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"They recognize no superior chief" : power, practice, anarchism and warfare in the Coast Salish past 2009

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"THEY RECOGNIZE NO SUPERIOR CHIEF" POWER, PRACTICE, ANARCHISM AND WARFARE IN THE COAST SALISH PAST by WILLIAM O. ANGELBECK M.A., The University of Missouri, 1997 B.A., Southwest Missouri State University, 1992 A  THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES (Anthropology) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) April 2009 © William O. Angelbeck, 2009 ABSTRACT This inquiry focuses on warfare in the Coast Salish past.  Located in the Northwest Coast of North America, the Coast Salish practiced warfare as a basic component of their culture, and warfare manifested in two main periods. Archaeologically, fortified defensive sites were constructed from 1600 to 500 BP. According to ethnohistoric documents and oral histories, conflicts also erupted in the decades after Euroamerican contact, about AD 1790.  For this study, I incorporate archaeological, ethnographic, ethnohistoric, and oral historical data for an investigation of warfare, including Coast Salish practices, protocols, and ideology.  I assess the types of settings in which warfare occurred and evaluate the motivations for conflict.  Finally, I examine these practices for insights into Coast Salish sociopolitical organization and how it altered through time. To evaluate the array of data, I employ a theoretical framework integrating power, practice, and anarchism.  For power, I implement Eric Wolf’s modes of power to assess the intensity of conflicts and scales of defensive site construction.  For practice, I harness Pierre Bourdieu’s materialist approach to culture, which is focused on historical, human actions, or practices; moreover, Bourdieu’s multiple types of capital provide a rubric for assessing motivations for warfare as individuals pursue and exchange various forms of capital.  The theory of anarchism provides principles for evaluating the dynamics of societies without formal governments.  These include an emphasis on local autonomy, voluntary association, mutual aid, network organization, and the decentralization of authority (and resistance to concentrations of authority).  This framework illuminates how these principles varied throughout the Coast Salish past and highlights significant differences in defensive structures between precontact and colonial periods. –– ii –– Both periods of warfare appear after phases of increasing entrenchment of elite power and hegemony (2400 - 1600 BP and ca. 500 to 200 BP).  Both periods also exhibit a broader expanse of elites, or nouveau riche.  I conclude that warfare was an anarchic practice implemented by Coast Salish factions to destabilize elite power structures and allow non-elites to gain wealth and prestige.  These practices resulted in the decentralization of power––a heterarchy of chiefs, rather than a centralized chiefdom. –– iii –– TABLE OF CONTENTS Abstract ii.......................................................................................................................... Table of Contents iv........................................................................................................................ List of Tables vii....................................................................................................................... List of Figures viii...................................................................................................................... Acknowledgments x......................................................................................................................... Chapter I: Introduction 1................................................................................................................ The Subject of Warfare 4..................................................................................................... Nested Levels of Analysis:  Power, Practice, and Anarchism 6.................................... The Theoretical Approach and Argument 7.................................................................... Chapter II: The Theoretical Framework––Power, Practice, and Anarchism 15................... Power 15........................................................................................................................ Practice Theory 22............................................................................................................... Anarchism 27........................................................................................................................ Core Principles of Anarchism 28................................................................................ Individual and local autonomy 29....................................................................... Voluntary association 29........................................................................................ Mutual aid 30........................................................................................................... Network organization 32....................................................................................... Decentralization and antiauthoritarianism 34.................................................... Justified authorities 35............................................................................................ An Anarchist Theory of History 36............................................................................ Integrating Anarchism, Practice, and Power 39.............................................................. Chapter III: The Anthropology and Archaeology of Warfare 40............................................ The Concern with Origins 40............................................................................................. Scalar Approach to Power 43...................................................................................... The Concern for Causes 49................................................................................................. Anarchist Theories of Warfare 53...................................................................................... Interrelating Scales through Alliance Formation 58................................................ Conclusion 65....................................................................................................................... Chapter IV: Histories of Warfare from Documents and Oral Histories 69........................... Early Accounts of Warfare 69............................................................................................. The Fort Langley Journals 73....................................................................................... Accounts from the 1840s and 1850s 75....................................................................... The Memoirs of Samuel Hancock 77.......................................................................... A Scalar Approach to Accounts of Warfare 79................................................................ Expressions of Increasing Modes of Power 79.......................................................... (i) Power as an attribute of a person, or individual power 80.......................... (ii) The ability of one to impose its will on another, or relational or interpersonal power 80.................................................................................... (iii) The control of social settings, or organizational power 81....................... (iv) The ability to establish or demolish the settings themselves, or structural power.  83....................................................................................... A “Continual State of Fear”: The Power of the Lekwiltok 88........................................ Colonist and Coast Salish Conflict 94............................................................................... –– iv –– Conclusion 96....................................................................................................................... Chapter V: Welfare and Warfare: Modes of Production and Destruction 99....................... Weapons, or the Means of Destruction 101...................................................................... Melee Weapons 102...................................................................................................... Projectile Weapons 103................................................................................................. Equipment and Appurtenances for Warfare 105............................................................ Armour 105.................................................................................................................... War Canoes 106............................................................................................................. Defensive Architecture and Head Poles 108............................................................. Warriors 109...................................................................................................................... Leaders for Defense 114............................................................................................... Roles for Defense 116.................................................................................................... Women and Warfare 117............................................................................................. Organization of Defense 118....................................................................................... Warriors and Fighters 119............................................................................................ Leaders for Offense 121................................................................................................ Protocols of Conflict 122..................................................................................................... The Forces of Destruction 127............................................................................................ The Various Forms of Capital 129.............................................................................. Chapter VI: An Archaeological History of Warfare in the Northwest Coast 137................ Initial Colonialization & Archaic Period (ca.  11,000 to 3500 BP) 138........................... Early Pacific (4500 to 3500 BP) 143..................................................................................... Middle Pacific (3500 to 1500 BP) 147................................................................................. Early Middle Pacific (3500 to 2000 BP) 147................................................................ Late Middle Pacific (2000 to 1500 BP) 152................................................................. On the development of an elite class 155............................................................ On storage and its implications 157..................................................................... Late Pacific (1500 BP to contact) 159.................................................................................. Postcontact Period 163......................................................................................................... Conclusion 167..................................................................................................................... Chapter VII: Lookouts, Refuges, Fortifications, and Stockades 168...................................... The Case for Defensiveness 168......................................................................................... Defensive Aspects of Residential Villages 170................................................................ Plankhouses 170............................................................................................................ Household Arrangement 173...................................................................................... Defensive Sites 174............................................................................................................... Lookouts 174.................................................................................................................. Refuges 180.................................................................................................................... Blockhouses 183...................................................................................................... Underground houses 185....................................................................................... Trench-Embankment Fortifications 190..................................................................... Bluff top fortifications 195..................................................................................... Indian Fort Site (DgRr-5) 195.......................................................................... Cardale Point (DgRv-1) 196............................................................................ Peninsular spits 201................................................................................................ Rebecca Spit (EaSh-6) 201................................................................................ Manson’s Landing (EaSf-1) 204...................................................................... Rocky headlands 204.............................................................................................. EaSd-3 205.......................................................................................................... Manor Point (DbRv-13) 207............................................................................ Rock-Wall Fortifications 209........................................................................................ Stockades 213................................................................................................................. –– v –– Labour Organization 215.................................................................................................... Conclusion 218..................................................................................................................... Chapter VIII: Defending Against Whom? 222.......................................................................... Coast Salish Sociopolitical Organization and Defense 226............................................ Internal versus External Warfare 227................................................................................ The Battle at Maple Bay 229............................................................................................... The Contextual Nature of Enmity and Alliance 241....................................................... Chapter IX: Autonomy and Alliance 244..................................................................................... The Distribution of Defensive Sites 245............................................................................ Archaeological Evidence for Networks of Defense 248................................................. Historic Evidence for Strategies of Defensive Site Distribution and Cooperation 257............................................................................................................. Indications for the Increasing Frequency of Attacks 261............................................... Conclusion 275..................................................................................................................... Chapter X: Elites, Hereditary Tradition, and Limitations to Social Mobility 276............... New Forms of Capital:  The Development of the Nouveau Riche 277........................... The Balkanization of Marpole 281..................................................................................... Short-Cutting Traditional Practices to Higher Status 283.............................................. Limiting or Enhancing Social Mobility––The Poles of Entrenchment and Flexibility 289................................................................................................................. The Centrifugal Nature of Coast Salish Warfare 296...................................................... Oral Histories and Accounts Concerning the Abuse of Power 301.............................. Chapter XI: Conclusion 304............................................................................................................ Summary of Inquiry and Arguments 304........................................................................ Suttles’ Quandaries 312....................................................................................................... Bibliography 315............................................................................................................................ Appendices 354............................................................................................................................ Appendix A:  Sources for Defensive Sites Listed from North to South from Archaeological, Ethnohistoric and Ethnographic Sources. 354.................................... –– vi –– LIST OF TABLES Table 1: Types of coalitions (adapted from Tattersall 2006) 63.................................................. Table 2: General chronology for the Northwest Coast and Gulf of Georgia.  139.................. Table 3: Size of Smelt Bay village, its defensive houses, and regional defensive sites. 253... Table 4: Radiocarbon dates recovered at trench-embankment sites. 262................................ Table 5: Historical and ethnographic records documenting dates for stockades. 263........... Table 6: Size of stockades from ethnohistoric descriptions. 264................................................ Table 7: Underground house size and depth. 264........................................................................ Table 8: Trench-embankment fortification sizes.  265................................................................. Table 9: Average size of underground houses and trench-embankment sites to postcontact stockades. 266.................................................................................................. Table 10: Maximum midden depths within the defended areas of trench- embankment sites. 