on-Offin sang in support of the NLC.

This chapter portrays the multifaceted connections that shaped narratives of early modern Japanese–European encounters and colonial expansion in Southeast Asia. It achieves this by applying an entangled biography approach to Murakami’s knowledge networks, which integrated contemporary Japanese academia, foreign archives, and historical actors. An in-depth study of two ‘great men’ of the seventeenth century, Yamada Nagamasa and Sebastián Vizcaíno, illustrates the material and historiographical dimensions of myth-making and cultural diplomacy in the early twentieth century. The chapter finally evaluates the extent to which Murakami’s scholarship and his exposure to colonial sources contributed to the meta-narrative of early modern Japanese superiority.

Chapter 3 argues that the virulent racism Ghanaians – students, diplomats, and workers – faced in the United States, Bulgaria, the Soviet Union, and Ghana were vital in creating and shaping a global Ghanaian national consciousness. These were, what I argue, “Racial Citizenship Moments.” Calls for protection to the Ghanaian state against racism in many walks of life were central to articulating ideas of citizenship and (re-)framing the state’s duty to its people. This bottom-up pressure, bottom-up nationalism, and social diplomacy shaped the functions of the Ghanaian state apparatus, both domestically and internationally. In addition, the chapter also seeks to dispel the myth that racism functioned ‘differently’ in the Eastern bloc. It moves past the idea of Soviet and Eastern European exceptionalism, particularly its estrangement from the processes and movement of white supremacist ideas. The spread of people and ideas – a truism in life – meant that the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe were not inoculated from white supremacist ideas. While the Communist Bloc’s foreign policy statements and private diplomatic cables expressed racial equality and solidarity, through the trope of “Black Peril,” I show how anti-Black racism in the Eastern Bloc looked uncannily familiar to other parts of the globe and how its reproduction in the Eastern Bloc was devastating to Black subjects.

Chapter 1 examines the fragility and unenviability of Black independence. It shows how Black Marxists and anticolonial figures navigated and negotiated Soviet and communist linkages from the 1940s to the 1960s against attempts by white Western imperial and colonial powers to weaponize the term “communism” to suffocate anticolonial movements and suspend Black independence. Once independent, the chapter shows that the Ghanaian government’s wariness of hastily establishing relations with the Soviet government arose not only from Western pressure but from genuine fears of swapping one set of white colonizers for another. The chapter then questions the totalizing analytical purchase of using the Cold War paradigm to understand the relationship between Black African nations and white empires – whether capitalist or communist – during the 20th century. It posits that a framework highly attentive to race and racism in international relations and diplomatic history must also be employed to understand the diplomatic actions of African states during this period. By so doing, Chapter 1 follows other pioneering works to argue that Ghanaians and the early African states had agency and dictated the paces and contours of their relationship with the USSR and other white imperial states.

Lyon uses the COVID epidemic to think about the instrumentalizing role of surveillance capitalism in digital society. He argues that the tech solutionism proffered by tech companies during the pandemic too often implied that democratic practices and social justice are at least temporarily dispensable for some greater good, with disastrous consequences for human flourishing. As a counterpoint, Lyon uses the notion of an ethics of care as a way to refocus on the importance of articulating the conditions that will enable the humans who live in datafied societies to live meaningful lives. He then offers Eric Stoddart’s notion of the “common gaze” to begin to imagine what those conditions might be. From this perspective, surveillance can be conceptualized as a gaze for the common good with a “preferential optic” focused on the conditions that will alleviate the suffering of the marginalized.

Chapter 5 excavates the debates leftist and socialist thinkers in Ghana had about the brand of socialism they were building and its relationship to religion, morality, Black freedom, and precolonial African history. The chapter argues that debates surrounding how to define and historicize socialism in the African context were not simply intellectual exercises and disputes over labeling rights but central to reclaiming Africans and African history within global history. It was a deliberate critique of white supremacist paradigms that situated ideas, histories, and societies emanating from Africa as operating outside the continuum and space of human history. By rethinking and (re)historicizing histories of exploitation and violence in Africa, socialists in Ghana were simultaneously decolonizing and rescuing socialism from itself. The chapter demonstrates that socialism then was more than a fashionable lexicon or moniker to curry favor with certain geopolitical groups. Instead, it also offered a tangible way, a theoretical analytic, for Africans to revisit, debate, and offer a critical appraisal of African historiography and societies and Africa’s place in world history. Not only were the socialist theorists in Ghana domesticating socialism, they were remaking it globally. They were Marxist-Socialist worldmakers.