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Federation was promoted as an ideal before and between the two world wars, in both colonial independence movements and internationalist thought. It also became a term for promoting reforms to imperial governance, referring sometimes to greater political and economic integration and at other times to devolution or self-rule. Writers around the world responded to these developments directly, in specific political and constitutional discussions, and through indirect engagement with federalism’s rhetorical, conceptual, historical, and affective structures. Modernists such as Gertrude Stein, W. H. Auden, Virginia Woolf, and William Faulkner exemplify the range of white metropolitan writers’ playful, earnest, and creative engagements with federal themes during the interwar period. Paradigmatic of a so-called ‘federal moment’ amidst global decolonisation movements during the post-war period, Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children illustrates federalism’s contested status as both a legacy of colonial rule and a potential mechanism for imagining postcolonial futures.
Groups who are socially excluded often lack a voice, something that holds for people with mental health conditions, especially if these are serious and enduring or if they are part of a socio-economically deprived group or a group that is marginalised because of their social identity. This chapter examines the involvement of people with mental health conditions in political and civic activities and the extent to which their human and civil rights are violated. Whilst there is a lack of studies examining the involvement of people with mental health conditions in these areas, there is nevertheless good reason to believe that they are excluded in this domain. Taking a global view of people with mental health conditions there are clear examples of violations of human and civil rights across the world’s continents. These violations take many forms and cover the following domains of exclusion: poverty, education, employment, personal, family and social relations, violence and persecution, health and access to essential services. Worldwide, people with mental and psychosocial disabilities face injustice and are not free from cruel, inhuman, degrading treatment, and punishment; they also lack the right to participate in the economic, cultural, and social life of their communities.
St. Helena’s theatrical culture after 1770 reflects South Atlantic links with slavery, revolution and theater, soon to be reanimated by the arrival and residence of defeated emperor Napoleon in 1815. A transhemispheric crossroads where the British worlds of the north and south, east and west literally converged, the island’s theatrical and social life provides a finale to this study’s examination of theater and performance in the British empire. Three specific performances – one in Richmond, London, of St. Helena, or the Isle of Love (1776), and two in St. Helena, The Revenge in 1817 (to which Napoleon was invited) and Inkle and Yarcio in 1822, after the island-wide agreement ot abolish slavery, demonstrated the systemic nature of empire, the fictions of race that it perpetrated and the performativies of human difference that undermined its structures. The Saints were transucltural players in a wider, violent and acquistitive imperial drama, performers of a hybrid and syncretic Englishness that acknowledged its diverse sources.
Chapter 5 examines how the Great Plague Scare unfolded in the entangled colonial empires of France and Spain. Despite their intertwined histories in the early-eighteenth-century Atlantic, few works in the English language have focused on Franco-Spanish colonial relations. The chapter describes the orders coming from the metropoles for dealing with the threat of plague and analyzes how those on the ground ultimately responded. In the end, it answers the question, what was different in the colonies? It opens in Fort Royal, Martinique, where a major scandal unfolded when a French vessel arrived from the Languedocien port of Sète. What I call the “Sète affair” offers the opportunity to examine the “spirit of sedition” that endured in the French Antilles well before the Age of Revolution. The chapter then transitions to plague-time violence and Franco-Spanish relations in the Caribbean and demonstrates that the demands of the metropole were not always in line with the needs or wants of the people in the overseas colonies. On the surface, disaster centralism during the Plague of Provence seemed to extend from Europe to the colonies, but on the ground, local needs and economic concerns often outweighed the demands of a far-flung ruler.
The performance of Edward Young’s The Revenge in Sydney in 1796 is used as a way to recast British-Aboriginal relations in the early years of the British invasion. Sydney became an amphitheater of struggle over contending claims of British and Aboriginal authorities, Eora clans who refused to give up their lands, exiled British felons of all sexes enraged at their fates, soldiers and sailors who bewailed their exile: revenge was on many people’s minds. How was The Revenge going to be interpreted in such a setting, by such a multitude?