270........................................................................................................ Table 11: Traits of Late Period trench-embankments versus postcontact stockaded villages. 271........................................................................................................................... –– vii –– LIST OF FIGURES Figure 1: Map of Coast Salish area, including most groups mentioned in the text. 3............ Figure 2: Map showing locales of early encounters, forts, and most places mentioned in the chapter. 70............................................................................................. Figure 3: Map showing approximate spread of smallpox in 1782 and population estimates in the 1830s. 92.................................................................................................... Figure 4: Model of the exchangeability of various forms of capital for the Coast Salish. 130...................................................................................................................... Figure 5: Example of plankhouse as fully wooden enclosure; from a detail of a photograph taken at a potlatch in Songhees territory in 1874. 171............................... Figure 6: Lookout sites in the Coast Salish area as noted in ethnographic and archaeological sources. 175................................................................................................. Figure 7: Locations of refuge areas and blockhouses.  181........................................................ Figure 8: Location and depiction of "Block House" at Lamalcha Bay village based on British accounts in April of 1863.  184........................................................................ Figure 9: Underground refuge locations in the Coast Salish area from archaeological and ethnographic sources. 186................................................................ Figure 10: Semisubterranean pit features at Penn Cove, Whidbey Island (45IS50), interpreted as underground refuges by Bryan. 187........................................................ Figure 11: Wireframe surface map of an underground house (UH 1) at Smelt Bay (EaSf-2) with plankhouse outline to the north (left) to indicate surface level.  189... Figure 12: Newcombe’s drawing of two trench-embankment types on southern Vancouver Island, including the peninsular bluff at Albert Head and a triple trench-embankment at Cadboro Bay. 191................................................... Figure 13: Locations of trench-embankment fortifications. 193................................................. Figure 14: Buxton’s depiction of three major types of trench-embankments. 193.................. Figure 15: Typology of trench-embankment sites for this investigation. 194.......................... Figure 16: Harlan I. Smith’s photograph of DgRr-5 from August 7, 1915, with a view of the trench. 195........................................................................................................ Figure 17: Drawing and interpretation of Indian Fort Site, DgRr-5, by Don Welsh. 196....... Figure 18: Surface map of Cardale Point (DgRv-1). 197.............................................................. Figure 19: View of eastern portion of trench embankment.  198.............................................. Figure 20: View of embankment and trench from the east, Profile Trench 1. 199................... Figure 21: Profile of eastern portion of trench embankment at Cardale Point as measured with a total station (Profile Trench 1). 200..................................................... Figure 22: Stratigraphic profile of the lower portion of eastern trench-embankment (Trench Profile 1).  200........................................................................................................ Figure 23: Surface map of Rebecca Spit (EaSh-6), reconstructed from Mitchell’s contour map. 202................................................................................................................. Figure 24: Mitchell’s stratigraphic profile of the top portion of the western trench- embankment feature, showing stakemould of barricade and midden material abruptly stopping at barricade wall. 203......................................................... Figure 25: Surface map of Manson’s Landing trench-embankment site (EaSf-1). 205............ Figure 26: Surface map of fortification in Desolation Sound (EaSd-3), view from the east. 206...................................................................................................................... Figure 27: Village near Bute Inlet with house-floors at top of slope extending out- ward protectively; detail of a drawing sketched by a member of Vancouver’s crew in 1792. 207........................................................................................... Figure 28: Surface map of Manor Point (DbRv-13). 208.............................................................. Figure 29: View of trench at Manor Point (DbRv-13)  from the east, from the –– viii –– highest point on the promontory behind the trench. 209............................................. Figure 30: Map of rock-wall fortifications in the Coast Salish area from archaeological sources. 210................................................................................................. Figure 31: View of rock-wall feature at Xelhálh in the Fraser Canyon.  211........................... Figure 32: Network of rock-wall fortifications in the Fraser Canyon. 212................................ Figure 33: Map of stockaded villages from ethnohistoric and ethnographic sources. 215.... Figure 34: Core areas for three defensive practices and the peripheral extent for the sharing of each practice.  220...................................................................................... Figure 35: Trench-embankment sites recorded by Bryan and Buxton in relation to boundaries of Wakashan groups. 223............................................................................... Figure 36: Defensive sites in the Coast Salish area. 225............................................................... Figure 37: Types of conflicts in compendiums of accounts of warfare, ethno- historically at Fort Langley and ethnographically.  228................................................ Figure 38: Map of the Battle of Maple Bay, indicating coordination of Coast Salish groups and roles. 235........................................................................................................... Figure 39: Scalar portrayal of social organization and corresponding defensive manifestation. 243................................................................................................................ Figure 40: Surface map of Smelt Bay (EaSf-2), Cortes Island, indicating two underground houses. 250................................................................................................... Figure 41: Late Period defensive sites in the Smelt Bay region.  251........................................ Figure 42: Smelt Bay village site compared to average size of regional defensive site areas.  254...................................................................................................................... Figure 43: Northern Gulf Islands network of defensive sites. 255............................................. Figure 44: Map of the Battle at Lamalchi Bay, indicating coordination of defensive efforts. 260...................................................................................................................... Figure 45: Radiocarbon dates recovered at trench-embankment sites. 262.............................. Figure 46: Chart comparing the average size of underground houses and trench- embankment sites to postcontact stockades. 266............................................................ Figure 47: Battle Between Clallam and Makah at I-eh-nus, 1847, by Paul Kane 268.............. Figure 48: Drawing by Spanish artist of “Indian fortification on the Strait of Juan de Fuca.” 268...................................................................................................................... Figure 49: Elmendorf’s sequence of social class evolution among the Twana.  284...................................................................................................................... Figure 50: Number of radiocarbon-dated burials according to presence/absence of cranial deformation. 293...................................................................................................... Figure 51: Cranial deformation in burials by period, including those dated by radiocarbon association, interpretation, or radiocarbon dates. 293.............................. Figure 52: Chronological chart indicating periods of entrenchment followed by periods of warfare. 298........................................................................................................ –– ix –– ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Many people helped me with this project in various capacities.  Foremost, I want to acknowledge my committee, from whose scholarship I have learned a great deal–– whose ideas have influenced my thought throughout this work.  Having come from doing archaeology in the Southeast and Plains, I was initially unsettled by the lack of ceramics and the comparative paucity of lithics.  R.G. Matson’s work and teachings on the Northwest Coast helped me find a footing in the region’s culture history and think through the theoretical issues at debate.  Bruce Miller was also foundational in this respect, helping to situate my understanding of Coast Salish culture and its political context.  My advisor, Michael Blake has really helped advance my thought, particularly concerning broader archaeological theory and the development of social inequality.  I respect his emphasis on collaborating with local communities, situating the contemporary importance of archaeology.  It was my interest in these subjects and practices that drew me to study in the Department of Anthropology at UBC.  I gratefully acknowledge the years of financial support through the Charles and Alice Borden Fellowship––support that has made this whole endeavor possible. I have learned a great amount from my colleagues with whom I've been able to work over the past several years.  Foremost among these are Colin Grier, Eric McLay, and David Hall.  Colin Grier helped me to sharpen some of the ideas presented here as well as contributing to fieldwork at Cardale Point.  Eric McLay enabled much of my work in Hul’qumi’num territory and donated his time to these efforts, for which I am indebted. I tip my hat to many others who helped me with work in the region.  Dave Schaepe provided many leads for my work in Stó:lō territory.  Rudy Reimer provided a tour of defensive sites in Squamish territory for my archaeological field school and has also been generous with other information about the area.  Darcy Mathews helped to provide access to one site for this fieldwork.  He and Pete Dady were helpful with information about defensive and other sites on Southern Vancouver Island. Others provided access to many reports and documents that have proven extremely valuable.  Thanks are due to Grant Keddie, who provided me with his reports on defensive sites in the Victoria area and led me to several oral histories of warfare.  I have also spoken with others about information, reports or accounts that have proven useful:  Donald Mitchell, Richard Brolly, Al McMillan, Rob Field, Peter Merchant, Simon Kaltenrieder, Al Mackie, Robert Mierendorf, Eric Forgeng, and Don Welsh. At UBC, I want to acknowledge the many discussions that I have benefitted from, including those with Jesse Morin, Nadine Gray, Gaston Gordillo, Brian Chisholm, David Pokotylo, Patricia Ormerod, Sean Lauer, Sue Rowley, Charles Menzies, Kisha Supernant, Andrew Martindale, and Zhi-Chun Jing. I thank my field school team for their work at several sites, including Sean Aldcroft, Amy Davidson, Erin Hannon, Marlowe Kennedy, Matt McGinity, and Stephanie Watts, as well as Mark Harry and Al Hanson from the Klahoose First Nation. Special thanks to Meng Ying who helped lead the field school and helped to orchestrate the mapping for some of the sites included here.  I thank Steven Acheson at the B.C. Archaeology Branch for facilitating the permit for this work, and Chris Kissinger for helping with the permit to work in BC Parks. It has been an honor to work in the Coast Salish region.  I have gained many insights from interviews and discussions I have had with many people throughout the region.  This is especially so for the weeks spent at Frank Malloway’s longhouse in Stó:lō territory during the ethnographic field school.  I want thank Sonny McHalsie for the tour of the area he provided and the discussions we’ve had.  I want to thank the Klahoose –– x –– First Nation, particularly former Chief Duane Hanson and Kathy Francis.  I also thank Ken Hanuse, who guided our team throughout Desolation Sound.  At the Sliammon First Nation, I thank Chief Walter Paul, Maynard Harry, and Norman Gallagher.  I am grateful to tour the Upper Skagit Tribe members for their hospitality and for providing me with a tour of their territory, especially Sherman Williams, Floyd Williams, Vi Hilbert, and Scott Schuyler.  I thank Leona Sparrow for helping me to work in Musqueam territory, and I also greatly appreciate the interviews and site tours with Florence James of the Penelakut and Arvid Charlie while working in Cowichan territory. Their histories about the battles at Maple Bay and Lamalchi Bay have been especially valuable.  Previously, I had conducted most of my archaeological work in Missouri where the Osage and Missouri peoples were no longer present in the state, having been forced to Oklahoma reservations.  So, even though I hiked and surveyed most creeks and passes in the Ozarks, I never once heard a place-name.  It has been powerful for me to hear Coast Salish place names and histories and to witness Coast Salish peoples’ strong connection to the land and sea.  I support their continuing defense of their territory and intend to continue working with them in helping to preserve their rich heritage. Lastly, I want to thank my family who have long supported my efforts, especially my father, along with Jonn, Debbie, and Mike. To Kristin, sine qua non––without your support, partnership, and camaraderie this work could not have been completed.  And, to my daughter, Simone, I will always be ready to stop working and play––that's been helpful, too.  Let's go. –– xi –– Chapter I: Introduction There are still many unanswered questions concerning the pre-contact culture of the Coast Salish of the Strait of Juan de Fuca and adjacent waters.  Two of the most important of these have to do with authority and conflict. ––Wayne Suttles (1989:251) In July of 1741, the Russian ship, St. Paul, of the Bering expedition steered within sight of Chicagof Island and sent a boat of ten well-armed men toward shore.  After no sign for seven days, they sent another boat.  Then, no sign from either.  The next day, two Tlingit canoes approached their ship, and apparently with each viewing the other as hostile, they did not make contact.  In the ship’s journal, they recorded: “We then became convinced that some misfortune had happened to our men” (Golder 1922:296). The first European encounter with the Northwest Coast seemed to have resulted in a violent fate.  In 1792, Spanish explorers also soon became embroiled in conflict.  After the sudden killing of one of their officers on the Olympic Peninsula by unknown perpetrators, they fired cannons at the next canoes they encountered, likely Makah, possibly Klallam or Straits Salish (Whitlam 1989).  A decade later, the crew of the Boston would be massacred by the Nuu-chah-nulth, leaving only two survivors, captured as slaves (Jewitt 1987 [1815]).  Not all early contacts resulted in conflict, as many Northwest Coast groups also were eager to trade for new kinds of goods, especially iron and firearms (e.g., Gormly 1977; Gunther 1972), but these accounts indicate tensions and conflict were commonplace. Warfare was a ubiquitous part of life for the Northwest Coast peoples for more than a millennium.  The evidence for warfare is found in the weapons they made, the armour worn, the villages that were fortified or camps hidden from plain view.  Indeed, the evidence for wounds and scars of violent trauma has been documented from bones unearthed in burials.  War also served as a path for achieving success and acquiring –– 1 –– status.  Through the bounty of war, one could acquire loot and supplies to hold a potlatch ceremony, or, more permanently, to control a productive salmon stream and its bounty thereafter.  Warfare was a way to avenge any slights to one’s character as well. In this manner, the cycle of warfare was embedded into cultural practices of the Northwest Coast. It is unknown how long ago warfare occurred in the region, but defensive sites that are archaeologically visible began to appear throughout the Northwest Coast by about 1600 years ago, and began to proliferate around 1100 to 600 years ago (Moss and Erlandson 1992).  Another period of defensive site construction occurs shortly after Euroamerican contact, and I demonstrate that this was no mere coincidence. In this work, I analyze the archaeological evidence for warfare in the Coast Salish region (Figure 1), which has received less attention about warfare compared with the northern Northwest Coast.  In general discussions of Northwest Coast warfare, examples are prone to highlight the warriors of the Haida, Tsimshian, Tlingit, or–– perhaps the most renown in historical memory, due to the Fort Langley journals (Maclachlan 1998)––the Kwakwaka’wakw1 Lekwiltok, who menaced those to the north and south of them from their bases in the Johnstone Strait and Discovery Passage. In presenting this history, I begin by establishing the theoretical approach I employ to interpret the archaeological evidence.  This study is anthropological as well as historical, and so I situate the archaeology of Coast Salish warfare within ethnohistoric, ethnographic, and oral historical knowledge.  