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The Ethnograph : A Journal of Anthropological Studies, Vol. 4 Grogan, Tessa S.; Wagner, Helen 2018

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  0                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                                                                     1                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                       The Ethnograph Journal of Anthropological Studies Volume 4             2018 UBC Anthropology Students' Association | All rights reserved © 6303 NW Marine Drive, Vancouver, V6T 1Z2. The Ethnograph is a publication of the University of British Columbia Anthropology Students' Association. All articles published in the Ethnograph represent the opinions of the authors and do not reflect the opinions of the University of British Columbia, the staff of the Ethnograph, or the Anthropology Students' Association.  2                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                   Table of Contents  Letter from the Editors ......................................................................................................... 3 Contributors ......................................................................................................................... 4 Digital Ethnography: Activism and the Linguistic Features of Twitter….………………..5  Isabel Sobotkiewicz The Genealogy of Stable Isotope Analysis………………………………………………...6  Evangeline Bell The Cultural and Metaphysical Consequences of Territory Beyond Materiality………...13  Katrina de Haan Anthropology’s Input in Understanding the 2002 Gujarat Violence in India …………...19  Nicolas El Haïk-Wagner Locating the Individual in the Structure: An Analysis of Paris is Burning.……………...27   Zachary Goldman A Comparison of Marine Resource Use in Early Hominins…………………..…………36  Hayley McLeod Revitalizing Salmon Fishing Practices…..……………………………….………………41  Gabrielle Morin Attacks on Art and the Repatriation Dilemma……………….…………………………..48  Anna M. Nielsen Unfortunately Lucky: The Persecution of Albinos in East Africa……………………….56  Jordan Rokosz                                   3                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Letter from the Editors    Dear reader,  What you are reading is the culmination of nearly one year of work by many people in the UBC Anthropology Department. Creating the 2018 edition of the journal required hard work from editors, reviewers, students, authors, and artists. The Ethnograph is an annual publication which is sponsored by the UBC Anthropology Students’ Association and aims to publish and promote excellent student works in anthropology and archaeology. This is the fourth edition of our publication which we have recently renamed and rebranded.   We would like to thank all who were involved in the creation of this edition of The Ethnograph, especially the students of UBC Anthropology and the generous support of the Anthropology Students’ Association. We would also like to thank the graduate students and professors in the department who took a special interest in this project – your time and expertise are greatly appreciated. Lastly, we would like to encourage all who are reading to become involved with the journal in the future and help us grow and improve this publication.   Thank you for taking the time to read and support our publication – without the dedication of our anthropology community, The Ethnograph simply would not exist.  Regards,   Tessa S. Grogan & Helen Wagner Editors-in-Chief The Ethnograph     4                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                      Contributors   Editors in Chief Tessa S. Grogan Helen Wagner  Editors Timothy Allan Lauren Fisher Zachary Goldman Curtis Logan Majeed Malhas Emma Munro Megan Soderlund Gwendolyn Topacio Rachel White  Cover Design and Graphics Brianna Plant  Authors Evangeline Bell Katrina de Haan Nicolas El Haїk-Wagner Zachary Goldman Hayley McLeod Gabrielle Morin Anna M. Nielsen Jordan Rokosz Isabel Sobotkiewicz  Special Thanks Dr. Sabina Magliocco UBC Anthropology Students' Association UBC Department of Anthropology Gwendolyn Topacio            5                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Honours Student Communication  Digital Ethnography: Activism and the Linguistic Features of Twitter  Isabel Sobotkiewicz University of British Columbia i.sobotkiewicz@alumni.ubc.ca  This past year I had the opportunity to pursue research on the subject of digital activism. This topic was particularly salient following Trump’s election to office and as the Women’s March emerged as a global demonstration and protest of the undeniable concerns for human rights. It was during this time that social media emerged as a critical and dominant factor in the debut and process of such social movements. In my research, I conducted literature reviews of theories regarding social movements and I found that there was a strong relationship between the way social movements developed and the formatting and use of social media sites, particularly with regards to Twitter. I felt that as the current digital era unfolds and intersects further with the ways in which individuals conduct their daily lives, it became increasingly important to explore this dimension further.  In my thesis, I argued that Twitter was an important area of study with regards to social movements as it is a purposeful digital space, is culturally informed, and because Twitter acts as host to critical interactions between the individual, the social group, and opposing populist movements. Specifically, I focused my research on the linguistic features of Twitter and how these features mobilized collective action. To study this, I conducted three case studies of relatively recent social movements. These included the Women’s March, #Ferguson, and #MeToo. From my analysis, I found that there were common narratives established and written in textual communities formed through Twitter. Calls to action could be made through the use of tweets, while hashtags served the purpose of organizing groups and communities. In turn, individuals established a purpose, a cause, and motivation to take action.  A second aspect of my research focused on the role of surveillance and how it mediates protest. I found that in the case of these more recent  social movements as they emerged with the in the realm of social media, surveillance created a power imbalance in which police and affiliated institutions were privileged. I concluded that the role and impact of surveillance in the context of social movements held important implications for conceptions of privacy, as it is understood in legal terms as well as by the individual.  My goal with this research was to further an anthropological understanding of the nature of social movements as they develop and emerge in the context of social media sites. Digital ethnography, and by extension, digital activism, often fall under unfavorable scrutiny as these facets of research and society embody a metaphysical space. There is often a contestation of research in the domain of the digital as it has been considered ineffectual or an apathetic form of involvement. I disagree with this sentiment and hope that through my research I was able to demonstrate how social media sites such as Twitter can not only elicit active engagement in politics among individuals, but can also organize and achieve cohesive movement and purpose among these individuals.     