History tells us that the broader values of society can be just as important as those of psychiatry itself in shaping the way people with mental illness are treated. Historical scholarship also alerts us to the need to be circumspect about taking society’s self-declared values at face value, an example being the humanitarian reform of the care system for the mentally ill during the Victorian era where harsh and discriminating morality and a growing intolerance of society towards the marginal have also been demonstrated. Historically, in the UK, doctors have repeatedly found themselves limited in their ability to build a person-centred, therapeutic relationship with their patients by circumstances that were beyond their control, for example the overcrowding and strict legalism of the asylum system.

From the twentieth century onwards, there have been periods when society turned to psychiatry for advice about normal life. Anti-psychiatry emerged during a period when the idea that psychiatry could be a tool for social adjustment was under growing criticism; individual freedom began to be prized over conformity; and the service user movement started. One important legacy of the anti-psychiatry criticism is that psychiatry has become much more cautious about taking a public role on values.

Through a telling of my trajectories as a social historian interested in the histories of whites under apartheid, I assert the value of distance from authorizing effects of major intellectual and historiographic currents and history from the provinces. I draw on theory, methodological, and critical traditions not often employed by South Africanists, Black critical perspectives on racist society, German Alltagsgeschichte, and the historical trend within subaltern studies. This allows notions of ‘the ordinary’ in white society, questioning complicity and addressing these through various methodological and evidentiary entry points. Such historiography can disturb or energize histories of race, specifically whites, helping us to rethink the values, possibilities, and limitations of social history within the broader discipline. While the history of the provinces can be nimble and innovative, it can also become parochial and complacent. To prevent the latter, ‘the provinces’ can neither be a refuge for disengagement nor an excuse for isolation. Rather, they should be seen as a place from which one ventures regularly back to ideally multiple centres, a kind of provincial cosmopolitanism.

On his death in 1703, Pepys left his library to his old college, instructing that it be preserved ‘for the benefit of posterity’. Among this collection was his diary. This chapter demonstrates that Pepys’s choice to save his journal was part of wider plans to shape the historical record. It was a response to the hostile political climate of the 1690s and to the types of histories then being written. Pepys was an expert in creating and controlling archives – his own and others. He intended his diary to be read alongside his naval records and in conditions that would secure it a sympathetic reception. Pepys’s collecting also shows he had an expansive sense of what (and who) might be worthy of future historians’ attention. What he termed his ‘scheme’ for his library’s future was, ultimately, a design on future readers and we need to factor this in when interpreting his records.

This book explores what Europeans in the twentieth century understood by individual freedom and how they endeavored to achieve it, often against the odds. The Introduction lays out its conceptual bases, arguing that the quest was multi-faceted and unfolded in nonlinear ways, which jars with teleological narratives of the rise and decline of “the individual.” It disputes Annelien de Dijn’s recent account of one dominant concept of modern liberty and is attentive to mainstream as well as marginalized versions of individual freedom, questioning Michel Foucault’s idea that the former were “imposed on us” through disciplinary power. Instead, the book borrows from sociologist Georg Simmel and political philosopher Isaiah Berlin to stress the subjective, gradual, and unpredictable character of individual freedom and the fact that it was pursued against a range of obstacles and constraints. It tells a story of conflict-ridden expansion. Men and women had to claim their personal freedom in a context marked by world wars, the expanding power of the state, the constraints of work life, pre-established moral norms, the growing influence of America, and the uncertain future of colonial rule.

Why did European history come so late to the global turn? Europe’s past had of course always been constructed relative to its Islamic or Mongol peripheries, and later its colonial offshore. But only recently has it been understood that European and extra-European history are in a dynamic relationship of reciprocal influence. Intellectual and economic history recognized this before social history, which in its post-1960 flowering took it for granted that European social forms were both more advanced and categorically different from others. During the 1970s and 1980s, however, a generation after political decolonization, new work began to explore the impact of peripheries on the European core and to measure Europe from the outside. After 2000, a globalized European social history became visible. Its evasion of the constraints of the national paradigm has opened up striking new pan- and trans-European historical projects and methods. These are provoking new questions of how we might reconfigure European history in ways which understand eastern and central Europe in their own terms, rather than simply as the retarded extensions of “advanced” western European phenomena.

At the turn of the seventeenth century, Felipa de la Cruz penned two letters to her freed husband who had moved from Sevilla to Veracruz in New Spain. These letters reveal extended discussions of Cruz’s commitment to securing liberty for herself and their children, as she reminded her husband not to forget her desire for freedom. Felipa de la Cruz’s letters hold immense historical value as they are among the earliest known letters penned by an enslaved Black woman in the Atlantic world that have survived in a historical archive. Reading the private correspondence between Felipa de la Cruz and her absent husband also reveals the day-to-day lives of enslaved people in an urban environment. The Coda presents these two letters transcribed in Spanish as well as in English translation. The Coda also includes a map of the social ties of a generation of free and liberated Black Sevillians who were Cruz’s contemporaries in the late sixteenth century (approximately 1569–1626). The map and extended key allow readers to trace some of Felipa de la Cruz’s Black neighbors who also had ties with the Spanish Americas, and their respective socioeconomic ties across the city.

This introduction poses the central thesis of this volume: that the early Islamic empire was tied together by networks of social dependency that can be tracked through the linguistic and material traces of interconnectivity in our sources. It is suggested that the particular relationships that emerge from the granular case studies in this volume can illuminate the constituent parts of the early Islamic empire as a whole. Studies link material and textual sources, and in particular focus on the language and rhetoric used by sources to describe relations and interactions, and what they show of the modes, expressions and conditions that governed communication and interaction. It is suggested that empires are not ruled by top–down force alone, but that legitimacy and stability are created in various ways, both top–down and bottom–up.

The Introduction opens with an attempt to explain the rift that has developed between German history and German-Jewish history since the early attempts at writing academic history, during the early nineteenth century. This happened despite the fact that the two historiographies developed in parallel from the beginning, chronologically and methodically, and continued to exist well into the post-Second World War years, both in Germany and elsewhere. Social history in Germany and in the United States was eventually crucial for changing this paradigm, and the post-modern turn increased our interest in the history of minorities. Finally, gender history helped not only in adding previously neglected sectors of society into the grand narrative, but also in changing this narrative altogether. Now it could be seen from different perspectives, and in our case it is indeed being seen through Jewish eyes.