The historical and ethnographic evidence is better suited to understanding warfare of the late precontact to postcontact periods, however, these sources do provide significant insights into warfare in the more distant period, however, these sources do provide significant insights into one of the two known efflorescences of warfare in the more distant Coast Salish past.  An historically and ethnographically informed assessment of the postcontact rise of warfare 1. Formerly, the Kwakwaka’wakw were known as the Kwakiutl (e.g., Suttles 1990c). –– 2 –– -128  -128  -126  -126  -124  -124  -122   -122  -120   -120  46  46  48  48  50  50  52  52   54  54   0 50 100 km -126 -124 50 49 48 BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA WASHINGTON, UNITED STATES Twana SOUTHERN LUSHOOTSEED NORTHERN LUSHOOTSEED Quinault   Lower Chehalis   Upper Chehalis Cowlitz   Klallam HUL’QUMI’NUM  HALQ'EMÉYLEM HUNQUMINUM Squamish Nooksack Homalco Klahoose Sliammon Sechelt Pentlatch Comox Nuxalk NORTHERN   COAST      SALISH CENTRAL  COAST SALISH SOUTHERN COAST SALISH SOUTHWESTERN COAST SALISH Stó:lo Upper Skagit Lower Skagit Duwamish Snohomish Suquamish   Cowichan LANGUAGE GROUP SALISH REGIONS Coast Salish Group Sooke Songhees Skykomish Snoqualmie Puyallup Musqueam Semiahmoo Snuneymuxw Lummi   Saanich Nisqually Fraser  River Sk ag it R ive r Columbia River PACIFIC OCEAN Juan de Fuca Strait Olympic    Peninsula Vancouver    Island Gulf of Georgia Pu ge t S ou nd NUU-CHAH-NULTH M AK AH KWAKW AKA’WA KW Ooweekeeno QUIL EUTE CHINOOK Tillamook He ilsu k Ha iha is Tsi ms hia n Carrier CHILCOTIN LILLOOET NLAKA’PAMUX KLIKITAT YAKIMA Umatilla ADJACENT CULTURAL GROUPS Seattle Portland Vancouver Victoria (CHEMAKUM) City Figure 1: Map of Coast Salish area, including most groups mentioned in the text. (Locations are approximate [after Suttles 1990a; 1951; Barnett 1955; Haeberlin and Gunther 1930.) –– 3 –– is used to assess, interpret, and contrast with the archaeological evidence of the precontact period of warfare, in an application of the direct historical approach (e.g., Marcus and Flannery 1994; Wedel 1938).  In presenting the archaeological evidence, I discuss the range of these defensive site types, their associated technologies (both tools and features), and I make inferences about the strategies and tactics associated with their construction.  I also discuss how warfare and defensive sites provide insights into how Coast Salish peoples imbued social relations with power; how they conducted, altered, and shared their practices; and how they handled and arranged their sociopolitical organization.  Before I summarize the overall approach, I discuss why the topic of warfare provides a useful focus for such a study. The Subject of Warfare Warfare is a subject that has been studied in many ways and from multiple vantage points.  Conflict, as journalists know, has inherent drama and so they use those tensions––whether violent, sporting, or political––as the focal points of their stories. Conflicts help to clarify issues and events, and an audience is often drawn to such narratives.  The catastrophic and eruptive nature of battle and clear opponents are ready-made for a news story, an advantage over developments that occur at a gradual pace, although perhaps no less different in result.  With the archaeology of warfare, the specific stories of conflict are largely gone, although its analysis can still highlight the broader tensions and conflicts in the past. Much of recent archaeology, since postmodernism, has emphasized agency (e.g., Robb and Dobres 2000), and I cannot think of anything more agential than the defense of one’s community.  Often postprocessual archaeologists discuss agency through various symbolic expressions and rituals––there has even been a discussion of agency as expressed through postmoulds (e.g., Pauketat and Alt 2005).  However, agency is at its most concrete in its assertion or defense of physical control, the taking and protection of goods, resources, or territory; in causing the death of others to protect or enhance one’s –– 4 –– own life and status.  Here, warfare with its active expressions can be used to interpret the archaeological record in more humanistic terms, not simply as resource gatherers or as markers for a cultural-typological signature, but as those fulfilling lives and having traditions worth fighting for.  An analysis of warfare is one way of seeing the past in a more active, dynamic light that is more expressive of the behaviors of past peoples.   Depending on general cultural values, a warrior’s success in battle may be highly valued by his community and his successes glorified, bringing him both status and wealth.  However, in some societies––as among some Coast Salish groups––warfare may be regarded negatively, particularly when not carried out in defense.  Similarly, many acts initiating warfare in recent history and in the past have rationales for being defensive actions.2  These ideological explanations imply an awareness that offensive actions may not be seen as just.  For this work, however, warfare is simply another practice engaged in by people.  For an archaeology of warfare, it suffices that warfare occurred in the past of the Northwest Coast, despite arguments in favour of or opposed to war.  Indeed, the reasons and rationales––pro and con––for warfare were as multifaceted throughout the past as they are today. Warfare is important for archaeologists because it contributes to structural change through time, highlighting shifts in the parameters of a group’s social and political operation.  Settlement patterns of sites expand to include fortified sites or refuges, and residential villages and camps may be moved to less accessible or visible areas.  A village burned in an attack might indicate its time of abandonment, or groups may abandon a region during times of increased warfare.  Groups also might take over new territory.  All of these actions might reveal shifts in a region’s culture history, indicating structural change. 2. Examples include the German invasion of Poland that started World War II, which Hitler argued was a defensive act, merely “returning fire” after German agents (acting as Poles) staged an attack on a German radio station in Gleiwitz, Poland (Baker 2008:132-136).  Even recently,  the U.S. invasion of Iraq was purported to be “preemptive” against Saddam Hussein’s stockpiling of “weapons of mass destruction.” –– 5 ––  Nested Levels of Analysis:  Power, Practice, and Anarchism  In order to address broader aspects of meaning and rationale in warfare, I will follow Trigger’s (1989, 1991) holistic archaeology, as others have done in the region (e.g., McMillan 1999).  To better understand the archaeological record, Trigger (1989:235) advocated the incorporation of ethnography, ethnohistory, linguistics, art history, oral traditions, plus any other relevant sources.  He found that Marxism provided a context that “encourages the analysis of behavioral phenomena in as holistic a context as possible” (Trigger 1989:235) because it provides a theoretical framework that integrates economy and sociopolitical organization and allows for the interpretation of the broader sociopolitical context through physical archaeological remains that are largely indicative of economy.  While this study will be holistic in Trigger’s sense, it also applies, more specifically, three predominant approaches to warfare in the past through nested levels of analysis involving power, practice, and anarchism. As Trigger pressed for the utility of Marxism, I draw on Wolf’s (1990) modes of power.  Like Trigger, Wolf (1999:14-15) was a proponent of a Marxist-based or Marxian approach, however, his conceptions of power are much more nuanced than Marx and Engels’ version.  Wolf’s modes of power provide for understandings of the degree or scale of power, which is useful for a study of warfare.  His model goes beyond a simple typology because he assesses the increasing concentrations and applications of power. Also originally influenced by Marxism, Bourdieu’s (1977, 1990) practice theory provides for the interpretation of physical archaeological remains as the patterns of historical and cultural practices, as opposed to functionalist processes (Pauketaut 2001). Accordingly, the detritus and features of the archaeological record result from past traditional practices; the habitual nature of practices structure or pattern the artifacts and features found archaeologically.  In so doing, it provides a way to connect specific archaeological manifestations in the archaeological record to cultural traditions that change over time. –– 6 –– For the third part of the framework, I will use the theory of anarchism to interpret social organization.  Since most societies throughout human history had no formal government, my premise is that the theory of anarchism provides principles for understanding non-state forms of social organization, such as that of the Coast Salish. In a study of warfare, understanding the dynamics of past social organization is important––as Malinowski (1936:444) had discussed.  For him, warfare was the “use of organized force between two politically independent units.”  The emphasis in his definition is on the social organization of combat and how warfare indicates sociopolitical autonomy between competing groups, either groups asserting control or temporary dominance of others, or through pursuing independence, as in revolution or civil war.  Accordingly, when warfare is present, there is no overarching entity or polity that controls affairs––the rules of dominance are precisely being worked out through the conflict itself. To summarize, Wolf’s modes of power theory is used to understand the intensity and application of physical domination (or attempts at such).  Practice theory is used to understand the traditional practices of warfare as indicated in the archaeological record that involve assertions of power.  Finally, anarchism is used to assess how such practices were organized in societies without formal government.  I discuss each of these three approaches in more detail in the next chapter.  Below, I summarize the work as a whole. The Theoretical Approach and Argument What follows is an inquiry into the role of warfare in the Coast Salish past. Predominantly, this inquiry is archaeological, concerning the establishment of defensive sites.  Defensive sites are a fruitful avenue for a perspective on warfare––these are the architecture for warfare.  Additionally, I supplement this with other aspects of warfare as well, such as weaponry, strategy, and tactics.  I combine this information with the ethnographic and ethnohistoric detail and the oral histories about Coast Salish warfare. Defensive sites are large-scale constructions that exhibit certain traits unique to –– 7 –– the Coast Salish, yet these also reveal regional variability within the Coast Salish area overall.  Of course, there are also changes through time, marking the shifts in the intensity and frequency of warfare.  Such large-scale constructions are also indicators of the nature of Coast Salish sociopolitical organization, indicating the cooperative endeavors of households, villages, or regions for protection. To undertake this inquiry, I conducted investigations at several defensive sites in the Strait of Georgia, both in the northern and southern Gulf Islands, and sites in the lower mainland and Vancouver Island.3  Most investigations were aimed towards surface mapping of these defensive features and core sampling.  To buttress and inform the archaeological data, this investigation also consisted of significant investigation of available ethnographic, ethnohistoric, and oral histories.4  I have conducted ethnographic interviews relating to warfare, recording stories of the Cowichan warrior Tzouhalem, the Battle at Lamalchi Bay, and the Battle at Maple Bay.5  Indeed, one of the main periods of warfare begins in the wake of contact, the 3. The majority of the reports for the investigations conducted as part of this inquiry are or will soon be part of the library of permit reports managed by the Archaeology Branch of British Columbia, within the Ministry of Tourism, Sports, and the Arts in Victoria.  These will include reports for the Indian Fort Site (DgRr-5; Angelbeck 2006) and the sites investigated in the northern Gulf Islands and Desolation Sound which include Smelt Bay (EaSf-2), Manson’s Landing (EaSf-1), and EaSd-3 (Angelbeck 2008a).  A report will also be available for the investigations at Cardale Point (DgRv-1), on Valdes Island (Angelbeck 2008b).  The investigations at Manor Point (Angelbeck 2008c) will be on file at the library maintained by the Laboratory of Archaeology at the University of British Columbia, as will the aforementioned reports. 4. Several archives were consulted as part of this inquiry.  These included the Special Collections at the University of British Columbia, including the papers of Homer Barnett (1930-1940), Charles Borden (1905-1978) and Wilson Duff (1960-1976).  I also researched at the British Columbia Archives and library in Victoria.  In Seattle, I accessed the Pacific Northwest Special Collections at the University of Washington, including the papers of Erna Gunther (1871-1981).  Special attention was given to Wayne Suttles’ papers (1946-1986), particularly notebooks from fieldwork from 1948 to 1952.  Other archives that were consulted included the Cortes Island Museum and Archives in Manson’s Landing and the archives of the Klahoose First Nation in Squirrel Cove, also on Cortes Island.  Other archives maintained by First Nations that I was able to consult included the Stó:lō Nation Archives in Sardis, B.C., and the archives of the Hul’qumi’num Treaty Group in Ladysmith, B.C.   I also consulted the library of archaeological permit reports maintained by the Archaeology Branch and searched site forms through their geographical database online. 5. I conducted ethnographic interviews in the Coast Salish area and worked on ethnographic projects in Stó:lō, Upper Skagit, and Hul’qumi’num territories that have proved useful to this study (Angelbeck 2003; Miller and Angelbeck 2006, 2008), particularly, interviews conducted with elders about the battles at Maple Bay and Lamalchi Bay, which were conducted at the –– 8 –– time covered explicitly by ethnohistory, ethnography, and even many of the oral histories of warfare.  This postcontact data provides observations and documents useful for interpreting the archaeological data for warfare, which concerns much of the last 1600 years BP.6  In turn, the archaeological data allows us a perspective to evaluate the changes that occurred in warfare in the postcontact period, as defensive practices evolved to counter changes in the frequency and intensity of warfare and changes in sociopolitical conditions. Warfare concerns the application of power, not only in the physical acts of the power displays and dances of a great warrior, or one group dominating another, but also through the networks of alliances that are called upon for attack or defense.  To assess the various applications of warfare, I employ Wolf’s (1990) treatment of the four modes of power, which involve individual, interpersonal, organizational, and structural forms of power.  More than a typology, these categories represent a scale of power of increasing dimensions.  These modes allow us to evaluate the intensification of warfare in the past, through increasing scales of organization for both attack and defense. While the politics and battles of warfare involve the dynamic interplay of power, individuals implement these actions often through an array of traditional means and options available to them.  I deploy practice theory, as developed by Bourdieu (1977, 1990) and archaeologically adapted by Pauketat (2001).  Traditional cultural practices pattern the physical deposition of artifacts and structure the nature of archaeological features.  Moreover, practice theory is useful for understanding the strategies and tactics implemented by individuals in their pursuit of status and the acquisition of various forms of capital.  The cultural practices for any group are influenced by how a group organizes to implement those activities. To assess how cultural practices are organized––more particularly for this study, how Coast Salish organized to conduct their warfare practices and construct defensive battle locations (Angelbeck and McLay 2008). 6. Radiocarbon years Before Present, or A.D. 1950. –– 9 –– fortifications––I employ a materialist analysis.  For many culture areas, Marxist analyses have been quite an effective form of analysis––a frame that was materialist, yet contained a body of theory enabling interpretations of sociopolitical and ideological social structures from the material patterns of largely techno-economic remains (e.g., McGuire 1992, 2008; Spriggs 1984a; Kohl 1984; Patterson 2003; Gilman 1981; Benn 1990). Here, I employ a materialist analysis that also shares a long history:  that of anarchism. The premise is that the theory and principles of anarchism can be useful for understanding anarchic societies, or societies without formal governments.  While Marxist theory is robust, it has been heavily oriented to state societies––discussions of “pre-capitalist”societies  (e.g., Marx 1965 [1857-1858]) imply a teleology for the capitalist state, indicating that these anarchic societies are even defined by their lack of capitalism or statehood.  Non-state societies were not a focus for Marx and Engels, which partially explains the need for theoretical reworkings of Marxism for anthropologists (e.g., Meillassoux 1980; Wolf 1982; Bloch 1983). Anarchism, on the other hand, is about small-scale social organization, societies that form from the bottom-up, rather than those that are directed centrally from above. Local organization, however, can lead to the operation and maintenance of larger projects and even industrial endeavors as groups cooperate and federate into larger scales of organization, albeit the locus the control remains on the local level.  