6                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  “You Are What You Eat”: The Genealogy of Stable Isotope Analysis within Archaeological Dietary Reconstruction   Evangeline Bell University of British Columbia emhb2@cam.ac.uk  Abstract This paper is an overview of stable isotope analysis and focuses on its applications to the field of archaeology. Isotopic analysis is used in a variety of fields from geography to biochemistry, and its use in archaeology developed relatively late. After radiocarbon dating became popular as a reliable means of dating organic materials, it was discovered that the differences in how plants process carbon isotopes could be used to make inferences about long term dietary habits. Following the advent of carbon isotope testing in dietary analysis, some scholars began to explore the use of nitrogen isotopes as a way of indicating trophic levels within diet. Other isotopes are discussed, such as strontium, oxygen, and lead which are also used in archaeological analyses.   Introduction Stable isotope analysis is a biogeochemical method that has quickly become irreplaceably important in the field of archaeological analysis. Isotopic analysis is used in a variety of fields from geography to biochemistry, and its use in archaeology developed relatively late. After radiocarbon dating became popular as a reliable means of dating organic materials, it was discovered that the differences in how plants process carbon isotopes could be used to make inferences about long term dietary habits. Stable isotope analysis of carbon isotopes began in the mid-70’s and has since then improved in precision and accuracy. Following the advent of carbon isotope testing in dietary analysis, some scholars began to explore the use of nitrogen isotopes as a way of indicating trophic levels within diet. Other isotopes, such as strontium, oxygen, and lead, are used in other archaeological analyses, however these isotopes are more specifically applied to reconstruction of social geography and location. Carbon and nitrogen allow for several veins of interpretation. Initially they allow for estimations of proportional dietary inputs, this in turn allows for a study of individual diets while also serving as a way to explore dietary varieties within small communities. Finally, carbon and nitrogen can assist in exploring the mobility of a person when applied with knowledge of seasonal migration or abundance of certain plants and animals.  Overview of Isotopic Analysis in Archaeological Contexts Stable isotope analysis is an important method in contemporary archaeological analysis. The method has been continuously calibrated over the years since its initial use by Vagel and Van der Merwe in 1977 (Katzenberg 2008). While it was introduced as a revolutionary technique, it is now part of a wide roster of techniques used to analyze ancient human remains. Isotopic analysis is considered a strong companion to traditional archaeological survey and interpretation for recreating paleo diets. By exploring C13 ratios archaeologists are able to make inferences about the kind of plant matter eaten by an individual. C13 analysis is especially important in the realm of South American archaeology as it can be used to definitively illustrate whether a person had begun to eat maize yet or not. Maize agriculture is a defining moment in South American history and many archaeological discoveries and assumptions are made in reference to the agricultural switch. In addition to this N15 samples are extremely useful in determining the kind of diet eaten by an individual with regards to meat and fish consumption. Due to bioaccumulation, the process whereby a substance accumulates in an organism’s body because the rate of intake is greater than the rate excretion or metabolic transformation, N15 increases the higher up the food chain it gets (bioaccumulation Oxford English   7                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Dictionary 2017). This trend is represented isotopically with high trophic level hunters having comparatively much more N15 than that of their prey or the grass the prey eats.   Chemical Pathways of C13 and N15 Isotopes are atoms of an element with the same number of protons in their nuclei, but different numbers of neutrons. Stable isotopes do not decay over time, which makes them ideal biological markers (Reitsema 2015). Isotopes of elements move between substrates through a variety of reactions including evaporation and metabolism of dietary proteins and, although stable isotopes do not decay, stable carbon and nitrogen isotope ratios differ between diet and consumer tissues (Reitsema 2015). This ratio difference is because of a process known as isotopic fractionation, which occurs because of the differing molecular weight of certain isotopes. The bonds between lighter isotopes are more easily broken. Bonds between lighter isotopes can become broken during chemical exchanges which results in a change in isotopic signature between the original material and its byproduct (Reitsema 2015). These change in predictable ways, with some exceptions, and therefore allow us to calculate the values prior to consumption.    C3/C4/CAM Fixing Plants All plants can be divided up into three groups based on their photosynthetic strategies which produce variations in stable carbon isotopic ranges. These three groups are classified as C3, C4 and CAM type plants; they are distinguished by distinct photosynthetic processes/pathways in how they fix and store carbon, which can then determine carbon isotope ratios. Each of the groups photosynthesize during different times of the day, subsequently they each extract CO2 using sunlight in different ways. This results in the different isotopes preferred by different enzymes, storage molecules, and cell types in plant that use them. The lowest levels are those of C3 plants such as grasses and most fruits and vegetables, the highest levels are C4 plants such as maize and sugar, and plants with a mid-range are defined as CAM plants. CAM plants can use either C3 or C4 type photosynthesis and therefore have a range between the two. The most common types of CAM plants are pineapples, agave and cacti. Distinguishing between the type of plants that an individual was eating can be crucial to establishing seasonal migration patterns or for determining a time frame for crop domestication or staple food change.   ẟ15N Pathways Put simply, the process of using N15 isotope ratios as an indication of diet simply involves measuring the ẟ15N values of an individual and comparing the values to measured ẟ15N values of animals and plant species from the same spatial and temporal landscape (Hedges and Reynard 2007). It is generally agreed upon that a difference of 3‰ ẟ15N can be used as an indication of separate trophic levels (Hedges and Reynard 2007). There has been recent debate within the academic community as some scholars begin to suggest that N15 values could be influenced by other factors and that perhaps stable hydrogen isotopes should be used to analyze trophic level differences instead (Reynard and Hedges 2008). This research is for the most part unpublished and the archaeological community continues to use traditional ẟ15N values for the majority of paleodietary analysis.    