Fundamentally, this paper is an intervention on the crucial importance of the geophysical when situating and defining the space of the Maghrib.1 Considering the age-old question, “Where is the Maghrib?,” to borrow the title of an introduction to a recent special issue of Arab Studies Journal, requires attending to the Maghrib’s unique liminality, its “interstitial position between different continents and transnational cultural formations, a variety of linguistic, ethnic, racial, religious, aesthetic, and other cultural elements [that] constitute the Maghrib. This position as a space-between-spaces makes the Maghrib a hub for human hybridization, literary creolization, artistic miscegenation, and cultural cross-pollination.”2 Although these cultural and identity-based narratives are crucial, I argue that framing the Maghrib’s liminality in terms of “space-between-spaces” concurrently requires accounting for the region’s geophysical dimension—its topography, morphology, volume, geological density, and material agency, among other markers.

Across the Arabian Gulf, oil rich countries are increasingly turning to space exploration as a way to diversify their economies and assert their global influence. In 2020, Saudi Crown Prince Mohammad bin Salman committed over $2 billion to a national space program. Bahrain, Kuwait, and Oman have launched their first satellites, and Oman recently announced plans to establish the region’s first space port alongside a research center for simulated Mars missions. Yet none of these initiatives rivals the ambitions of the United Arab Emirates, which in 2017 announced plans to establish a self-sufficient colony on Mars within a hundred years. Why have the UAE and other Gulf countries turned their gaze to human space exploration, particularly around the planet Mars?

This article makes the case for recognizing the connection between the Poor Law and the Adoption of Children Act 1926. A child who received welfare under the Poor Law could be de facto adopted by the guardians as early as the late-nineteenth century. Very little is known about this type of de facto adoption which is a significant gap because over 10,000 children were adopted in this way, and it provided the basis for latter de jure adoption. This article initiates the process of filling this gap by exploring archival resources to determine why children were de facto adopted under the Poor Law before the introduction of de jure adoption in 1926. Understanding this form of de facto adoption is important because it was justified as a mechanism of child protection, but this article contends it was another form of punishment designed for families experiencing material deprivation which directly influenced the law on de jure adoption in England. By establishing the connection between the 1926 Act and its Poor Law predecessor, the de jure adoption framework can be contextualized within its wider social history which is embedded in class conflict and distrust toward impoverished families.

In early 2011, at the height of the so-called Arab Spring, Muammar al-Qaddafi’s regime (r. 1969–2011) started to disintegrate. As violence convulsed Libya, hundreds of thousands of people fled across the borders into Tunisia and Egypt—not only Libyans, but also third-country nationals who had been living and working within Libyan borders, many from sub-Saharan Africa.1 In response, and against the backdrop of a newfound revolutionary idealism, the Tunisian government chose to keep the border open.2 In February, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) established the Choucha refugee camp, located eleven kilometers from the Ras Jadir border post—Tunisia’s first refugee camp since the Algerian war in 1962.3 That same month, the filmmakers Ismaël, Youssef Chebbi, and Ala Eddine Slim drove south from Tunis to Choucha to make a film.

From a comparative perspective, this paper argues that early Chinese empires lacked the concept of talion or tort law when malicious violence or intent became factors. Instead, wrongdoers were required to pay fines to the government or received punishment as hard labor for the state. Victims not only could not receive compensation but were sometimes punished along with the offender if their loss was perceived as a loss to the empire. I argue that the absence of corrective justice in criminal cases can be traced back to the philosophical underpinnings of the body politic, a prominent discourse in early China that viewed the emperor and the people as a single, organic entity. When people were conceived of as constituting a unified, singular entity, criminal actions against an individual were interpreted as damage to the empire. Therefore, punishments for offenders were designed to compensate the empire, not the individual. Furthermore, in the context of the body politic, the suffering of both victims and offenders was regarded as metaphysically equal, which justified frequently pardoning culprits on a large scale to secure harmony within the empire. Originally, the body politic was employed to admonish and criticize the throne, urging the emperor to align his interests with the well-being of his people, but in practice, it compromised the practice of justice.

This article examines the “beloved’s male camel section” in classical Arabic poetry, a structural and thematic component within the traditional ẓaʿāʾin section, which depicts the departure of the beloved. It investigates the development of this significant element and explores its usage in both Umayyad and pre-Umayyad poetry, with particular emphasis on the work of the early Islamic poet Mulayh b. al-Hakam from the Hejaz region, whose contributions have been largely overlooked in modern studies. The article concludes with several key findings, notably that the beloved’s male camel section is a defining feature of Umayyad-era poetry. This study also helps pinpoint when six poems from Mulayh’s dīwān were composed and reevaluates the timeframe of another poem attributed to an anonymous poet.

This article provides a microhistorical case study centered on a Roma couple residing in Istanbul’s renowned Romani settlement, Sulukule. It sheds light on three significant historical processes related to modernity that influenced the interactions of the individuals involved: land commodification, the 1881 census reform, and the rise of both inclusive and conservative Orientalist discourses within the Ottoman ruling elite. At the heart of the narrative are Sadık and Züleyha, who aimed to purchase waqf land subdivided and offered for sale by Mehmed Efendi in Yenibahçe. Their goal was to escape the spatial segregation they experienced. They leveraged the new census policy, which eliminated the classification of Muslim "Gypsy” from official records, allowing them to present themselves as Muslim refugees from Bulgaria. However, upon discovering the couple’s Roma identity from Sulukule, their new neighbors initiated a legal dispute, resulting in the Internal Affairs Section of the Council of State voting to annul the transaction. The differing opinions among council members highlighted the competing inclusive and conservative Orientalist discourses. The article first reconstructs the case and examines the associated historical processes using extensive primary and secondary sources.