Contrary to its common connotations of chaos that are inherent in “anarchy,” anarchism is about a form of social order.  Anarchism consists of a body of theory as old, if not older, than Marxism, depending on when one believes it developed (Woodcock 1962; Marshall 1993; Guérin 1970).  It similarly shows a long debate and dialogue, both with Marxists and internally amongst anarchist thinkers, that has sharpened its framework and resulted in numerous strains of thought. The core principles of anarchism include:  local and individual autonomy and expression, voluntary association, mutual aid, network forms of social organization, decentralization, antiauthoritarianism, gift economies, and direct democracy.  Rather –– 10 –– than providing a model formula for how societies should function, anarchist thinkers emphasize core principles and practices that should be adapted to local settings and historical circumstances.  These practices would not be static but would be constantly renegotiated to continue to adapt to the contingencies of new historical situations. To many anarchists, these principles were not conceived during the 19th century by theorists, but really are reflections of innate tendencies that will surface through interactions of humans as social beings, principles whose options will occur as individuals engage with others, not only as kin but as a part of a community.  These basic principles are coordinated in different fashions and in different degrees according to the needs of groups on local scales.  These dynamics can link and federate with other social groups to operate and enact goals on larger scales, including urban and industrial societies.  This theoretical framework––of power, practice, and anarchism––is erected in the following chapter, Chapter II.  Subsequent chapters illustrate how these interlocked theoretical perspectives can be implemented. In Chapter III, I discuss the anthropology and archaeology of warfare, primarily to illustrate how the theoretical framework of power, practice, and anarchism can effectively buttress as well as address some weaknesses in prior approaches.  I argue that the utility of Wolf’s (1990) scales of power provides a method of evaluation that matches and builds upon the work of Otterbein (2004) and Kelly (2000).  Another focus in the anthropology of warfare concerns the causes of warfare.  I consider how practice theory provides a framework that does not reduce the human complexity in the multiple reasons for warfare to a single cause.  Instead, by focusing on the exchangeability of capital, I argue that reasons for warfare can be more readily encompassed with subsequent transactions or exchanges from resources acquired in battle as well as provide responses that coincide with human reasons for warfare.  Finally, I argue that anarchism adds to the discussion of the anthropology of warfare by stressing the sociopolitical dynamics of the bottom-up organization in small-scale and anarchic societies, which can implement larger scales of organization through the networks of –– 11 –– alliances.  The theory of anarchism emphasizes that there are always forces within social organizations that aim to inhibit the concentration and centralization of power. The subject of Chapter IV concerns the ethnohistory of warfare in the Coast Salish area since 1790, beginning with the first documents by the Spanish and continuing through the postcontact period, a period wherein warfare intensified until about 1870.  I use Wolf’s (1990) scales of power to assess the different types of warring interaction.  I demonstrate that the full range of Wolf’s scales of power are represented, from individual to structural power and argue that scales of warfare intensified at various points over the last two millennia.  I close with a discussion of how the Euroamerican settlers themselves employed structural power, both in domination of Coast Salish and other Northwest Coast groups. I provide an ethnographic overview of Coast Salish practices for warfare in Chapter V.  I discuss the role of the warrior and the dangerous and unpredictable nature of warrior spirit powers.  I show that the temporary authority given to the warrior in times of war indicates a principle for validating or justifying the nature of an individual’s authority among the Coast Salish.  From the discussion of the variety of defensive practices, I show that the Coast Salish exhibit distinct practices among the Northwest Coast groups, commonly using tactics that allow for more flexibility, both at individual and at collective scales.  I also assess the causes of warfare in the oral histories and apply the perspective of practice theory, with its emphases on improvisation of strategy and tactics within an array of cultural practices or structures.  I argue here that the exchangeability of capital reveals how the Coast Salish could employ manifold rationales for warfare.  Perspectives that try to reduce these reasons not only limit their applicability but are also not consistent with Coast Salish motives for warfare. For Chapter VI, I present an overview of the archaeology of warfare on the Northwest Coast through the perspective of the theoretical framework of power, practice, and anarchism.  I posit that over the course of millennia the nature of power altered through time, placing additional constraints on the freedom of an individual or –– 12 –– local group.  I also consider how this changing nature of power is furthered or inhibited by changes in the human population.  I argue that these are not meant as determining human cultural traits, but rather as settings that enabled actors to enhance their power sociopolitically. In Chapter VII, I assess the array of defensive sites from predominantly archaeological sources, but also types described ethnohistorically and through oral histories.  One key point of this chapter is that there were defensive practices that were unique to the Coast Salish.  However, there was still a strong sense of local or regional preferences for particular practices.  In fact, I show that no one Coast Salish defensive practice was employed by the Coast Salish as a whole.  Rather, there were numerous core centers for certain practices with peripheries of influence.  I argue that these patterns are reflective of alliance and interaction networks that Suttles (1987 [1960]) and others have documented. Next, in Chapter VIII, I analyze arguments for whom the defensive sites are meant to defend against.  Often the ethnographic and archaeological literature stresses the battles of the Coast Salish against western and northern groups, such as the Nuu- chah-nulth and Kwakwaka’wakw.  I argue that this notion needs to be reconsidered and draw upon the oral histories and ethnohistoric accounts of warfare to assess the degree of warfare that was common among the Coast Salish themselves.  After considering internal Coast Salish warfare, I also evaluate those battles between the Coast Salish and external groups.  I provide an account and analysis of the Battle at Maple Bay to show how Coast Salish groups could freeze local tensions to ally in the face of larger threats, in an example of bottom-up organization through networks of alliances.  A main point is that understanding the dynamics of their anarchic sociopolitical organization is critical for assessing internal conflicts among Coast Salish groups and their corresponding ability to unite into larger networks of cooperation and alliance against external groups. I assess the evolution of defensive sites, in Chapter IX, to consider how some defensive sites are meant for households while others are designed for allied households –– 13 –– or villages as a whole.  Furthermore, I argue that defensive sites need to be considered beyond the context of any particular site.  Because of the nature of Coast Salish alliance networks, defensive sites must be situated within regional contexts.  Coast Salish areas exhibit a distributed nature of defense that shows a flexibility of response at multiple scales.  I argue that Coast Salish defensive sites exhibit a range of possible defenses that operate to the scales of the threats they faced, from attacks on particular houses to villages or regions.  Lastly, I demonstrate that the organization of of defensive sites over the last 1600 years intensified to match the scale and frequency of warfare through time. In Chapter X, I compare the two effloresences of warfare, the Late Period and the postcontact period through a consideration of changes in sociopolitical organization.  I argue that both periods exhibit the growth of nouveau riche.  In both cases, I argue, warfare played a role in enabling commoners to gain wealth and status.  Having been blocked or inhibited in their ability to gain wealth and status through productive methods, these individuals turned to warfare, or destructive methods, to make such gains.  In both periods, I argue that warfare served to restrict the concentration of power among elites and redistribute it more equitably, if not in egalitarian fashion.  Warfare consisted of practices that enabled individuals and households to enhance their power and autonomy.  Viewed through the perspective of anarchist theory, the concentration of power among elites came to be seen as entrenched and unjustified.  Those blocked from avenues to higher social status sought to disrupt the status quo and decentralize the existing power structure. In the conclusion, Chapter XI, I provide a summary assessment and revisit a couple of Suttles’ quandaries regarding the role of authority and conflict among the Coast Salish in light of this inquiry into the nature of warfare. –– 14 –– Chapter II: The Theoretical Framework––Power, Practice, and Anarchism To undertake an analysis of warfare in the Coast Salish region, I use three primary theoretical tools to assess the scale of power, the types of practices employed, and the nature of their heterarchical social organization.  For power, Eric Wolf (1990) provides a treatment of four modes of power that increase in scale and effectiveness. For practice, Bourdieu (1977, 1990) developed a theory that integrates structure and agency, where long-standing traditions serve as an array of options for ready practices that individuals can use as they compete with other individuals for various forms of capital.  For social organization, a theory is required that can encompass the fluid and heterarchical nature of the Coast Salish, which is neither centrally hierarchical nor egalitarian.  While there were chiefs, there were not chiefdoms.  There were elites, commoners, and slaves without the centralization of stratified states.  The theory of anarchism provides principles for assessing such a society that does not fit general anthropological models of social evolution based teleologically toward the centralization of chiefdoms and states.  Moreover, anarchism integrates well with both theories of practice and power.  Anarchism also provides a theory of history that incorporates power, a point that anarchist theorists have repeatedly raised as a weakness in Marxism. Anarchism also provides principles of social organization that assess how practices are organized and implemented to ensure that individuals and local groups retain a high degree of autonomy. Power Warfare and violence are expressions of power; in fact, these represent the physical exertion of power of one group over another, or one individual over another. –– 15 –– In this sense warfare is a medium of social interaction where social and political power is played out in the lives and histories of both individuals and groups.  Eric Wolf (1990) presented a framework for an analysis of power that provides valuable insight into the nature of social relations that manifest in times of warfare and conflict.  He conceived of four “modes of power” (Wolf 1990:586-587): (i) power as an attribute of a person, or individual power; (ii) the ability of one to impose its will on another, or relational or interpersonal power; (iii) the ability to influence or control individuals within social settings, or organizational power, (iv) the ability to establish or demolish the settings themselves, or structural power. His model is scalar in that each mode encapsulates the prior as nested levels or dimensions of power, from the individual (personal) to self/other relationships (interpersonal) to group dynamics (cultural) and structural governing (societal). Violence and warfare can be expressed as physical manifestations of power accordingly, from the individual to higher scales, which involve increasingly complex social relationships.  The first mode, individual power (i),7 is the personal power which is drawn upon or displayed for purposes of politics and/or conflict.  This is power as “potency or capability, the basic Nietzschean idea of power” (Wolf 1990:586).  These are the characteristics or skills that may lead others to call on a particular individual to address a need or resolve a problem.  This is power as intrinsic to a person but does not concern how that power is applied to others.  The second mode, interpersonal power (ii), can be expressed as power enacted between two individuals, as between a leader and supporter, master and slave, or two combatants, as on a battlefield.  Wolf (1990:586) described interpersonal power as that “the ability of an ego to impose its will on an alter, 7. Throughout the text, I continue to refer to these four modes of power parenthetically in this manner. –– 16 –– in social action,” which is the interplay of one’s power in contest or conflict with another.  This mode describes the specific one-on-one interaction, but does not address “the nature of the arena in which the interactions go forward” (Wolf 1990:586), or what may be termed the social field according to Bourdieu (1977, 1990).  The third mode of power, organizational power (iii), can reflect power expressions within a group, as through organization of others for defense or offense, or by factional competition for positions of control.  Wolf (1990:586) described this as the ability of one actor to “circumscribe the actions of others within determinate settings,” which he also characterized as a form of “tactical power.” Lastly, the highest form of power, structural power (iv), is the ability to control or alter the social settings themselves, and this power involves more than organizing others within an existing social arena; as Wolf (1990:587) put it: “Structural power shapes the social field of action so as to render some kinds of behavior possible, while making others less possible or impossible” (Wolf 1990:587). [T]his is the kind of capital to harness and allocate labor power, and it forms the background of Michel Foucault’s notion of power as the ability “to structure the possible field of action of others.” Foucault (1984:428) called this “to govern,” in the 16th-century sense of governance, an exercise of “action upon action” (1984:427-428).  Foucault himself was primarily interested in this as the power to govern consciousness, but I want to use it as power that structures the political economy.  I will refer to this kind of power as structural power.  This term rephrases the older notion of “the social relations of production,” and is intended to emphasize power to deploy and allocate social labor.  These governing relations do not come into view when you think of power primarily in interactional terms (Wolf 1990:586-87). Here Wolf wanted to concretize Foucault’s use of power from governance of consciousness to the more material aspects of economy, after Marx.  Marxists had greatly improved understandings of power into realms involving governance and ideology and control of labour and economy.  However, just as Wolf wanted to reorient Foucault’s emphasis, I would like to redirect this mode of power (as well as the other modes) to material forces beyond economy, towards physical enactments of power: warfare is the arena in which power unmasks itself for what it really is.  Other more hegemonic forms are understood to be backed by physical power, but in warfare, the –– 17 –– interaction is reduced to the fist, club, or cannon.  Of the four modes of power, the ability to alter the settings through structural power is the most destructive mode of power.  In applying this mode to warfare, it is necessary to conceive of it beyond simply to “alter” or “orchestrate” the settings, as Wolf (1990:586-87) noted, but it also needs to include the ability to destroy the settings themselves.  In fact, this applies to all the modes of power that Wolf defined––power indeed is social, economic, and institutional, but it must have recourse to and foundation in its physical expression, as demonstrated in warfare. The differences between these modes of power and their intrinsic escalation in dimension from one mode to the next can perhaps be readily illustrated by abstracting these principles through chess.  Wolf’s first mode of power, as intrinsic to the individual or person (i), can be seen as the property of the piece concerned, whether a bishop that moves diagonally, a rook vertically and horizontally, or the simple one-move advances of a pawn.  Those are the powers intrinsic to the individual piece regardless of their relation to others.  For the second mode of power, interpersonal power (ii), one piece can take another (or has power over another) by virtue of their individual powers (i).  A rook, for instance, can take a pawn on its rank; a bishop can capture a knight along its diagonal.  The application of this power to an opponent’s king is noted in the term, “Check,” meaning that power of one’s piece is threatening the opponent’s king.  With the third form, organizational power (iii) is applied through the coordinated mobilization of one’s pieces, whether it is the combined attack of a pair of bishops or a cordon of pawns; notably, to mate a king requires this organizational power in order to win, as even the all-powerful queen cannot checkmate another king on her own (that is, if the King is not inhibited in his movement or powers by his own defensive pieces). The final form of power, structural power (iv), occurs when the organizational power of one’s pieces orchestrates a scenario that controls the setting of the game.  