Nitrogen Trend Exceptions The large majority of scholars agree that, on average, a 3‰ ẟ15N difference indicates a separate higher trophic level (Coltrain and Leavitt 2002). Generally, terrestrial food chains will only have three or four distinguishable trophic levels which are then translated into ẟ15N values, however marine food chains are not as simple. Marine food systems can have far more than four trophic levels, which can result in seemingly abnormally high ẟ15N values in individuals if they are reliant on marine foods. This must be taken into account when examining ẟ15N values of humans, especially if they were living in a coastal area.     8                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Methodological Approaches There are a variety of approaches to isotope analysis but all use the same chemical principles. The main variation depends on the tissues used in analysis, the method used to extract the isotopes from said tissues, and the process by which the isotope ratios are measured. Carbon and nitrogen are commonly measured from bone collagen, bone apatite or from hair. Teeth are more often used for strontium isotope analysis as a way to assess the potential migratory history of an individual by comparing the strontium ratios of tooth enamel (formed during childhood), to the strontium ratios found at the burial/death site of the individual (Bentley 2006). The first tissue to be used in isotope analysis for dietary reconstruction was bone collagen. This process for extracting collagen was pre-existing because of its use in radiocarbon dating (Katzenberg 2008). Bone apatite is also used in isotope analysis, however more recently, when preservation quality allows for it, hair is used (Reitsema 2015).  Hair can offer a view into dietary change over a measurable amount of time due to the fairly predictable growth rate of hair. In comparison, bone collagen and apatite offer a view into the average diet of an individual over their lifetime (Reitsema 2015, Sealy et al. 2014).   Collagen vs. Bone Apatite Bone collagen is the most commonly used tissue for isotope analysis due to its tendency for exceptional preservation. Bones must be soaked in an acid solution in order to demineralize them and leave only the collagen protein (Katzenberg 2008). Bone apatite and hydroxyapatite can be used for analysis in cases where bone collagen is damaged, contaminated, or poorly preserved. Bone apatite and hydroxyapatite are carbonate fractions of mineral bone, most commonly used when analyzing oxygen and strontium isotopes respectively, however bone apatite can also yield information about carbon and nitrogen (Katzenberg 2008). It has recently been discovered that analyzing carbon isotopes from the carbonate fraction of tooth enamel can be used to detect seasonal variation in diet (Katzenberg 2008). While apatite is a decent substitute for collagen standard practice in the archaeological sphere, which continues to use collagen as the primary tissue used in isotopic analysis.  Methods for Retrieving Collagen  One of the largest debates within the field of isotope analysis is the method used to extract bone collagen from mineralized bone. While there are countless approaches to demineralizing bone, there appear to be two major styles of approach (Sealy et al. 2014). On the one hand there is the slightly more simplistic approach, which mimics techniques used by the earliest isotope analysts in the late 70’s. This technique was observed by Sealy and colleagues at the University of Cape Town, where it has been used continuously for almost 30 years with very minimal changes made to the method. The University of Cape Town method is as follows:  “The surface-cleaned chunks [are] weighed, then placed in glass vials in approximately 0.2 M HCl at room temperature.… The acid [is] changed every other day until the bone chunks yield ‘pseudomorphs’.... Samples [are] rinsed three times in distilled water, then treated for 24 h in 0.1 M NaOH to remove base-soluble contaminants such as humic acids and some lipids. Next, samples [are] soaked in distilled water (changed regularly) for approximately a week until the pH of the water remained neutral. The final step [is] to freeze- dry them” (Sealy et al. 2014).  By comparison, the Max Planck Institute technique is a longer process. This method was also assessed and detailed in the Sealy et al. article, where they describe the process as far more intricate than the University of Cape Town technique - but begins with essentially the same process for demineralizing the bone. The samples are then diluted with deionized water and heated in a box heater for 48hrs. This gelatinizes the samples and prepares them for ultrafiltration (Sealy et al. 2014).  The process involves several rounds of filtration by centrifuge in order to remove all non-isotopic matter from the samples. The Max Planck Institute is renowned for their reliable data and intricate analytical   9                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                   techniques, however the study by Sealy and colleagues did not reveal any considerable difference in data based on the difference in collagen preparation technique (Sealy et al 2014).  Accelerator Mass Spectrometry Isotopes ratios are taken using accelerator mass spectrometry. A variety of analyzing machines are designed to do so. An example, housed at the University of British Columbia, is the Vario Micro elemental analyzer coupled with an Isoprime stable isotope ratio mass spectrometer, which is operated in continuous-flow mode. Historically, these machines required the combustion of the element being examined so that the resultant CO2 and H2O can be removed before the original CO2 is analyzed. However recent improvements to machinery have allowed “modern instruments [to] interface combustion furnaces and gas analyzers with mass spectrometers to simplify and ease the conversion of the sample into the requisite gaseous form” (Katzenberg 2014). Isotope ratio mass spectrometers have four components: an inlet system, an ion source, a mass analyzer, and a series of ion detectors as demonstrated by fig. 1. Samples are first deposited into the source. Then, gas is funneled into the source where the samples are, which allows the atoms to interact with electromagnetic fields, eventually separating them. Once separated, ions of different masses are collected where they can then be measured and their ratios reported (Katzenberg 2014). Analysis often takes place in an external lab and there are charges per sample, making it important to ensure that all variables surrounding the samples are recorded and accounted for in order to ensure the accuracy of the laboratory results. Fig.1 Diagram of the main components of a mass spectrometer. Gas enters at the source and is pushed through the analyzer along with the ions. Ions of different masses are then distributed to the collector and separated by mass (Katzenberg 2014).  Methodological Criticisms  Due to the amount of small variations possible in the process of isotope analysis it is understandable that there are considerable criticisms. These criticisms vary from the techniques used to create comparative isotope ratios, to the type of elemental isotopes used in the analysis. The practice has become arguably more reliable in recent years, but it must be remembered that while early studies were pioneering, they were also often scientifically faulty. It is therefore important for new or continuing research to ensure the validity of older isotope analysis before using it in new interpretations.  