This article examines the subject of Ottoman shipping in the Indian Ocean in the two and a half centuries after 1650. With reference to both Ottoman and European sources, it first grapples with the empirical problems involved in studying the subject. It then explores how a combination of trade dynamics in the Gulf and the economic preferences of both Ottoman state and private actors attenuated the expansion of Ottoman shipping. Taken together, these factors confirm that the comparative dearth of Ottoman vessels in the Indian Ocean trade was a product of geopolitical and ecological contingency rather than entrepreneurial neglect or state aversion. Even so, as shown by two case studies, Ottoman subjects of one type or another were found in ports from Surat to Batavia at various moments before 1800. The analysis then turns to later nineteenth-century attempts by Ottoman state actors to augment Ottoman shipping. These efforts were inhibited by the contrasting incentives of private Ottoman seafarers, the dominance of European and Indian ships in the empire’s trade with India, the dislocation of nominal Ottoman territories in the Gulf, and the political economy of the Ottoman Gulf itself. Despite the fact that state-sponsored shipping came to grief, the presence of Ottoman ships in the Indian Ocean invites reflections on the highly mutable character of Ottoman identity and sovereignty, as well as the empire’s relative position in the wider commercial world of the Indian Ocean, across these centuries.

Aerial perspectives are often used to strategic ends by providing the valuable survey view instrumental to military operations, while also contributing to damage assessment and potentially to accountability efforts in the aftermath of such initiatives, via before-and-after diptychs. Precision is the lauded principle of military visioning and targeting, whereas uncertainty or ambiguity is frequently a governing characteristic of aerial photographs in civilian contexts. Aerial photographs are examples of what Allan Sekula refers to as “instrumental images” (images with primarily logistical purposes), a term that sits adjacent to Harun Farocki’s “operational images” (“pictures that are part of an operation”).1 Commenting on the instrumentality of aerial reconnaissance photographs in the context of the First World War, Sekula remarks that these images “seem to have been devoid of any rhetorical structure” so that their interpretation demanded that each photograph “be treated as an ensemble of ‘univalent,’ or indexical signs—signs that could only hold one meaning, that could only point to one object. Efficiency demanded this illusory certainty.” Given this imposed limitation of meaning, Sekula concludes, “Within the context of intelligence operations, the only ‘rational’ questions were those that addressed the photograph at an indexical level, such as ‘Is that a machine gun or a stump?’”2

France ceded territorial claims to Newfoundland to Britain in the 1713 Treaty of Utrecht, but French fishermen retained rights to operate seasonal cod fisheries along a stretch of coastline known as the French Shore. The treaty was one of several laws formalizing the property regime based on the commons that emerged among European fishermen in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Several demographic and geopolitical changes converged after the Seven Years’ War (1756–63) to raise the question of whether French fishing rights on the French Shore were exclusive or concurrent with British fishing rights on that coast. Treaty and customary law seemed at odds on this question, forcing fishermen, merchants, naval officers, and ministers to articulate what constituted property and how property should be conceived if an interimperial commons were to work. The conflicts that transpired highlighted how they answered these questions differently. Agents of the state tended to promote the commons while some British subjects tried to create a real property regime from below. Disputes over real property formation on the French Shore show another dimension of the early modern enclosure process, demonstrating both the role of the commons in empire and the challenges of resource management in an interimperial space.

Michael Willrich’s American Anarchy is at once an extraordinary history of ideas about anarchism and the rule of law, a history of lawyering, and a history of the simultaneous emergence of a capacious administrative state alongside a robust set of judicially protected civil liberties. While Willrich tells a rich and intricate story of illiberal border administration, American Anarchy also shows radical immigrants at work over decades in New York, with the border and its oppressive administrative apparatus little more than a dim memory. This essay explores how the book is more than a history of the border—it’s a history of immigrants, of how people and their ideas become distinctively American, a process that happens not through the formal rules of immigration law, but through a host of other legal processes—through contract and labor, through paying rents and acquiring property, through discrimination and the formal and informal rules of race, and through political participation, expression, and assembly. With Beth Lew-Williams and others, Willrich is part of a new wave of legal historians who are looking beyond the border to understand not just the administrative processes of immigration but its substantive transformations, and ultimately the role of law in shaping American identity.

In December 1936, producer Walter Futter announced that he had discovered a Sudanese princess named Kouka to play the romantic lead opposite Paul Robeson in Jericho (Thorton Freedland, 1937). “Princess Kouka” was not Sudanese, nor was she royalty, nor was she unknown. Kouka (née Nagiya Ibrahim Bilal; 1917–79) was an Egyptian actor who had been cast in supporting roles in Egyptian films. This article examines what media coverage of Kouka’s brief moment in the international limelight (1936–38) reveals about differing constructions of race across three race-conscious societies: the United Kingdom, where the film is made; the Jim Crow United States that Paul Robeson left behind; and colonial Egypt.