It is that point when the setting is so structured that the opponent’s king cannot even make a move––in other words:  “Checkmate.” –– 18 –– However, as an abstraction, using the game has its limits.  It does not illustrate the obverse or destructive aspect of structural power which involves not controlling but destroying the settings themselves, going beyond the boundaries of the board’s limits: changing the rules mid-game––or swiping a backhand, clearing the pieces off the board itself. Of the four modes of power, structural power (iv) should be of interest to archaeologists in studying warfare because it indicates points at which the conditions can change, and change rather quickly.  Warfare does restructure societal settings. When novelists like Philip K. Dick (1962), with The Man in the High Castle, imagine a North America in which Germany won World War II––a common type of theme in imaginative fiction––these authors are playing on this aspect of the structural power of warfare which change the social settings and the course of history itself. I propose that these four modes of power, identified by Wolf, can readily be identified as archaeological correlates in the Northwest Coast.8  Briefly, the burials of warriors accompanied by their clubs, indicate individual power (i), the power of individual warriors showcased with their weapons––turned from primarily functional weapons into symbols of the warrior.  For interpersonal expressions (ii), examples have been well-documented by Cybulski (1992, 1994, 1999), among others, who have documented trauma resulting from interpersonal violence.  These include bone fractures that are unlikely to result from falling out of a canoe: parry fractures on one’s forearms, projectile points embedded in bone, beheadings, and fatal club imprints on skulls.  Also, the taking of slaves or the conversion of status from elite or commoner to slave is an expression of such power. Defensive sites such as fortifications or refuges, a focus of this study, mark an example of organizational power (iii), as these sites involve a great amount of labour to 8. Kenneth Ames (1995:157) has also found Wolf’s (1990) modes of power useful for analyzing Northwest Coast societies, remarking that it is “a framework for understanding the power of coastal elite in the household and beyond the household.” –– 19 –– construct.  Moreover, the death of a chief in battle would be a significant event, causing political reorientation and renewed competition for power among and within the household.  A chief’s death might lead to a shift in organizational power, although the societal settings and conditions would remain the same. For structural power (iv), examples could be the demolishing of a village, or a people.  This also could be represented in the introduction of a new technology, such as firearms, which might shift the settings and the balance of power advantageously towards one group over another.  Coast Salish groups demolished almost to extinction the Chemakum people of the Port Townsend area, ca. 1845 to 1850 (Eells 1985:351; Boyd 1990:136; Elmendorf 1993:143-145).  It is this latter level of warfare that causes momentous shifts in the archaeological record, as one group conquers its neighbours and spreads new practices and material symbols throughout the region—sometimes in complete disregard of the subjugated peoples’ traditions or sites.  Whereas organizational power (iii) will have a pattern indicative of a sustained tradition of its associated practices, such practices will generally leave a pattern of continuity. Structural power (iv), on the other hand, is more likely to result in significant social and material discontinuities. As Wolf (1990) indicated, much of the recent interest in power in the social sciences derives from the work of Foucault, who attempted to delineate the many dimensions of power.  In The Archaeology of Knowledge, Foucault (1972:7) stated that “Traditional history attempts a coherent, continuous narrative, when history is marked by discontinuities and irruptions.”  Such discontinuities would result from power exerted in structural ways, altering both settings and practices.  Wolf’s discussion of modes of power is useful for an archaeological analysis of warfare, because it provides a scalar framework for understanding the modes of power expressed.  Wolf (1990:587) did not intend that these modes of power as typological categories, but rather as explanatory devices for understanding human interaction: “it is the task of anthropology ... to attempt explanation, and not merely description, descriptive integration, or –– 20 –– interpretation.” Power, according to Flyvbjerg (2001), is not just an aspect that has been less studied in anthropology, as Wolf had stated, or in the social sciences more generally. Rather, Flyvbjerg (2001) considered analyses of power central to analyses in the social sciences.9  After Foucault, Nietzsche, and Weber, he proposed that power should always be analyzed as internal to all social relations, not as an external “tool” or other, but as the medium of social relations.  Moreover, power is not just a dominating, restrictive or negative force, but is also productive and positive.  Furthermore, it too often is focused in individuals or centers when it should be analyzed as intrinsic to sets of relations (Flyvbjerg 2001:131-132).  The use of Wolf’s modes of power is a way to undertake a phronetic approach to warfare in the past, situating power as a raw medium of interaction.  A phronetic approach, in its orientations to specific contexts and action, can be aided archaeologically by a focus on practices, the patterned forms of actions. 9. His larger aim was to make the social sciences more relevant once again, since these disciplines have declined in societal importance in recent decades relative to the natural sciences.  The reason, he argued, is that the social sciences mostly have tried to emulate the natural sciences, with their “physics envy,” producing universal laws, accumulating knowledge, and making predictions.  Flyvbjerg (2001) argued that social sciences are an entirely different domain and that any effort towards approximating natural science is flawed.  The answer is not to be in reducing social entities to physics or chemistry, rather it is deal with social science concerns through its own properties and dynamics.  Part of the problem is that Western civilization emphasizes scientific knowledge and technology to the detriment of practical reason and ethics.  Flyvbjerg discussed his three forms of knowledge as originally defined by Aristotle.  Episteme is scientific knowledge (“epistemology”), based in analytical reasoning that generates universal principles that are invariable and context- independent.  Techne refers to craft or art (“technology”/”technique”) and is pragmatic, variable, and context-dependent, although oriented towards production.  The final form of knowledge is phronesis (which has no cognates in English), which refers to practical reason or ethics; it is pragmatic, variable, and context-dependent and is oriented towards action (Flyvbjerg 2001:57).  The epitome of social science domain is the case study, which allows not for universals, but for examples of how humans relate.  To Aristotle’s formulation, Flyvbjerg (2001) added that a conception of power must be integrated for a truly effective social science. –– 21 –– Practice Theory All social life is essentially practical.  All the mysteries which lead theory towards mysticism find their rational solution in human practice and in the comprehension of this practice. ––Karl Marx (1970a [1845]) To study warfare from a primarily archaeological perspective, and with a focus on the many modes of power associated with it, we must identify the practices of warfare in the archaeological record.  Practice theory, as articulated by Bourdieu (1977, 1990), permits an analysis of the basic practices that actively created the archaeological record.  In later periods these practices are also noted in ethnohistorical records, ethnographies, and oral histories.  For archaeologists, past practices (in Bourdieu’s terms) contribute to the production of the archaeological record.  That is, they extend–– in a rather simple way––beyond the descriptive nature of the artifact or feature to the social traditions that produced those patterned actions.  Almost fifty years ago, processual archaeologists such as Lewis Binford (1962) exhorted archaeologists to do just that as well.  Binford criticized the established archaeological practice of building culture histories as a particularistic, descriptive, and typological exercise.  He and his students advocated an approach that emphasized understanding the social and economic processes that produced the patterning of archaeological remains.  However, as Pauketat (2001) has noted, the processualists were heavily functional in their approach and were actually interpreting functions or adaptations often quite removed from the material evidence.  Their interpretations regularly constructed abstract “processes” that invoked ideal systemic laws and causes as befitting a cultural ecology of the archaeological record.  Processualists advanced archaeology with their interpretations of site formation processes, for example, but practice theory attempts interpretation on the microscale, closer to the actions that produced the archaeological record.  As Pauketat (2001:74) stated, “the practices are the processes, not just consequences of processes.”  This puts the locus of change not on external and reified systemic processes but rather upon the –– 22 –– practical actions of individuals and groups themselves.  Thus it is important to “locate the processes of culture change in practices rather than explaining those practices as consequences of external factors or mechanisms to which people passively and uniformly respond” (Pauketat and Alt 2005:231).  This would include all types of practices, such as the making of a stone tool, the building of a burial cairn, the holding of a feast, the exchange of luxury items, or the construction of a fort. A concept from practice theory that is useful for the understanding of past human action is the notion of habitus, which Bourdieu (1977:78) described as “history inscribed into nature.”  Rather than mere adaptations to ecological changes, habitus recognizes how culture and its traditions are embodied and structured within its practitioners through time.  As individuals express the traditions and practices of their culture, the nature of that habitus leaves its patterns throughout the archaeological record.  And it does so in a historical sequence. This concept has been applied on the Northwest Coast by other archaeologists such as Mackie (2003), Grier (2001, 2006), and Mathews (2006).  As Mackie (2003:285) noted in his study of site distributions along the West Coast of Vancouver Island, “To elaborate upon Bourdieu, the structured dispositions of the habitus lead to a structured deposition, which itself acts as a structuring deposition” (emphases in original).  The structured dispositions of habitus are the constraining or guiding elements of culture in the improvisatory and creative acts of past peoples.  Rather than treating past individuals as passive reactors to changes in ecological stimuli, practice theory incorporates tradition and agency into its operations, reflective of both the passing on of traditional knowledge and the bricolage it forms as those agents have to improvise in addressing new conditions.  As Grier (2006:104) put it, practice theory offers “overarching structures [that] provide a spatio-temporal continuity to activity performance, turning the repeated everyday happening over time into an archaeological pattern.”  That is, practice theory is not just a specific action but is also about how it connects with or is representative of the broader history or tradition of that practice, –– 23 –– which guides that specific action.  It is how Bourdieu conceives of history:  that which connects the past to the present, or in archaeological terms, predominantly the moment of deposition. Another concept Bourdieu presented was that of the field.  Similar to Wolf’s (1990) use of the term “arena,” as mentioned above, it is the setting in which individuals strategize and implement tactics in the struggle for resources.  The field consists of a set of social positions structured by, and structuring, their power relationships to one another.  That is, the field is the field of social struggle.  Thus, the approach is materialist; in fact, it is ultimately derived from (Marx 1970 [1845]), when he noted that “all social life was essentially practical.” As Marx is known to have turned Hegel upside-down, Bourdieu, it is argued by Jenkins (1992), flipped the structuralism of Levi-Strauss upside-down, turning his abstract models onto a materialist base; Bourdieu found structure in material practices and within each of us as bodily habitus.  In this manner, Bourdieu quoted from Marx’s (1970 [1845]) Theses on Feuerbach for a frontispiece, which stated that “idealism naturally does not know real concrete activity as such.”  Bourdieu’s aims were to provide a method for analyzing real activities or practices, which explored not structural rules but improvised strategies of action.  In so doing, he not only countered structuralism but also the solipsistic existentialism of Sartre (1956) by stressing that the nature of habitus, while subjectively generated originally, is objectively learned through inculcation within one’s culture and class; thus, both elements of objectivity and subjectivity play a part in a dialectic of structure and structuration.  Both Levi-Strauss and Sartre were then classed, by Bourdieu as idealistic whereas his approach is materialistic and practical. Bourdieu also expanded upon Marx’s materialist orientation, by addressing types of capital beyond economic forms: social capital, cultural capital, and symbolic capital.  Like Wolf’s modes of power, these forms are not simply categories in a typology––rather they interact dynamically.  For instance, Bourdieu had emphasized that each form of capital is exchangeable for another form of capital.  With these –– 24 –– concepts, Bourdieu provided insight into other forms of domination beyond the economic.  Accordingly, class struggle is not just against the positions of the upper class, but also is a struggle against the meanings and significations that are held by the elite, those symbols and cultural codes that help aid their control through hegemonic practices.10 A practice approach necessarily integrates power into its analysis; in fact, it can be combined readily with Wolf’s (1990) modes of power to assess how organizational power (iii) or structural power (iv) can constrain or control the practices of others in certain contexts or social fields.  Bourdieu emphasized the improvisatory nature of people furthering their ambitions by enacting practices and options to advance their own capital or power.  This can be seen as the freedom of the actor to either choose particular practices or even create new ones––although, habitus creates dispositions toward readily available and historically acceptable practices.  On the other hand, others’ modes of power in the social field are always at play, constraining the available practices or actions of another.11 The powers of another (ii, iii, or iv) can limit a person’s actions, but also the power of an individual (i) can enable a greater range or freedom to pursue certain practices or options, as one can gather capital or organize with others into higher forms of power (iii & iv), matching or surpassing the organization of the opposition.  Similarly, one’s cultural traditions and dispositions in habitus provide constraints as to what options are available to pursue.  This is the sense in Marx’s (1964 [1852]) statement: “The traditions of the dead generations weigh like a nightmare on the 10. Jenkins (1992:59) noted that Bourdieu was not the first to emphasize practices, as Erving Goffman (1959; also 1961, 1967) had undertaken such studies of institutions from within (especially in his main study on asylums) experiencing their practices, not just studying the documents of the institution, as Foucault (1988) had done. 11. Trigger (1991) titled his major exposition on holistic archaeology “Constraints and freedoms,” finding that processual archaeology had been quite effective in determining external constraints upon behaviour (environmental, technological), while postprocessualists had been better about internal constraints imposed by cultural traditions.  Internal constraints are indicated in the practice theory sense of habitus and tradition.  However, Trigger (1991:559) also emphasized the improvisatory nature of past peoples by stressing that people are not fully constrained, that there is freedom in their ability to pursue actions to counter both external and internal constraints. –– 25 –– minds of the living.” However, Marx also acknowledged that there was a striving to counter such traditions as well, and it involves pursuing one’s aims as much as possible within existing constraints: Men make their own history, but not of their own free will; not under circumstances they themselves have chosen but under the given and inherited circumstances with which they are directly confronted (Marx (1964 [1852]). Cultural traditions can also be viewed as freeing, if there is a broader range of options available, although the range of options will inevitably vary through time.  In the past of the Northwest Coast, such abilities to keep the options that one has earned would have involved constant renegotiation or reproduction of the capital and constant reenaction of the power one has gained.  