Baselines  An issue that is often raised with older isotopic analyses is that of baselines. In order for isotope ratios of an individual to tell us anything about their diet, archaeologists must be able to reconstruct an isotopic baseline using the faunal and floral remains that would have made up the paleoclimate inhabited by the individual. It is important that a sufficient   10                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  number of faunal and floral samples are analyzed so that comparisons can be made. In addition to this the number and type of human remains used must be considered. Historically, older studies would compare ancient human remains to those of modern humans in the hopes of using the comparison as a way of evaluating ancient dietary practices. This is problematic as it does not take into consideration any number of variabilities including: geographic isotopic variability, environmental variability, and the effects of modernized agriculture on contemporary human isotope ratios. One case study that provides an example of poorly planned baselines and comparative samples is the early isotopic analysis of the Neolithic Iceman known as Ötzi (Macko et al. 1999, Rollo et al. 2002). Macko and colleagues used a miniscule sample number when they carried out their analyses and as a result came to the conclusion that, based on isotopic evidence, the man must have been vegetarian, perhaps even vegan. This theory was quickly refuted by DNA analyses of meat contents in the stomach and the data has ceased to be used in archaeological research concerning Ötzi. This is a clear example of the importance of context when analyzing any object; without the relevant context a sample is effectively null in regard to isotopic analysis.    Nitrogen Trophic Level Correlations Recently some scholars have begun to question the efficacy of using nitrogen as an indicator of trophic level. There is cause to believe that nitrogen, while stable, may be outwardly affected by factors such as famine or freshwater fish. This cause for concern has led to the proposal that perhaps stable hydrogen isotopes would be more precise for recording trophic levels. The majority of this research is pioneered by L.M Hedges and R.E.M Reynard, who list a number of potential factors that can affect the reliability of ẟ15N isotopes. These include “variability in the diet/tissue enrichment with protein level, dietary items, or between species, and difficulties with determination of the appropriate (herbivore) isotopic baseline. Another problem… is that the measured values in tissue can be elevated by factors other than animal protein consumption, such as aridity and the consumption of marine and freshwater fish” (Reynard and Hedges 2008). It has been proposed by Reynard and Hedges that isotopic hydrogen is far less able to be affected by anyone of these factors and therefore provides a more reliable illustration of trophic level based on dietary input. For the analysis to be successful, it is important that the baseline used is only made up of geographically proximal samples so that the isotopic hydrogen levels are aligned. This is because the “variation in ẟD in water shows a strong geographical trend due to the underlying changes in δD in precipitation” (Reynard and Hedges 2008). While there has been considerable success using this technique, it is still very sparsely used and further research using a wider selection of plant and animal species is required in order to confirm the effectiveness of using ẟD instead of ẟ15N in the field of dietary reconstruction and trophic level interpretation.  Current Standard of Practice As mentioned throughout this paper, isotope analysis is a practice that has been slowly but continuously evolving since its initial use in an archaeological context in the late 1970’s. As it currently stands, the general practice is to use bone collagen and bone apatite in combination whenever possible. Collagen should, preferably, be taken from long bones although there should not be drastic variation so long as the preparation and cleaning is precise and consistent across all samples (Jørkov et al. 2007). There appears to be no true consensus on which preparation technique is superior although many are now leaning towards methods that include centrifugal filtration (Sealy et al. 2014). From there the isotope samples should be placed into an isotope ratio mass spectrometer. There are several options for how these machines function, which fall broadly under two categories: continuous flow and dual inlet IRMS. An article written by Sarah Benson and colleagues found that there is no significant difference in results dependent on the type of isotope ratio mass spectrometer used (Benson et al. 2006). The most crucial part of isotope analysis and interpretation is ensuring that the baselines and comparative faunal and floral samples are from the correct, similar geographic and temporal landscape. Precision in   11                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  baselines will make the data from human individuals much more reliable and scientifically sound.  Areas for Improvement After research into the history and nature of isotope analysis, I believe one main area of improvement stands out: consistency. There is much variety in the way archaeologists analyze and interpret isotopic ratios and this can lead to a weakened accuracy. The archaeological community should strive to achieve common practice standards across the world so that all data is comparable in its accuracy, precision, and reliability. More research is required into which of the collagen sample preparation methods is the least destructive and least likely to cause contamination to the isotopes. Similarly, there is the need for a defined standard in the number and size of samples needed in order to achieve a scientifically accurate evaluation of isotope ratios. This kind of consistency will make comparisons much easier as researchers will not have to worry about verifying whether a past isotopic evaluation was done with an acceptable degree of precision and without risk of contamination. Another improvement that should be worked towards is the continued use of stable isotope analysis as one of multiple factors contributing towards dietary reconstruction. Isotope ratios can only indicate what kinds of plants were being eaten or what trophic level an individual was eating at, other types of archaeological remains such as macro remains, faunal and flora remains, and pollen analysis should be used to confirm and specify the food types being eaten.   