This paper utilizes Monte Carlo simulation to estimate the frequency with which private property was confiscated in the Greek world in the Classical period (circa 480–330 BCE). Confiscation is defined for the purposes of this paper as the uncompensated, sudden loss of landed property. The first step is to establish the demographic context within which confiscation occurred, and then to analyze four mechanisms for the confiscation of property: exile arising from stasis; the expulsion of a population by a foreign power; andrapodismos or mass enslavement; and the imposition of a cleruchy. Other mechanisms by which confiscation occurred, but which cannot be quantified, are briefly discussed. The model shows that, based on the beliefs I hold about the four mechanisms for confiscation that have been analyzed, the average estate owner faced a 2.6–18.6 % chance of experiencing confiscation in his lifetime, with a mean likelihood of 10.5 %. This finding is at odds with the prevailing view that Greek poleis ensured the security of private property, which in turn contributed to the remarkable economic growth of the period. The conclusion suggests some possible responses by the Greeks themselves to the imperfect property security they experienced.
An abiding concern throughout Molière’s works, masculinity is a more multivalent, complex and nuanced phenomenon than one might expect. Focussing primarily on various external signifiers coded as masculine – particularly elements of appearance and dress such as swords, hairstyles, and beards – this chapter outlines the various forms that seventeenth-century masculinity can take when it intersects with other variables of age, social class, biological sex and so forth. For example, while the barbons of the older generation regard their beards as an unassailable symbol of male authority, they are troubled by their younger blondin rivals, whose gallantry and blond wigs strike them as effeminate. An even more affected mode of masculinity can be found in the bodily stylisations and verbal uncouthness of the aristocratic petits marquis. As this chapter demonstrates, masculinity in Molière emerges as something largely performed or asserted in relation to others – through domination of women or competition with other men (in duels, warfare or seduction). Such issues are starkly flagged up when cross-dressing or cross-casting are involved: in many of Molière’s plays, women’s success at passing as men, and men’s failure to pass as women, can often demonstrate the fragility of both social gender roles and men’s authority.
The final chapter discusses the long-term prospects for the Earth, including demographic changes that are likely to have important long-term implications for humanity, such as the overall decrease in the birth rate, the trends towards increasing literacy, and the importance of educating and empowering women as a factor in the economic progression of societies (perhaps the strongest predictor of economic success in a society). It reviews some of the confounding influences retarding world progression (e.g. our inherent bias towards short-term decision-making, especially in the context of debates over responses to climate change), and how some societies have helped address them successfully. In general, much of human history is the struggle between our impulses and our intellect, and there are innumerable instances of historical ‘failure’, but trends generally point towards improved economics and human rights over the long-term arc of human history.
Although largely accepted in animal biology, sociobiology has proven to be a controversial model for explaining human behavior. Nowadays sometimes termed ‘behavioral ecology’, the application of biological models to human behavior has the potential to explain a wide array of human instincts and actions. This chapter reviews the models for such putative human universals as violence, sexual reproduction strategies, coalition-building, and altruism, and compares them with similar models applied to animals. It also emphasizes that environment and culture provides critical influences on the ultimate expression of behavior: for example, across societies, mate preferences are partially mediated by society’s economic opportunities, so that culture can act as a buffer for underlying biological instincts. Since this topic is controversial, the chapter review the historical antecedents, starting with Plato’s theory of universals, through John Locke’s Enlightenment ideal, the ‘tabula rasa’, to Margaret Mead and Napoleon Chagnon in modern anthropology. Much of this debate has an underlying moral element, so the chapter discusses the naturalistic fallacy and point out the fact that our morality need not be determined in any way by potential evolutionary influences on instincts or behaviors. However, it also notes the potential logical pitfalls of treating humans as ‘special case’ animals.
Previous studies of Lebanese Salafism have neglected the analysis of the local adaptation of global Salafism to the Lebanese context. This chapter seeks to fill that gap by exploring how Salafism found a foothold in Tripoli in the 1990s and how local repertoires and identities were instrumental in popularizing Salafism among the local poor. Northern Lebanon and Tripoli constituted as the primary cradle of Lebanese Salafism; the Palestinian refugee camps in southern Lebanon constituted as a further Salafi hotspot.
Lebanese Salafi in the Tripoli discourse had distinct characteristics. More pragmatic and more business-oriented than Salafism in other Arab countries, it depended on financial patronage from the Gulf. The Lebanese Salafis’ lack of religious autonomy created an opening for jihadi underground organizations. Although Salafi ideology is important in explaining why males joined jihadi groups in Tripoli, social factors often played an even more decisive role. This chapter explores how jihadi groups could readily gain a foothold in poor quarters, taking advantage of the prevailing informality and making these hiding places for outlaws and armed groups.