As Bourdieu (1977:183) discussed for societies without government, strategies and tactics used to achieve goals are temporary and must be renewed: In societies which have no “self-regulating market” (in Karl Polyani’s sense), no educational system, no juridical apparatus, and no State, relations of domination can be set up and maintained only at the cost of strategies which must be endlessly renewed, because the conditions required for a mediated, lasting appropriation of other agents’ labour, services, or homage have not been brought together. Bourdieu’s point is that the nature of sociopolitical organization affects how practices are enacted, what practices are available, and the degree of power that can be achieved––particularly in societies with “no State,” as Bourdieu noted, or anarchic societies.  Practice theory, like Marxism, provides a basis of interpreting from material evidence readily to broader theorization within social and political structures.  Some of Marx’s theories have been readily taken up by archaeologists (e.g., McGuire 1992; Gilman 1981; Spriggs 1984b; Kohl 1981; Childe 1951, 1956), because they allowed interpretations of modes of production and the sociopolitical relations of production. Because many classes of archaeological remains result from subsistence practices and economic activity, Marxist theory provides a rubric that ties economy to sociopolitical structure and ideology.  Bourdieu’s practice likewise provides such an overarching –– 26 –– theory that allows interpretations of specific practices as patterned by habitus in the archaeological record to broader interpretations of tradition and the sociopolitical struggles for various forms of capital.  Here, I advocate that anarchism likewise provides such a rubric that is also materialist or practical in orientation.  And, similar to practice theory, it also does not rely on class struggle for its interpretation, a feature better suited for capitalist state societies, as Marx had intended. Anarchism Anarchism involves a movement and philosophy that has been debated and worked over for many decades concerning how societies should interact without overarching forms of government.12  Like Marxism, which similarly had a long history of theorizing how a communist state would come about, many principles of anarchism might also be useful for understanding the nature of societies without government, such as those of the Northwest Coast. The theory of anarchism, which has been referred to by that label since the time of Bakunin––a main opponent of Marx in the late 1800s, during the early days of the International Workers of the World.  Others see its anti-government traits in the American Revolution (e.g., Thomas Paine) or the French Revolution, while some see these antiauthoritarian principles as extending much further back than that, even millennia, back to the ancient Greeks or Taoists (Marshall 1993).  Anarchist theory 12. Theorists of anarchism include numerous proponents, the first of which are predominantly advanced in the mid to late 19th and early 20th century, such as Pierre-Joseph Proudhon (e.g., 1890, 1972, 1979; Noland 1967, Woodcock 1962); Mikhail Bakunin (e.g., 1916, 1950; Morris 1993; Maximoff 1964; Carr 1937); Peter Kropotkin (e.g., 1902, 1910, 1946, 1996a [1901], 1996b [1910 -1915]; Morris 2004); Elisée Reclus (e.g., 1886; Clark and Martin 2004); and Emma Goldman (1917).  In many quarters, other major thinkers are regarded within the scope of anarchism, such as William Godwin (1976 [1796]), Max Stirner (1907), and Leo Tolstoy (1990). Into the later 20th century, the theory of anarchism further developed through Rudolph Rocker (1998), Colin Ward (1973), Noam Chomsky (2005), and Murray Bookchin (1971, 1991), among others.  Recently, theorists have also adapted anarchism in light of its affinity or relevance to postmodern and poststructuralist thinkers such as Foucault, Derrida, and Lacan (May 1994, 2001; Newman 2001; Call 2003).  In anthropology, anarchism has been discussed by Perry (1978), Clastres (1987, 1994),  Barclay (1982, 1997, 2003), Graeber (2002, 2004, 2007), and Morris (2005). –– 27 –– emphasizes principles of network organization (as opposed to centralized hierarchies), gift economies, local autonomy, and actively opposes the rise of centralized authorities. Anarchism also provides a theory of history that is an alternative to, if not contrary to, a Marxist one.  In the following, I discuss the core principles of anarchist theory before an assessing an anarchist theory of history. Core Principles of Anarchism Due to long history as well as its acephalous nature, anarchism actually comprises a broad corpus of ideas with a variety of strains.  And, unlike Marxism, which is tightly associated with primarily one individual (especially in name), no one thinker is predominant.  Just as its theoretical outlook suggests, much of anarchist thought and practice encourages variation and is oriented to local circumstances.  There are individualist (“egoist”) strains, collectivist, anarcho-syndicalist, neo-primitivist, ecological anarchist, and more; David Graeber (2004) has noted that these anarchist strains are named not after philosophers, but after practices or principles.13  True to anarchist beliefs, no one thinker is dominant.  It has been said that one does not even have to know who Kropotkin, Bakunin, Rocker or Bookchin are to be an anarchist––a similar statement could not be said for Marxism.  Rather than canonical texts, there is 13. “Now consider the different schools of anarchism.  There are Anarcho-Syndicalists, Anarcho- Communists, Insurrectionists, Cooperativists, Individualists, Platformists....  None are named after some Great Thinker; instead, they are invariably named either after some kind of practice, or most often, organizational principle.  (Significantly, those Marxist tendencies which are not named after individuals, like Autonomism or Council Communism, are also the ones closest to anarchism.) Anarchists like to distinguish themselves by what they do, and how they organize themselves to go about doing it.  And indeed this has always been what anarchists have spent most of their time thinking and arguing about.  Anarchists have never been much interested in the kinds of broad strategic or philosophical questions that have historically preoccupied Marxists—questions like: Are the peasants a potentially revolutionary class? (Anarchists consider this something for the peasants to decide.) What is the nature of the commodity form? Rather, they tend to argue with each other about what is the truly democratic way to go about a meeting, at what point organization stops being empowering and starts squelching individual freedom.  Or, alternately, about the ethics of opposing power: What is direct action? Is it necessary (or right) to publicly condemn someone who assassinates a head of state? Or can assassination, especially if it prevents something terrible, like a war, be a moral act? When is it okay to break a window? To sum up then: 1.  Marxism has tended to be a theoretical or analytical discourse about revolutionary strategy.  2.  Anarchism has tended to be an ethical discourse about revolutionary practice” (Graeber 2004:5-6). –– 28 –– instead an adherence to a set of principles that guides much of anarchism and its practices and these provide connections among the various strains.  These principles include: individual and local autonomy, voluntary association, mutual aid, network organization, communal decision-making, direct action, justified authority, and decentralized forms of social organization (in addition to resistance to centralized forms, such as that of states).  Here I focus on the principles that are most relevant for an archaeological application. Individual and local autonomy Within anarchic societies, the locus of control is not within any center but rather is distributed more broadly throughout the society.  The centers of control are stronger at the scale of the individual, family, and household.  According to anarchist theorists, society should be organized from the bottom-up, with groups voluntarily associating with other groups in broader confederations at larger scales.  The locus of control remains on the local scale.  Proudhon (1890) had argued for “the autonomy of the private reason, originating in the difference in talents and capacities.”  While anarchists advocate for autonomy, it does not mean atomism, which implies independent agents concerned for their own affairs.  Rather, autonomy conveys personal and local group freedom but with extensions of cooperation through voluntary association. Voluntary association Anarchism is closely associated with the furtherance and enhancement of individual and local freedom and expression.  An emphasis on autonomy fits with a principle of voluntary association.  Instead of a state determining the relationships of its constituents, anarchists prefer individuals to voluntary associate with other groups for tasks or shared interests.  Even within modern state societies, Kropotkin (1927:66; cited in Morris 2004:69) often pointed to the voluntary societies that are “constituted everyday for the satisfaction of some infinitely varied needs of civilized man,” including trade –– 29 –– unions, professional and scientific societies, or the Red Cross.  These societies were formed without decree from a centralized government for their formation or for individuals to necessarily participate; rather, these form from shared social needs and interests.  With smaller societal scales, voluntary association is a principle applied when individuals or groups opt to form an alliance or to participate with others for collective endeavors that local groups could not accomplish on their own.  Voluntary associations will tend to ensure that tasks or activities conducted meet the needs of those involved.  If the interest or need in such an activity wanes or becomes unnecessary, the association will dissipate.  Voluntary association with a group or activity also will tend to ensure positive relationships between those involved.  If relations turn negative, the association or relationship can simply be severed.  Therefore, to maintain relationships and such associations, a principle of mutual aid connects the shared interests of those involved. Mutual aid In a society developed on these lines, the voluntary associations which already now begin to cover all the fields of human activity would take a still greater extension so as to substitute themselves for the state in all its functions.  They would represent an interwoven network, composed of an infinite variety of groups and federations of all sizes and degrees, local, regional, national and international––temporary or more or less permanent––for all possible purposes: production, consumption and exchange, communications, sanitary arrangements, education, mutual protection, defence of the territory, and so on. ––Peter Kropotkin (1910) Mutual aid is a driving principle for connecting individuals and groups in cooperative endeavors.  It contributes to a self-organizing, bottom-up form of social interaction.  Self-organization refers to the ability of groups to organize organically, without a centralized authority governing the organization of groups.  Anarchists believe that no central authority is necessary to accomplish any given endeavor.  To Kropotkin, the cultural evolution of humankind attests to this, as humans have survived and proliferated for most of their evolutionary history in societies without government. While, as humans, we may not have always been formally governed, we have always –– 30 –– been social.  This was explicitly a focus of Kropotkin in Mutual Aid (1902).  In the decades after Darwin (1970 [1859]) published The Origin of Species there was a proliferation of ideas, influenced by Thomas Malthus’ (1798) economic principles which emphasized competition.  Thomas Huxley (1888) called it the “struggle for existence,” while Herbert Spencer (1891) extolled the “survival of the fittest.” Kropotkin viewed such notions as attempts to buttress capitalism, and, while recognizing that struggle and conflict were important factors in evolution, wanted to emphasize that cooperation was also a critical factor. Stephen Jay Gould (1988:11) stated that “Kropotkin’s basic argument is correct,” noting that he perhaps overemphasized cooperation, but primarily to balance the Social Darwinist tendency that overemphasized competition.  Gould (1988:16-17) remarked how Darwin had investigated the tropics, while Kropotkin, soon after reading The Origin of Species, conducted seasons of geographical explorations in Siberia.  Their experiences led each to separate conclusions.  Whereas Darwin saw the fight over resources in the plentiful, tropical environs, Kropotkin witnessed organisms whose primarily struggle was against the environment.  From this experience, Kropotkin postulated that there were two types of struggles: one that engaged each organism against another, or competition; the other being individual organisms in coordination against the environment: Two aspects of animal life impressed me most during the journeys which I made in my youth in Eastern Siberia and Northern Manchuria.  One of them was the extreme severity of the struggle for existence which most species of animals have to carry on against an inclement Nature; the enormous destruction of life which periodically results from natural agencies; and the consequent paucity of life over the vast territory which fell under my observation.  And the other was, that even in those few spots where animal life teemed in abundance, I failed to find––although I was eagerly looking for it––that bitter struggle for the means of existence, among animals belonging to the same species, which was considered by most Darwinists (though not always by Darwin himself) as the dominant characteristic of struggle for life, and the main factor of evolution (Kropotkin 1902). This aspect of evolution is repeatedly returned to, especially among anthropologists.  For instance, Quigley (1971), Read (2003), and Isaac (1978) have argued –– 31 –– for the importance of cooperation in hominid evolution.  In an ethnography of the Kung San, Alan Barnard (1993) attempted to use Kropotkin’s concept of mutual aid as a better depiction of their life-ways, particularly as “an alternative, very much non-Marxist view of primitive communism.”  Richard Lee’s (1988) description of San foragers as exemplifying primitive communism or a communal mode of production provided an interesting perspective on the economics of communalism, however, Barnard argued that a foraging ethos extended well beyond the economy.  Asserting there was in fact a “foraging mode of thought,” he described communalism as a mode of interaction that determines social relations and is ideologically embedded (Barnard 1993).  These social interactions of mutual aid and cooperation form, through repeated engagements with others, networks of organization. Network organization Network forms of organization do not exhibit centralized or hierarchical forms. Instead of channelling information downward from those in the upper echelons of a pyramidal structure, networks exhibit rich horizontal linkages.  This does not mean that all nodes in a network are equal, as placement within a network can engender certain advantages.  However, in networks, the flows of information are more open and organizational responses generally occur at a local level.  Among many groups, including the Coast Salish, many social networks are created along lines of kinship.  As Read (2003) argued, kinship––despite its namesake––is not really about literal kin, nor genealogical ties, but about how cultural groups ascertain who is related.  Kinship is a method of extending one’s familial relations beyond those immediately related biologically.  Read (2003) viewed kinship as a mode of ready self-organization that promotes cooperative behavior, a point that parallels Mithen’s (1996) argument that emphasizes sociality throughout human evolution, more so than technical or environmental knowledge. Mutual aid or cooperative endeavors are seen by anarchists as the core dynamic for the self-organization of groups and for the linking of those local corporate groups –– 32 –– into larger community and regional networks.  Anarchic organization is not driven by singular leaders, but rather are generated and structured by the needs of the people involved.  According to Bookchin (1991), the practical needs of individuals within local groups are the medium of organization, and organizations can respond as immediately as the need arises, which he described as “an ordering and structuring force.” Colin Ward (1973:11) stated that, in part because of this emphasis on self-organization, this revealed that anarchism is not utopian (as many have classed it):  “far from being a speculative vision of a future society, it is a description of a mode of human organization, rooted in the experience of everyday life.” He referred to anarchism as a “theory of spontaneous order” (Ward 1973:28).  Likewise, Bakunin (1950 [1872]:18) himself, noted that “liberty must establish itself in the world by the spontaneous organisation of labour.” Network forms of organization, as defined by Podolny and Page (1998:59), are “any collection of actors (N>2) that pursue repeated, enduring exchange relations with one another and, at the same time, lack a legitimate organizational authority to arbitrate and resolve disputes that may arise during the exchange.”  Networks are in opposition to market-based or hierarchical relations.  Market relations are short lived, existing only for the period of exchange––the end of the exchange effectively ends the relationship, whereas networks maintain those relationships.  Hierarchical relations exhibit a “clearly recognized, legitimate authority [that] exists to resolve disputes,” whereas networks exhibit conditional and situational authorities (Podolny and Page 1998:59).  Moreover, they noted that network forms of organization adapt more quickly to changes due to faster lines of communication than those found in centralized forms.  Not only does information travel faster, but it also conveys “richer, more complex information” that also is subject to a wider array of offered responses from various nodes in the network, as opposed to the narrow options to be delivered from the managers in centralized forms of organization (Podolny and Page 1998:62-63). Archaeologists have also analyzed principles of self-organization as important –– 33 –– for understanding the past.  