Conclusion In conclusion, stable isotope analysis is one of the forefront techniques for analyzing human remains in order to reconstruct ancient dietary practices. The technique grew out of the discoveries that started radiocarbon dating and has since then grown to incorporate a plethora of other isotopes. Carbon and nitrogen can yield important information about plant and animal matter eaten over the lifetime of an individual and are two of the most important isotopes when it comes to dietary analysis. They can be used alongside strontium and oxygen isotopes in order to recreate seasonal migration patterns, and can be used to determine whether or not a community or individuals were consuming marine foods. Isotope analysis used in combination with other archaeological discoveries can be vital in recreating paleoenvironment and dietary practices. As with all scientific methods, there will always be a margin of error and room for improvement. Currently, the best improvement will be made by fostering communication among the archaeological community and ensuring standards of practice across the world. Research into newly proposed ideas, such as the use of hydrogen isotopes in place of nitrogen, is promising and should continue to be encouraged in order for the archaeological community to strive for the highest level of precision and accuracy achievable. Overall, stable isotope analysis is a method that continues to strengthen the field of archaeological science and will only continue to do so as further research perfects the practice’s fine tuning.  Works Cited Ambrose, Stanley H. 1987. “Stable Carbon and Nitrogen Analysis of Human and Animal Diet in  Africa.” Journal of Human Evolution 15:707-731. Ambrose, Stanley H. 1989. “Preparation and Characterization of Bone and Tooth Collagen for  Isotopic Analysis.” Journal of Archaeological Science 17:431-451. Benson, Sarah, Chris Lennard, Phillip Maynard, and Claude Roux. 2006. “Forensic applications of  isotope ratio mass spectrometry—A review.” Forensic Science International 157:1-22. Bentley, Alexander R. 2006. “Strontium Isotopes from the Earth to the Archaeological Skeleton: A  Review.” Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 13(3):135-187. Bioaccumulation 2017. 3rd ed.Oxford University Press. Bogaard, Amy, and Alan K. Outram. 2013 “Paleodiet and beyond: stable isotopes in  bioarchaeology.” World Archaeology 45(3): 333-337 Chisholm, B. S., D. E. Nelson, K. A. Hobson, H. P. Schwarczband M. Knyfb. 1983. “Carbon  Isotope Measurement Techniques for Bone Collagen: Notes for the Archaeologist.”  Journal of Archaeological Science 10:355-360.   12                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Coltrain, J.B., Leavitt, S.W. 2002. “Climate and diet in Fremont prehistory: Economic variability  and abandonment of maize agriculture in the Great Salt Lake Basin.” American Antiquity  67: 453-485. Hedges, Robert E. M., and Linda M. Reynard. 2007. “Nitrogen isotopes and the trophic level of  humans in archaeology.” Journal of Archaeological Science 34: 240-1251. Jørkov, Marie Louise S., Jan Heinemeier, Niels Lynnerup. 2007. “Evaluating bone collagen  extraction methods for stable isotope analysis in dietary studies.” Journal of  Archaeological Science 34: 1824-1829. Katzenberg, M. Anne. 2008. “Stable Isotope Analysis: A Tool for Studying Past Diet,  Demography, and Life History.” Biological Anthropology of the Human Skeleton  413-441. Macko, Stephen A., Michael H. Engel, Vladimir Andrusevich, Gert Lubec, Tamsin C. O'Connell  and Robert E. M. Hedges. 1999. “Documenting the diet in ancient human populations  through stable isotope analysis of hair.” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society  of London 354:65-76. Reitsema, Laurie J. 2015. “Laboratory and Field Methods for Stable Isotope Analysis in Human  Biology.” American Journal of Human Biology 27:593-604. Renfrew, Colin, and Paul Bahn. 1991. Archaeology Theories Methods and Practice. Thames and  Hudson Ltd, London. Reynard, L. M., and R. E. M. Hedges. 2008. “Stable hydrogen isotopes of bone collagen in  palaeodietary and palaeoenvironmental reconstruction.” Journal of Archaeological  Science 35: 1934-1942. Rollo, Francisco, Massimo Ubaldi, Lucas Ermini, and Isolina Marota. 2002. “Ötzi’s last meals:  DNA analysis of the intestinal content of the Neolithic glacier mummy from the Alps.”  Proceedings of the National Academy of Science 99(20): 12594-12599. Sealy, Judith, Malia Johnson, Michael Richards, and Olaf Nehlich. 2014. “Comparison of  two methods of extracting bone collagen for stable carbon and nitrogen isotope analysis:  comparing whole bone demineralization with gelatinization and ultrafiltration.” Journal of  Archaeological Science 47:64-69                                  13                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Indigenous Territory in Cyberspace: Exploring the Cultural and Metaphysical Consequences of Territory Beyond Materiality   Katrina de Haan University of British Columbia k.dehaan@alumni.ubc.ca  Abstract This paper explores the emergence of indigenous determined space and digital occupation of territory through digital media⸺a phenomenon attesting to the limitations and potential of what it means to occupy space beyond land and materiality. The following case studies are analyzed: The VR project of Running Wolf, Skawennati’s CyberPowWow, and the Standing Rock Facebook ‘check in’.  Introduction Recently, I had the honor of attending a lecture hosted by Northern Cheyenne Tribe of Montana member and computer scientists, Michael Running Wolf Jr. and his fellow scholar/wife, Caroline Running Wolf. In a matter of minutes, I was transported to the indigenous hunting territory of the Madison Buffalo Jump through a virtual reality headset. Not only was I able to look around the site from my initial vantage point, I was able to move through various points in the virtual landscape, giving me limited access to ‘explore’ the site1. The title of the lecture, “Augmented and Virtual Reality for Linguistic and Cultural Continuity” (Running Wolf Jr. 2017) suggests the project is undergoing development as a pedagogical tool primarily to be used by indigenous youth. It establishes an opportunity for its target audience to visit culturally significant locations from within their classrooms.  While the project holds great potential as an engaging learning tool, the implication of occupying these sites through virtual reality cannot be limited to a pedagogical context. Rather, the ability for the headset to instantly transport my presence from a lecture room2 to the traditional hunting grounds of Montana’s Native American tribes demonstrates something much more profound: the affordances of Internet-enabled digital media complicating notions of territory—especially in the context of land. These complexities are made particular by issues of indigenous territory, and through which, Western definitions of territory have long been challenged before the emergence of the Internet. Through an examination of how the concept(s) of indigenous territory operates in and through ‘cyberspace,’ this paper will engage in these consequences of expanding territory beyond land—revealing territory as something we can understand as both cultural and metaphysical phenomena.  