Engaging with the rich complexities of revolution, this chapter troubles the accepted narrative of Black resistance in 1960s America, specifically the uses of violence, and the ways it stretches the movement across space and time. It considers the violence of Black protest in the 1960s in more expansive terms, going beyond the turn-the-other-cheek violence of what often is described as nonviolent protest. Engaging with Malcolm X’s Autobiography (1965) and selected speeches, read through the influence of Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth (1961), this essay reads the two as representative of a global Black model of revolution predicated on outwardly directed violence. This chapter’s counter-narrative challenges the geography, temporality, and structure of Black revolution in the 1960s, decentering the U.S., acknowledging the influence of French intellectualism, and reaching back to acts of resistance of earlier generations, ultimately complicating the linear narrative of nation-bound, peaceful protest that has come to define Civil Rights.
The assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., is the armature supporting James Baldwin’s 1972 book, No Name in the Street. Just a few pages into the book, Baldwin observes: “Since Martin’s death, something has altered in me, something has gone away.” A spate of assassinations, and particularly King’s, prompts a profound crisis in Baldwin, forcing him to reexamine the ultimate power of love that had governed his life and work. Indeed, a decade earlier in The Fire Next Time, Baldwin had identified love as the key existential and political instrument to guide America out of its “racial nightmare,” in the same way that King had drawn on the Christian notion of agape love to imagine and enact nonviolent direct action to transform Jim Crow America. For Baldwin, King’s murder begins to actualize the apocalypse against which he had forewarned in the early 1960s, and moreover forces him to reckon with his own worldview of human life: “Perhaps even more than the death itself, the manner of his death has forced me into a judgment concerning human life and human beings which I have always been reluctant to make.” At the end of the 1960s, gone is the tempered optimism of Fire, the hope of achieving America, and instead we find in No Name a markedly new form of disenchantment that even love couldn’t temper. This essay traces how Baldwin’s perspective on love, loss, and life is altered by a decade rife with transformation and devastation, illuminating not only a pivotal period of Baldwin’s life and writing, but also of American life and letters.
In the wake of the devastating second wave of the pandemic in India, I taught an elective subject called ‘A Politics of Frivolity? Feminism, Law and Humour’. I offered a subject that intellectually embraced frivolity, precisely for the purpose of responding to the serious anguish and hopelessness of the pandemic. That the study of law is serious business works as (almost) a truism. Understandably, laughter seldom goes with it. Feminists, and feminisms, have also attained a similar reputation or stereotype of being humourless and killjoys. Given this antithetical relationship that humour and laughter shared with both law and feminism, their friendship was not easily foreseeable, working to infuse their combined study with an element of surprise and incongruity. This essay offers an account of my experience of teaching the subject during these dark times. It is a reconstruction partly from my class notes and partly from scribblings and memory. I reflect on a selected set of materials that I taught in the class, how these were received, the questions they raised and how the context enlivened the materials.
The Pashtun Awami National Party (ANP) may have engaged in violence in Karachi, but in , I explain why it refrains from violent acts in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KP) province. KP is a heavily armed province which has faced the brunt of militant violence over the last decade. Despite this, the ANP has chosen not to engage in violence itself or ally with any violence specialists in the area. I rule out explanations for this divergence that center on levels of electoral competition, ideology, or features exclusive to Karachi. Instead, I suggest that the ANP’s distinct violence strategies are a function of the dissimilar nature of ANP support bases in these two areas and the nature of state coercive capacity which affects the party’s incentives for violence. I use a combination of qualitative evidence from Peshawar, Islamabad, and Karachi along with survey data to showcase key differences between Pashtun voters in Karachi and KP.
After making an arrest, a police officer typically refers the matter to the local prosecutor’s office. Once presented with a case, that office decides whether to charge the defendant with a crime and, if so, which crime(s). Even if prosecutors initially file a charge, they can still dismiss the case later on. If prosecutors do not dismiss the case, they can seek an informal resolution (often called “diversion”), negotiate a plea bargain on behalf of the government, or take the case to trial. These decisions about which cases to prosecute, and how, are important contributors to the incarceration rate. As this chapter explains, over the era of Mass Incarceration, prosecutors’ primary contribution was to follow the lead of police and legislators. Prosecutors applied the new tools enacted by legislators leading to more severe punishments for crimes generally. And, perhaps most importantly, they uncritically accepted the new mix of arrests forwarded to them by police, flooding the courts with a higher proportion of cases that were easy to prove and punish.