For instance, David Braun and Steven Plog (1982) argued, using studies of the U.S. Southwest and Southeast, that “tribal social networks” were adaptive organizations that could respond to environmental resource instabilities.  For Bronze Age Europe, Gilman (1981) stated that labour-intensive projects (such as plow agriculture or irrigation canals) would not necessarily have been led by centralized elites, as each of the examples, considering the scale, could have been locally organized and maintained.  Through networks, major problems and projects could be effectively addressed in decentralized fashion. Decentralization and antiauthoritarianism True progress lies in the direction of decentralization, both territorial and functional, in the development of the spirit of local and personal initiative, and of free federation from the simple to the compound, in lieu of the present hierarchy from the centre to the periphery. ––Peter Kropotkin (1910) If mutual aid is something anarchists support, authority is something they oppose.  Sebastien Faure wrote that “Whoever denies authority and fights against it is an anarchist” (Woodcock 1962:9).  Saul Newman (2001:37) observed that “History, for anarchists, is this struggle between humanity and power”––such is anarchism’s focus on antiauthoritarianism, and, in particular, its rejection of state authority.  According to Foucault (1980, 1997), all social relations of dominance and coercion embody relations of power.  Moreover, power refers not to an abstract entity or essence, but rather refers only to the nature of relationships.  He emphasized that power was never total.  If power were totalizing, it could no longer be considered as power.  Power relations indicate that some degree of freedom is able to be deployed by those actors.14  One could say that 14. “[P]ower relations are thus mobile, reversible, and unstable.  It should also be noted that power relations are possible only insofar as the subjects are free.  If one of them were completely at the other’s disposal and became his thing, there wouldn’t be any relations of power.  Thus, in order for power relations to come into play, there must be at least a certain degree of freedom on both sides....  But the claim that ‘you see power everywhere, thus there is no freedom’ seems to me absolutely inadequate.  The idea that power is a system of domination that controls everything and leaves no room for freedom cannot be attributed to me” (Foucault 1997:291-93). –– 34 –– Foucault presented a social science variant on Newton’s third law, “To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction,” which would be:  To every application of authoritarian power there is an opposing resistance. Much of the anarchist literature on power concerns the state, although in this study, I am particularly concerned with the application of power in non-state societies. A few anarchist theorists extended their notions of power to non-state cases as well. Proudhon, for instance, noted that “All parties without exception, in so far as they seek for power, are varieties of absolutism” (Woodcock 1962:18).  Thus, through an anarchist perspective, authoritarian power is something to be challenged.  Newman (2001:37) praised the anarchist critique of Marxism for opening the door to wider examinations of noneconomic forms of power.  Proudhon and Newman, however, both exhibit a rather shallow conception of power, limiting it to a vertical notion of power, expressed from top to bottom.  Anarchists recognize power in solidarity, or what could be called horizontal power, the power of solidarity.  Opposition to authority is often described as the lifeblood of anarchist revolutionaries and, accordingly, helps to sustain anarchic communities.  As Bakunin (1970 [1916]:35) said, concerning resistance to authority, “This is the sense in which we are really Anarchists.”  However, outspoken Bakunin was about authority, he did not reject it entirely.  Rather, it is more accurate to state that anarchists maintain an opposition to authoritarianism. Justified authorities Does it follow that I reject all authority? Far from me such a thought.  In the matter of boots, I refer to the authority of the bootmaker; concerning houses, canals, or railroads, I consult that of the architect or engineer. For such or such special knowledge I apply to such or such a savant.  But I allow neither the bootmaker nor the architect nor the savant to impose his authority upon me.  I listen to them freely and with all the respect merited by their intelligence, their character, their knowledge, reserving always my incontestable right of criticism censure.  I do not content myself with consulting authority in any special branch; I consult several; I compare their opinions, and choose that which seems to me the soundest.  But I recognize no infallible authority, even in special questions; consequently, whatever respect I may have for the honesty and the sincerity of such or such an individual, I have no absolute faith in any person.  Such a faith would be fatal to my reason, to my liberty, –– 35 –– and even to the success of my undertakings; it would immediately transform me into a stupid slave, an instrument of the will and interests of others. ––Bakunin (1970 [1871]:32) Anarchists recognize “authorities” about a matter for their knowledge or experience.  Bakunin (1970 [1871]:32) stated “I bow before the authority of special men because it is imposed upon me by my own reason....  Therefore there is no fixed and constant authority, but a continual exchange of mutual, temporary, and, above all, voluntary authority and subordination.”15  This view of authority as being something rooted in specialized knowledge or skills has commonly been noted anthropologically among many cultures.  Among the Coast Salish Puyallup-Nisqually, Marian Smith (1940) noted that warriors, or war chiefs, were given specific powers over villages, related to war activities, but only for the duration of hostilities.  The designation of such authority must be carefully and situationally justified, lest it become authoritarian. Noam Chomsky summarized this anti-authoritarian stance as a core expression of the anarchist principles: Anarchism, in my view, is an expression of the idea that the burden of proof is always on those who argue that authority and domination are necessary.  They have to demonstrate, with powerful argument, that that conclusion is correct.  If they cannot, then the institutions they defend should be considered illegitimate.  How one should react to illegitimate authority depends on circumstances and conditions: there are no formulas (Chomsky 1996). An Anarchist Theory of History The conception of history was one of Bakunin’s main points of contention with Marx––while their end-goals for their philosophies might appear similar (aiming for 15. Bakunin (1984:239) also referred to this distinction as between natural and artificial authority. The former is justified as an expression of natural human relationships, whereas artificial authorities are imposed through institutional structures.  Newman (2005:172; see also 2001:38-41) considered this distinction a “major theoretical achievement of anarchism.”  No longer could one claim “what replaces the state?” as the anarchists’ conception of power is not tied to the state or the “social contract,” but concerns human relationships (Newman 2001:40). –– 36 –– communism)––their approaches to achieve that solution were widely different, and according to Bakunin, would lead to wildly different outcomes.  Whereas Marx advocated a communist state to rule all in an egalitarian fashion, anarchists opposed any imposition of the state.  Those like Bakunin criticized the notion that a “Dictatorship of the Proletariat” would rule over others in egalitarian fashion until a “withering away of the state” could occur––they thought it to be simply naive in its conception of power. Once leaders acquire power, Bakunin and other anarchists maintained, they will struggle to hold onto that power, whether or not they were originally members of the proletariat.16  Stalin later provided a ready example of Bakunin’s critique of such a drive to maintain power as the head of a communist state.  Like Tolkien's “ring of power,” acquiring sociopolitical power easily leads to corruption and creates a need to do all that one can to maintain that power, even when one might corrupt into something like Golum.  This anarchist emphasis on incorporating power into analyses of social systems predates Foucault by well over a century.  In fact, some have claimed that Foucault was (or could be called) a postmodern anarchist (e.g., May 1994, Newman 2001, Call 2003), although it is debatable whether he himself made such a claim.  Regardless, his work has been useful to anarchist philosophy in many respects, particularly for his microscale explication of the fingers of power through institutions and fields from governmentality, prisons, medicine, science, to individual sexuality.  If there is a criticism from the anarchist perspective, it is that the type of power Foucault described is largely restricted to institutional, bureaucratic forms, where knowledge equals power.  Instead, as Graeber (2004:71-72) pointed out, the real “brute force” power of the state is always close 16. This strident anarchist message, nonetheless, was picked up in later critiques of Marx. Gramsci (1971 [1929-1935]), for instance, while Marxist, added the concept of hegemony to Marxist interpretation, which showed that not only did the ideology, or the “opiate” (as Marx referred to religion) need to be cracked, but that revolution required opposing the material implementation of power that resides throughout culture in hegemonic practices (this is termed by Kurtz [1996, 2001] in an anthropological adaptation as “hegemonic culturation”). To paraphrase simply, ideology is akin to mythology, while hegemony is similar to ritual practice.  Ideology can be countered and needs to be if one is to resist it, but the hegemonic practices must also be faced with counter-hegemonic actions. –– 37 –– at hand and ready to reduce any threats to the status quo.17 These differences in understanding power led Alan Carter (1988, 1989, 2000) to detail two varying theories of history.  Marx, with his emphasis on economy, described power as arising bottom-up from basal economic forces, whereas Bakunin and other anarchists saw authoritarian power as originating at the top and working its way down through chains of command through sociopolitical forces.  They argued that authoritarian power is ultimately centralized and acted upon at sociopolitical apexes, even if that power was acquired through the control of economic capital.  Long before later theorists would try to update or reformulate Marxism (e.g., Gramsci 1971 [1929-1935]; Althusser 1969, 1986) to account for its overly economic or vulgar applications, anarchists had already made these criticisms.  The problem was not the focus on economic capital—indeed, many anarchists respected Marx’s powerful exposure of capitalist dynamics.  Rather, they simply criticized its weak conception of power.  The important difference in an anarchist perspective for Kropotkin (1927:150) was that “it attacks not only capital, but also the main sources of the power of capitalism:  law, authority, and the state.” There is another significant difference between Marxist and anarchist theories of history: Marxism is teleological, while anarchism is not.  According to early Marxists, an ideal communist state would eventually arise, after the stage of capitalism.  Societies existing prior to this stage were labeled “pre-capitalist” (Marx 1965 [1857-1858]).  For 17. "Academics love Michel Foucault’s argument that identifies knowledge and power, and insists that brute force is no longer a major factor in social control.  They love it because it flatters them: the perfect formula for people who like to think of themselves as political radicals even though all they do is write essays likely to be read by a few dozen other people in an institutional environment.  Of course, if any of these academics were to walk into their university library to consult some volume of Foucault without having remembered to bring a valid ID, and decided to enter the stacks anyway, they would soon discover that brute force is really not so far away as they like to imagine––a man with a big stick, trained in exactly how hard to hit people with it, would rapidly appear to eject them.  In fact the threat of that man with the stick permeates our world at every moment; most of us have given up even thinking of crossing the innumerable lines and barriers he creates, just so we don’t have to remind ourselves of his existence.  If you see a hungry woman standing several yards away from a huge pile of food––a daily occurrence for most of us who live in cities––there is a reason you can’t just take some and give it to her.  A man with a big stick will come and very likely hit you.  Anarchists, in contrast, have always delighted in reminding us of him” (Graeber 2004:71-72). –– 38 –– anarchists, the term “pre-capitalist” was teleological because it presumes capitalism was inevitable––a position they did not accept, just as they did not accept the communist state as a future utopia.  Rather, anarchism was anti-Progress, in the Victorian sense, and it was closer to Darwin’s non-progressive view of evolution than was Marxism. Integrating Anarchism, Practice, and Power These three theoretical orientations––anarchism, practice, and power––may appear disparate, but these conjoin in a manner that aids the utility of each.  The theory of anarchism provides principles of social organization among small-scale, largely autonomous societies without overarching governments.  It is these principles, applied to the needs and desires at hand, that organize their economy, sociality, and ritual. These principles, applied in varying local expressions, reflect how anarchic groups organized their daily practices.  Practice theory provides a way to understand how these practices are embodied, through history and habitus, into long-lasting, structuring traditions.  At the same time, practice theory affords understandings of individual agency, of how practices are strategically and tactically selected and implemented in an improvisational manner that advances an individual’s or a group’s pursuit of capital within a social field.  Amassed capital contributes to a concentration of power.  Finally, Wolf’s (1990) modes of power provide a way to investigate the dynamic dimensions of power from the individual to the level of interacting societies. Each of these approaches within our framework of power, practice, and anarchism are deserving of more detail, and in the chapters that follow, I examine them with respect of various aspects of Coast Salish warfare as we proceed through the archaeological, ethnohistorical, oral historical, and ethnographic evidence. –– 39 –– Chapter III: The Anthropology and Archaeology of Warfare Warfare in non-state societies is often portrayed in either Hobbesian or Rousseauian terms: either warfare was a constant presence, due to the lack of a Leviathan to maintain order; or warfare was limited to ritualistic ceremonies of no real material consequence, if it occurred at all.  Warfare, according to the latter view, is the bane of states.  Anthropologically, theories of the origin of warfare can be placed mostly in one or the other camp, but, as McGuire (2001) pointed out, such either/or theories are of little explanatory use.  For one, those are too generalizing as to have limited applicability to local and historical circumstances that condition and shape the decisions to engage in warfare.  Instead, theories are needed incorporate local cultural dynamics but also historical and environmental conditions.  In this chapter, I consider major anthropological and archaeological treatments of warfare and situate the theoretical framework developed here for an inquiry into Coast Salish warfare––namely power, practice, and anarchism––to show the advantages of such a multitiered and scalar approach.  Anthropological theories of warfare centre around the origins of warfare and its causes, so the first two sections discuss those.  In the third section, I incorporate the larger discussion of warfare in the broader social science of political philosophy, relevant to this discussion, specifically Marxist and anarchist approaches to warfare. The Concern with Origins Otterbein (2004) maintained two separate origins for warfare, involving “two types of military organization”:  The first, two million years ago “at the dawn of humankind,” and the second among agricultural peoples that achieved early statehood. The point, here, is that Otterbein stressed “organization,” which matches nicely the development of power (iii) as outlined by Wolf (1990).  Individual power (i) is and has –– 40 –– always been present in any individual, although relative and constantly in flux or in need of maintenance.  Interpersonal or relational power (ii) is the deployment of one’s power towards another; consequently, it also has always been present among humans, however, physical enactions towards another are not regarded as warfare, but as violence.  It is Wolf’s (1990) third mode, organizational power (iii), that is the mark of warfare.  It is the recognition that warfare is a cultural practice enacted by groups. Wolf’s model is beneficial as it connects warfare with lesser scales of power that reside in and between individuals, however, it also shows how power increases not only in scale, but in dimension.  Furthermore, Wolf’s framework also adds another dimension, which is structural power (iv), the point at which organizational power (iii) controls or can alter, even demolish, the settings of interaction.  Many anthropological definitions of warfare contain this notion of organization (iii) as a criterion for warfare.  