Territory and Territoriality in Cyberspace Although never explicitly stated in his preliminary write up concerning the initiative, Running Wolf’s project contains an element of political action. The park status of Madison Buffalo Jump has recently been threatened; the future of the site as site for indigenous cultural practice and learning is nebulous (Running Wolf 2016). As detailed in a news article, the Bozeman Daily Chronicle ⸺ an audit from 2008 conducted by Montana’s Department of Natural Resources and Conservation ⸺ revealed it had not been collecting a lease for the park, and subsequently demanded the current managers of the location, ‘Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks’, begin doing so (Pierce 2014). Faced with budget constraints, the Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks considered forfeiting their management, as Bill Goolds, an interviewee of the article, notes: would likely result in the location being sold for the privatized interests of luxury housing developers or cattle grazing (Ibid). In light of the location’s precarious state park status–and by extension, the ambiguous future of the Buffalo Jump’s accessibility—Running Wolf’s project enables people to experience and appreciate the cultural, historical, and spiritual significance of   14                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Buffalo Jump in a way which resonates amongst numerous indigenous groups: by increasing accessibility to the site through Virtual Reality. Running Wolf’s project therefore facilitates the fortification of ‘cultural ties to land’ while demonstrating how digital media can strengthen Indigenous claims to territory. This in itself is a form of enacting territoriality.   While the immateriality of the Buffalo Jump’s digital occupation might be interpreted by an older generation as both literally and politically ‘insubstantial’, the significance it carries through digital media are best understood when concepts of territory and territorialisation are differentiated—the latter of the two is reformed by attributing it to a behavioural, performative dimension. Drawing on Edward Soja and Stuart Elden, both refer to territory as “the political organization of space,” and territoriality as “a behavioral phenomenon associated with the organization of space into spheres of influence… clearly demarcated territories… made distinctive and considered at least partially exclusive by their occupants or definers” (Edward Soja 1971: 19 as qtd in Elden 2010: 802). Although the State Park status of the Madison Buffalo Jump prevents it from being ‘legally claimed’ as indigenous territory, the ‘behavioral phenomenon’ of its virtual occupation through Running Wolf’s VR concept can dodge around issues of claiming territory, and thus, assert an indigenous proprietorship.   There are however, important differences between embodying and occupying place and the virtual experiences facilitated by Buffalo Jump’s Project is no exception. It reveals differences which must be acknowledged. We must acknowledge a colonial history of dispossessing indigenous territories. David Gaertner (2015) writes, land is “…a vital part of how the indigenous peoples of Turtle Island […] develop and interpret identity and community” (55). To suggest that Indigenous communities and their relationship with territory can be replaced by a simulated experience not only denies this cultural truth, it contributes to colonialist practices, justifying the dispossession of indigenous lands. Instead, it grants indigenous communities a mere remnant of what they once occupied (as per the allocation of indigenous reservations). Respect must be paid to the limitations of what can be achieved through digital media, yet, the globalized economic and social environment has necessitated many to people move away from their ancestral territory to find jobs or to pursue education. A recent study found that approximately two thirds of Native Americans and Alaskan Natives live in cities (Snippet 2013). Many cultural practices—at one time requiring an embodied presence⸺adapt to accommodate this contemporary reality, thus by extension, complicating definitions of what constitutes indigenous space.  The Powwow is a prevalent example of how indigenous territoriality has been outside the geographic. It is an intertribal event consisting of “…a dance or series of dances, indifferent styles, organized around a designated and consecrated dance arena” (Johnson 2013). The powwow predates digital media but nonetheless contains many features that are comparable to the digital territoriality example of the Madison Buffalo Jump VR project. Though powwows were not necessarily a traditional practice for communities who began to partake in them as they were forced off their ancestral lands, the events offered opportunities to bolster “culture, community, identity, and belonging with interconnected relationships across space” (Ramirez 2007 as quoted in Gaertner 2013). As “First Nations and American Indian peoples began to move—or were forced to move—into urban centers and away from reserves and reservations, the powwow became a vital part of promoting unity and indigenous identity within and across urban communities” (Gaertner 2013).  In 1997, Mohawk artist Tricia Skawennati Fragnito launched the online chat room and virtual exhibition space project “CyberPowWow,” further extending the powwow outside traditional indigenous territories. Skawennati worked to “dispel the myth that Native artists didn’t (or couldn’t?!) use technology in their work”. Furthermore, she describes it as a way to “claim for ourselves a little corner of cyberspace that we could nurture and grow in the way we wanted” (Fragnito 2017). Through a graphic interface, users were able to transcend the distances between themselves, and interact both through text and   15                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  their digital avatars (Gaertner 2013). One artist even coordinated a round dance through which; “[a]s pixels, the dancers appeared as a tiny constellation of stars, a community of digital bodies caught up in the translation of traditional practice into a new urban territory” (63). As Gaertner observes, “‘[k]nowledge’ in the sense communicated by [artist] Blondeau’s Round Dance becomes directly linked to user participation in the space, rather than emphasizing the space itself, and in doing so redirects the idea of the Internet away from passive conceptions of space to performative modes of engagement” (Gaertner 2013). The territorial action of participating in and recreating round dances through pixilated avatars in CyberPowWow’s chatroom exemplifies how, while land is inalienable from indigenous territory and cultural identity, acts of indigenous territoriality contributes to the maintenance and continuity of indigenous cultural practices.  