The many ingredients that fed Mass Incarceration, including racism, populism, media sensationalism, and political opportunism, are long-standing features of the American landscape. What changed that made these factors particularly salient and channeled them into a transformation of the criminal justice (and legal) system? The best answer is a crime surge.
Chapter 3 provides an overview of the political climate in Pakistan, setting the stage for the empirical cases which follow. It provides brief but essential context on political representation, state capacity, and manifestations of violence in Pakistan. I explain in more detail the manner in which state institutions, including the police and military, interact with political parties and local strongmen to determine the cost and incentive structure parties encounter. I focus on two types of political landscapes in Pakistan, shared sovereignty and multiple competing sovereigns, and introduce the particular dynamics of political representation and violence in each. In doing so, I highlight the important role played by such structural factors as land and socioeconomic inequality, ethnic demographics, urban sprawl, and the availability of arms and ammunition. I then provide brief overviews of the four main political parties discussed in this book, with a focus on the parties’ organizational structures and how these structures came to be.
Contemporary debates on policing trace the rise of “law and order” populism and police militarization to colonial histories and imperial boomerang effects. In a time marked by the renewed imperative “to decolonize,” however, few studies examine what decolonizing policing did or could look like in practice. This article draws on oral history narratives of Jamaican police officers to recover their ideas about transforming the colonial Jamaica Constabulary Force in the 1970s. Born out of black power mobilizations and under a democratic socialist government (1972–1980), police decolonization was viewed as part of broader transformative effort to rid the country of colonial inheritances in economics, culture, and politics. Jamaican policemen, radicalized since the early twentieth century, then began revising their social mandate and ask who the police should serve and protect. Ultimately, due to internal contradictions and external pressures, the experiment failed, giving rise to police populism and increased violence against black men and women in the ghettos. The episode reveals how populism emerges out of a failure of emancipatory campaigns and how radical critique can turn into ideological justification. It also highlights the need to distinguish between diverse, contradictory, and overlapping demands to decolonize societies and institutions today.
Before the 1915 Genocide of Ottoman Armenians, the region of Van, in contemporary southeastern Turkey, held hundreds of active Armenian churches and monasteries. After the destruction of the Armenian community, these ruined structures took on new afterlives as they became part of the evolving environments and communities around them. These ruined spaces play a role in the everyday lives of the people who live among them and shape their historical understandings and relationships with the local history and geography. I interrogate the afterlives of one abandoned monastery and examine how local Kurds imagine, narrate, and enact the politics of the past and the present through that space of material ruin. I demonstrate how the history of the Armenian Genocide and ongoing state violence against the Kurdish community are intricately linked, highlight the continuation of violence over the past century, and deconstruct notions of ahistorical victims and perpetrators. This article builds on a critical approach to ruins as it traces how histories of destruction and spaces of material ruin are revisited and reinterpreted by those whose lives continue to be shaped by processes of ruination. It demonstrates how ruins created through violent histories become spaces for articulating alternative senses of history and crafting possible futures.
Chapter 7, “Persuasion, Conviction, and Care: Jane Austen’s Keeping,” develops Cavell’s striking interest in Michel Foucault’s final works on “care of the self.” Cavell, in his autobiography Little Did I Know, marks his engagement with Foucault’s concept of parrhesia, or truth-telling, as it developed from a seminar Cavell co-taught at The University of Chicago. As a fictional investigation of the conviction-persuasion distinction, Persuasion suggests rethinking the idea of being convinced through a practice of reason-giving whose grounds are to provide advance rationale for their validity of support. Rather, in Foucauldian practice Cavell finds “a place and an instrument of confrontation.” Anne Elliot, the protagonist of Persuasion, undertakes a turn from the obedient subject of persuasion to a linguistic and social agent of conviction. I conclude the book’s reading of Cavell’s Austen under the aegis of “vulnerable conformity” by underlining a shift in the meaning of conformity as such, drawing from George Saintsbury’s 1894 essay on Austen’s “keeping” as an alternative to heroic investment.