The definition of what constitutes war also has a long history. Harry Turney-High (1949), an early analyst of warfare, maintained a distinction called the “military horizon” which separated “primitive war” from “true war.” Whereas the former required the recruitment of volunteers, the latter had command structures and campaigns; Lawrence Keeley (1996) later critiqued Turney-High for his treatment of warfare and states, which elevated modern warfare and seemed to insinuate that primitive warfare was a sport.  In general, definitions of warfare are subject to interpretation.  Even today, offensive attacks are often said by the initiators to be defensive actions, or acts of “preemption” against future attacks, carried out under the auspices of a “Department of Defense.”  Analytically, some basic terms can be established despite multifarious interpretations of attackers and defenders.  Despite his elevation of military warfare, Turney-High (1971 [1949]:5), in Primitive War, recognized matter-of-factly: “War is war.”  Perhaps it does not need further definition: We are not here speaking of anything so complicated as an explanation of polyandry among separated peoples, nor the similarities or dissimilarities in the ceramic complex of the Americas and New Stone Age Europe.  The art of war or the artlessness of fighting are so simple throughout time and over the face of the world that the discussion could –– 41 –– be made very monotonous (Turney-High 1971 [1949]:24). His work being a “primer” on the subject, he did provide a definition of warfare as “a social institution fulfilling a variety of motives, ending in many ways, evoking many emotions.  The central fact of military theory is that war is a sociologic device, and weapons are merely tools used to facilitate its practice” (Turney-High 1971 [1949]:5). This has some congruence with anthropological treatments of warfare, as Malinowski’s (1936:444) definition indicated, referenced earlier (see page 7), regarding it as “use of organized force between two politically independent units.” From perhaps the first anthropological conference on the anthropology of warfare (Fried, Harris, and Murphy 1968), Margaret Mead (1968:215) offered another definition: “Warfare exists if the conflict is organized, and socially sanctioned and the killing is not regarded as murder.” Mead forefronted the organizational aspect of warfare but also recognized its distinction from “murder,” which would only be interpersonal power (ii); although it should be noted that interpersonal squabbles and murder are often the fires that escalate into full-scale warfare (iii), as it has in the Coast Salish past.  In discussing the results of a later conference on the anthropology of war (Haas 1990), McCauley (1990:1) defined war as a “a subset of human aggression involving the use of organized force between politically independent groups.”  Mead’s (1968:215) earlier definition is perhaps more encompassing, highlighting the agential or active nature of warfare as well as emphasizing that such acts of war are socially decreed, although McCauley’s treatment stressed the autonomy of the groups engaged in a conflict, just as Malinowski’s (1936:444) definition.  As regarded by analysts of international politics (e.g., Wendt 1992), any scenario of warfare, whether between polities or within a polity (as in civil wars or revolutions) consists of autonomous groups.  The presence of conflict itself minimally indicates assertions of autonomy, even as one or both (or more) attempt to dominate the other group(s).  To describe international conflicts, they use the term “anarchy,” in that no overarching institution –– 42 –– has control or authority as warfare, by its very enaction, indicates an autonomous action, whether it be the rejection of another’s claim (external to a polity) or the rejection of one’s authority (internal to a polity).  The success or failure of the acts of warfare determine the relations of authority, if any, afterwards.  For our purposes, warfare consists of violent and coercive practices conducted in organized means (iii) against other autonomous groups. Scalar Approach to Power There is more to Otterbein’s (2004) argument for the origins of warfare.  These moments of militaristic organization occurred in response to specific conditions.  He maintained that, two million years ago, warfare proliferated among big-game hunters. Hunter-gatherers, in general, engage in warfare less often than agriculturalists, horticulturalists, or herders, even if they exhibited many episodes of interpersonal violence (ii) (Keeley 1996:186, Table 2.2; Otterbein 1999, 2004:81).  Since early hominid days, hunter-gatherers exhibited traits of cooperation, Otterbein (2004:39) maintained.  It is what enabled humans to be successful: Early humans were cooperators.  Among early hominids (austrolopithecines and early members of the genus Homo) cooperation was the key to survival.  It permitted them to attack other animals and as well as to repel attacks by them. This aspect of human evolution has been noted often.  For instance, Quigley (1971) and Isaac (1978, 1983) have argued for the importance of cooperation in hominid evolution; Kurland and Beckerman (1985) argued that cooperation was more important than labour and tool use, particularly in the savannah environments where cooperative sharing of information about highly distributed resources would have been critical. Read and LeBlanc (2003) argued that cooperative behaviour––or what we could term, after Kropotkin (1902), mutual aid––is a defining trait that allowed for the emergence of Homo.  In contrast, Old World monkeys and many African ape species (chimpanzees excluded) exhibited more individualistic behavior that required a reversion to smaller –– 43 –– groups, according to Otterbein (2004:39).  However, this cooperative behavior arose in conjunction with a new conceptual system of kinship, which allowed a determination of who among others is likely to be cooperative.  Kinship, then, overtakes genealogical ties, in advancing reproductive fitness, as cooperation is pursued with those that are determined to be related culturally, whether biologically related or not.  Kinship, in Otterbein’s (2004:39) argument, is a mode of ready self-organization that advances cooperative behavior, a notion consistent with Mithen’s (1996) argument that sociality is the most advanced component of early hominid minds, more so than technological or environmental knowledge. Cooperation is important, as Otterbein (2004:39) noted, that “defense and attack depend upon cooperation.” This hints at a complex conception of interaction intrinsic to warfare, that cooperation and conflict act at once, depending on which scale of analysis is employed:  “Conflict and cooperation are the opposite sides of the same coin.  When there is conflict between groups, there is cooperation within the groups in conflict” (Otterbein 2004:46). This is a notion first advanced by the sociologist Lewis Coser (1956:87), who proposed that “conflict with out-groups increases internal cohesion.” Furthermore, cooperation is important in that “Group cooperation led to fraternal interest groups, the first military organization” (Otterbein 2004:39; also Otterbein 1989).  Big-game hunters differed from other hunter-gatherers in their formation of fraternal interest groups, where leaders gather followers and form factions of kinsmen.  His conception is opposed to egalitarian hunter-gatherers that emphasize smaller game and gathering more prominently.  Big game hunting, with its focus on a collective hunting practice, produced a culture that was oriented towards killing large prey, which required cooperation and tightened the bonds of those involved in the hunt.  Given their bonds, fraternal interest groups became the “key elements in situations of conflict” (Otterbein 2004:45): If one individual challenges another, and if kinsmen of the challenged person are in the vicinity, they will come to his aid.  If the challenger’s kin are also in the vicinity, they in turn will come to his aid.  Conflict has escalated, and now it is not two individuals but two fraternal interest –– 44 –– groups confronting each other (Otterbein 2004:45). Here, Otterbein showed how violence between individuals (ii) escalates into organized warfare between individuals (iii).  His description of fraternal interest groups relates to another major theory about the origin of warfare by Raymond Kelly (2000). He argued that warfare occurs because of “social substitutability,” where an attack on an individual (ii) is perceived as an attack on one’s group (iii); therefore, warfare occurs when societies become segmented, as with fraternal interest groups.18  Kelly’s (2000) “segmentary societies” is perhaps the more accurate term to use.  While “fraternal interest groups” do encapsulate a majority of culture areas, the term would not be accurate for others, such as the Coast Salish, where allies are formed not just with kinsmen but affines that often were not close but distantly located.  In any case, both of these theorists highlight the role of organized factions, if they differ on when those formations occur; Otterbein (2004) argued for early hominids and even chimpanzees having fraternal interest groups, while Kelly (2000) argued that this began 20,000 years ago in the Sudan, with archaeological evidence prominent after 10,000 BP, similar to Haas (2003). In total, Otterbein (2004) viewed a triad of factors involved in the formation of war:  fraternal interest groups, weapons, and a focus on hunting.  These could be categorized as factional social relations, means, and cultural practice.  The latter, he argued, is a cultural practice oriented towards big-game hunting, already a military-like organization focused on game.  As Luckert (1990) concluded, it is simply one more step to go after even greater prey than big game:  other humans.  For those concerned with status, particularly those in segmented groups where leaders compete for followers, attacking the most formidable prey––other humans––is an avenue for such opportunities.  Luckert (1990), and others (Kroeber and Fontana 1986; Ehrenreich 1997), 18. Flannery and Marcus (2003) have put Kelly’s (2000) framework into archaeological practice by determining the segmentation of groups in early Oaxacan states, leading to the formation of Zapotec state. –– 45 –– have argued that in the decline of big-game or hunting as an economic emphasis, individuals turned to the “hunting” of humans to gain status. There has been an overall scheme related to the prey/hunter dichotomy. Barbara Ehrenreich (1997) argued that the passions for warfare developed in early hominids in response to the threats of great predators.19  Fighting back against such predators instilled great group unity and cooperation and directed, even sacralized, the act of killing the beast, the other, whether animal or human prey.  That is, the ideology develops in fear of attack of injury upon them––the threat of death.  This dialectic of life and death has a significant imprint for early religions, and for this reason it often serves as a path for rites of passage, where initiates symbolically are put to death to be reborn into a new social status.20 Maurice Bloch (1992) intended to search for “archetypes” of such religious rituals, which he considered to be universal constructs that served to play a part between human mortality and the seeming permanence of the group or societal structures.  He  viewed rituals as a dialectic between life and death, mortality and eternality; in other ways, a dialectic between eating and being eaten, the dynamics of the food chain.21 19. Ehrenreich (1997) developed her argument concerning the anthropological history of warfare ultimately as a social critique to argue that such segmentary divisions and ritualistic feelings (its powerful ideology and “contagious” fervor and nationalism) and preparations for war continue to influence the actions of politicians in international relations.  While many treatments of war turn to concerns with economy, she emphasized its nearly religious appeal in nationalism, which she connects to these early human concerns in bonding through fear or fervor against other groups. 20. Rituals have long been analyzed as having a dialectic structure: van Gennep’s (1960 [1908]) separation, transformation, and reaggregation into society; Turner’s (1969) elaboration and emphasis on the middle stage of liminality where people engage the sacred and participate in antistructural communitas.  Following their basic structure, Bloch (1992) added the importance of violence in such rituals, which those theorists had underplayed.  Invocations of death and violence present an alternate logic: for mortal life, birth is the event which precipitates life and growth, whereas in ritual life it is death (as in sacrifice) that burgeons immortality or transcendence.  Due to this logic, the symbolic participations in death and violence are the result of actors aiming for transcendence in both religion and politics, and so it is not from an innate propensity towards violence as some have argued (e.g., Girard 1986; Burkert 1996). 21. Theorists have also argued that ritual sacrifice has its origins during an early period in which humans were prey to greater-than-human beasts.  Luckert (1991) argued that the origin of ritual sacrifice involved the act of a hunter or scavenger, who satisfied predators (or “gods” since they were the predators, greater-than-human realities) by offering a share of their –– 46 –– Among the Jivaro, Elsa Redmond (1994) had noted a similar rite of passage in which children do not become adults, but rather become warriors.  In their ritual, the children attack a sloth, treating it symbolically as a human enemy.  The hunting practice is used as a substitution for the practice of warfare.  Adulthood is no longer just becoming a predator, but a predator of human enemies.  In some cases, the emphasis on warriors is connected with cannibalism, as among the Maori (Vayda 1960a, 1960b) and among the Jivaro (Redmond 1994:49). Bloch (1992) examined a ritual from the Orokaiva in New Guinea that he considered crucial for understanding the importance of the shift from prey to hunter. During the ritual, feathered- and pig-masked adults chase after boys and girls yelling “Bite! Bite! Bite!” They surround and herd the children onto a platform normally used for slaughtering pigs.  Then, all the children are draped and hidden, and taken to an isolated hut outside the village; symbolically, the children have been eaten by the spirits. After a long period of ordeals and training, the children emerge shouting “Bite! Bite! Bite!” and, in some cases, actually participate in a pig-hunt.  The ritual ends with the children (now adults) on the same platform redistributing the meat of hunted or killed pigs.  Through the rite, they have transformed from prey to predator.  Furthermore, since the Orokaiva regard pigs as similar to humans, the transformation to predator is akin to the the transformation into a warrior.  This substitutability of pigs into humans also has intimations for enemies.  Moreover, in the close of the ritual, there are also political ramifications involved in the redistribution of the meat to others from the platform.  Here, the children become adults by participating in the alliance creation and exchange of adults.  The ritual sacralizes organization into hunters (and warriors). Reading this through Wolf’s (1990) framework, the implication is that initially the children were just prey––insufficient in power (i) to withstand the attacks of predators scavenged or hunted meat.  Toss the wolf a leg from the deer kill––sacrifice it––and they could safely take away the rest.  Early hunter-gatherer gods in many societies took the form of predators (Luckert 1975). –– 47 –– (ii).  Through this ritual they come together and transform into hunters.  Victor Turner (1969) conveyed the importance of communitas created during the liminal stage of transformation involved in rituals––that mutable interim between their status as children/prey into adults/hunters––bonds between those that experienced the ritual together, tightening that social unit.  Such rituals help to strengthen the ties of alliance. These are rituals that maintain organizational power (iii). The ritual described here seems to follow how ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny, whereby children go through a ritual to become adults, just as humans were originally prey to beasts but then became predators themselves.  With the concern for the beginning of warfare, humans become prey yet again, but to other humans, which required yet another transformation––this time of hunters into warriors (Ehrenreich 1997). Otterbein (1989, 2004), as noted above, described the semimilitaristic organization of hunters, their experience with weapons, and the general camaraderie of the fraternal interest group.  Big-game hunters would necessarily have to range distantly over the territories of the big game they preyed upon.  This practice would make big- game hunters more likely to encounter other big-game hunting groups.  This, he argued, is why big-game hunters were the type of early hunter-gatherers that were more prone to engage in warfare. So, one could imagine a scenario similar to the early hominid practice of sacrifice: a group kills a mammoth but is within sight of another group of hunters, who approach as other predators.  They could sacrifice a portion of the mammoth to them as to a predator, or fight them.  Given Otterbein’s (2004) arguments for warfare’s early occurrence, perhaps the latter was chosen more often.  Sacrificing or sharing a portion of the mammoth would have entailed creation of relationships with those other hunters. A major point to take from these theorists (Otterbein 2004; Ehrenreich 1997; Luckert 1990) is that there were practices already in place among big-game hunters that facilitated a transformation into warriors.  That is, the cultural practices and means, or –– 48 –– traditions, helped to provide conditions for warfare.  Secondly, it is important, according to Otterbein (2004) and Kelly (2000), to consider the nature of social organization to understand the conditions for warfare. For Otterbein (2004), the s