A Digital Terra Nullius? The Colonial Dimensions of the Internet Opportunities afforded by the creation of indigenously determined space on and through the Internet, however, come with a cost. Namely, that virtual spaces are not blank slates onto which the ideologies of indigenous territoriality can be easily mapped. Embedded in online spaces and in the phenomenon of the Internet itself exists a multitude of preexisting cultural constructs, including many of the systems through which colonialism operates. As such, this was discovered to be the case for Skawennati’s CyberPowWow project, where efforts to establish an indigenous space online “took place within an established, colonial, digital infrastructure, marked not only by its Time-Warner ownership, but in the name of the platform itself: The Palace” (Gaertner 2013). This fact was not lost on Skawennati, who notes that: “…with its connections to global mass media and its explicit evocations of empire, The Palace was a fraught platform from which to carve out a space for indigenous identity” (Gaertner 2013). Establishing the CyberPowWow project as an indigenously determined online space was not just simply an effort to build an online indigenous community. It’s aims go beyond such notion. In addition, it demonstrates an effort to actively expose and work against the processes of colonialism embedded in the infrastructure of digital space. Furthermore, Gaertner notes that the possibility to create a space that actively works to undermine the colonialist processes at play is the customizability of the platform is itself, allowing “dynamic, real-time interactions between users and producers” of digital content (2013). In its malleability, The Palace platform demonstrates an essential aspect of social space that transcends materiality; in Henri Lefebvre’s words, “[t]hese spaces are produced” (1991). Like the performativity of territoriality, approaching virtual space as produced social space not only highlights the inherent social (in)equalities of the modes of production digital media operates within, but, given the relationship between production and producers equipped with their own cultural constructs and agendas, the production of space engenders a perspective which encourages political critique of that space on the part of users. As Lefebvre writes,  “The state and each of its constituent institutions call for spaces – but spaces which they can then organize according to their specific requirements; there is no sense in which space can be treated solely as an a priori condition of these institutions and the state which presides over them” (1991: 85). The territorializing action undertaken by Skawennati’s CyberPowWow⸺ to produce an indigenously determined virtual space⸺ goes further than its emphasis as a political project (i.e. as a process of organizing virtual space according to specific requirements). As a virtual space, it itself is a direct product of political action, including the acts of colonization. This must be undone before new political and cultural realities are generated.  While indigenous digital media sheds light on the colonial processes that underline virtual spaces, cyberspace simultaneously contains a number of advantageous characteristics to indigenous cultural continuity. For example, Adam Fish notes that “[o]ral traditions and the Internet conflate the aural, visual, spatial and corporeal,” enabling indigenous media producers to reach large audiences without the intervention of orthographies⸺which have in many cases, been imposed on them by colonialist invaders   16                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  (2011). Indigenously produced digital media also reframes the ontology of virtual space on the whole. Reviewing a later iteration of the CyberPowWow project, Jason E. Lewis observes that:  “Cyberspace has no native population that might contest the notion that it is terra nullius and thus subject to control by the first immigrants who might claim it. The resources in cyberspace are not timber, game and gold; they are processing power, bandwidth, networks and data, which, in dutiful accordance with Moore’s Law, increase at a dizzying rate. The stakes are not those of survival, but of prosperity. And we’re not just colonizing the place, we’re making it up as we go,” (2004: 2).  By drawing on these increasingly plentiful and accessible “unnatural resources,” as Lewis terms them, indigenous digital media not only roots out and disrupts the colonialist processes inherent to virtual space, but as Skawennati’s CyberPowWow proves, it contributes to a re-determining of virtual space in indigenous values.   The New Materiality of Political Boundaries Running Wolf’s VR project presents a unique and contemporary example of how indigenous digital media facilitates a relationship to territory and terrain. It provides a means for indigenous youth to be immersed in traditional territory when various circumstances prevent a physical presence–social agency, an important aspect of the CyberPowWow, has yet to be included in the Madison Buffalo Jump project. Virtual Reality does not allow for real-time social interactions in the same manner that social media allows, but rather places users alone in pre-determined landscapes. To experience Buffalo Jump is an inherently individual venture. The virtual landscape occurs in real-time. Comparatively, the social media phenomena of “checking-in”3 to Standing Rock via Facebook, an action purportedly undertaken by 1.4 million Facebook users (BBC US & Canada 2016), demonstrates that the virtual occupation of a space can make a real political impact. The action was undertaken when rumors began to spread that local authorities at Standing Rock had been using Facebook’s ‘location’ feature to track protesters. This prompted social media calls for online supporters of the protest to have themselves ‘check-in’ and confuse authorities about who was and was not truly present (Ibid). Although some media outlets have dismissed the phenomenon as “slacktivism,” an essentially empty gesture of support (Thomson 2016), the sheer number of Facebook users who heeded this call brought further media attention to protester efforts to halt the construction of an oil pipeline through indigenous territory; nonetheless, demonstrating the power of such a simple action.  The Standing Rock Facebook check-in phenomena captures the heart of complexity surrounding territory and its definition in the digital age. As political agents, digital bodies are still often discounted as mere facsimiles or manufactured avatars⸺rather than the extensions of real social selves in virtual space, capable of territorializing action both on and offline. However, as the influence of the Internet over social and political life worldwide steadily increases, these assumptions are eroding, giving rise to critical inquiry into the role of material, embodied social agents. Such is the case for New Materialists, who promote a radical reappraisal of subject objectivity and material reality (Coole and Frost 2010). According to the New Materialists, “…no adequate political theory can ignore the importance of bodies in situating empirical actors within a material environment of nature, other bodies, and socioeconomic structure that dictate where and how they find sustenance, satisfy their desires, or obtain the resources necessary for participating in political life” (19). As such, the relationships between bodies and their environments constitute the site of political action. By placing the body in a network of relationships of power, Coole and Frost emphasize the “…role played by the body in as a visceral protagonist within political encounters,” but more specifically, advocate for a “…more phenomenological approach to embodiment” (Ibid). While the emphasis on materiality might seem the antithesis of efforts to recognize the political agency of digital bodies, a phenomenological approach to embodiment allows for critical interventions into what it means to be embodied; thus, by extension, opportunities to recognize the ‘virtual’ action of the Facebook check-in as ‘real’ acts and embodies occupation.     17                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  The political significance of Standing Rock’s Facebook check-in signifies the Cartesian modes of thinking about territory. ‘Matter’ is distinct from ‘symbolic’. This no longer accurately reflects political reality. As Coole and Frost posit, distinctions between symbolic and material are unproductive. Instead, analytical emphasis should be placed on how “phenomena are caught in a multitude of interlocking systems and forces and to consider anew the location and nature of capacities for agency” (Coole and Frost 2010). Emerging from such a paradigmatic shift allows for understanding agency in an   approach that privileges neither the material nor immaterial, but instead seeks to understand how phenomena of either status interact and intertwine. Matthew Wilson proposes a narrative device to analyze theses relationship–the cyborg. As he states:  “I have underlined the cyborg’s role as a figuration: as a narrative device, to embed and craft associations, to historicize differently. The purpose is to enter into these storytellings, to make a mess of fact/fiction, subject/object and mind/body. This sort of work opens up human geography to new political geographies of contingency, relationality, and difference within semiotic and material borderlands. The cyborg embodies these spaces, as a hybrid, to practice the production of knowledges.” (120)  To approach political action as the manifestation of both material and symbolic phenomena, or, drawing on Matthew Wilson’s narrative device, to consider how the cyborg citizen relates to space, is to consider this complex new reality and materiality.   Conclusion      In summation, Running Wolf’s VR project, Skawennati’s CyberPowWow, and the Standing Rock Facebook ‘check-ins’, demonstrate that digital indigenous territories and territoriality extend beyond land, yet remains entwined in materiality. As Gaertner recapitulates: “In the movement from forest to highway, from material to digital, from rural to urban, cyberspace extends traditional city settings into computerized spaces, throwing into sharp relief conversations on “landless” identity and demonstrating from a new angle the ways in which indigenous culture persists and flourishes in urban settings” (56). While the primacy and importance of ancestral land to indigenous identity cannot be understated, the contemporary reality in which many indigenous individuals live and create communities within foreign urban space demonstrates that indigenous space is not limited to its material roots. Rather, the emergence of indigenously determined digital space and the digital occupation of indigenous territories through digital media, the pervasiveness of indigenous notions of territory—a phenomenon rooted in, but not limited to material, geographic locations—exists.   Endnotes 1 As someone of white settler ancestry, I am not the primary target audience of this project; and therefore, not the intended occupant of this virtual space. 2 In reference to my educational institution: The University of British Columbia, built on the traditional, ancestral, and unceded territories of the Musqueam people.  3 The act of ‘Checking in’, phrased as ‘check in’, is an interactive, online feature via Facebook which acts on its metaphorical and literal definitions. If a Facebook user checks in to a given location, this indicates individual’s presence at said location (i.e. “John Smith checked in at Standing Rock, ND, USA”). ‘Checking in’ is often accompanied by a small visual icon detailing a geographical map of the area—a simple interface utilizing Google’s mapping application. The ‘check in’ feature is available to individuals with Facebook settings (i.e. Privacy and Location) set to minimal intervention/restriction.  Works Cited Coole, Diana, and Samantha Frost. 2010. "Introducing the New Materialisms." New Materialisms:  Ontology, Agency, and Politics. Durham: Duke Univ. Press.  Elden, Stuart. 2010. "Land, Terrain, Territory." Progress in Human Geography 34(6): 799-817.  Fish, Adam. 2011. "Indigenous Digital Media and the History of the Internet on the Columbia  Plateau." Journal of Northwest Anthropology 45(1): 91-114.  Fragnito, Skawennati Tricia. "A Chatroom Is Worth a Thousand Words." CPW 2K: Back to  CyberPowWow. Accessed May 23, 2017. http://www.cyberpowwow.net/STFwork.html.   18                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Gaertner, David. 2015. "Indigenous in Cyberspace: CyberPowWow, God's Lake Narrows, and the  Contours of Online Indigenous Territory." American Indian Culture and Research  Journal 39(4): 55-78.  Johnson, Jay T. 2013. "Dancing into Place: The Role of the Powwow within Urban Indigenous  Communities." Indigenous in the City: Contemporary Identities and Cultural Innovation,  Evelyn J. Peters and Chris Andersen. Vancouver: UBC Press.  Lefebvre, Henri. 1991. "Social Space." In The Production of Space, 68-95. Cambridge, MA:  Blackwell.  Lewis, Jason E. 2004. “Terra Nullius, Terra Incognito.” Blackflash 21(3): 16-9.  Pierce, Ben. "Madison Buffalo Jump: State Park Contains Cultural, Archeological and  Recreational Treasures." Bozeman Daily Chronicle, September 18, 2014.  http://www.bozemandailychronicle.com/.  Running Wolf Jr., Michael. “Augmented and Virtual Reality for Cultural and Linguistic  Continuity: Reigniting the Many Voices of a Communal Bison Hunt.”  Presentation at the  University of British Columbia, Vancouver, BC, March 15, 2017.  "Madison Buffalo Jump Virtual Reality Project Intro." Running Wolf (blog), February 28, 2016.  https://articles.runningwolf.io/.  Snippet, Matthew C. 2013. "American Indians and Alaska Natives in Urban Environments."  Indigenous in the City: Contemporary Identities and Cultural Innovation, Evelyn J. Peters  and Chris Andersen. Vancouver: UBC Press.  Thomson, Jimmy. “Facebook Users Check in at Standing Rock in North Dakota, Hoping to  Confuse Police.” CBC News, October 31, 2016. URL:  http://www.cbc.ca/news/technology/standing-rock-check-in-1.3830156.  “What Is Standing Rock and Why Are 1.4m 'checking In' There?” BBC US & Canada, November  2, 2016. URL: http://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-37834334.  Wilson, Matthew W. 2009. “Cyborg Geographies: Towards Hybrid Epistemologies.” Gender,  Place & Culture: A Journal of Feminist Geography 16(5):499-516.     19                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Anthropology’s Input in Understanding the 2002 Gujarat Violence in India   Nicolas El Haïk-Wagner University of British Columbia Institut d'Etudes Politiques de Paris  nicolas.elhaikwagner@sciencespo.fr Abstract The 2002 surge of violence in the Gujarat has remained in the public memory of India as the bloodiest conflict between Hindus and Muslims since the Partition, and still constitutes a significant trauma, which has impacted the country’s image on the international scene. This outburst of communal violence was triggered by the death of fifty-seven Hindu activists in a train where a fire had been set, a tragedy immediately labeled as a terrorist attack perpetrated by Muslims by the chief of government. It led to an unprecedented state-sponsored wave of communal violence targeting Muslims, fueled by Hindu nationalist activists, which claimed the lives of more than 2000 people, most of them being Muslims. Besides the sociological analysis which has drawn attention on the impact of social structures transformation, this paper aims at shedding an anthropological eye on these riots, to see what the input can be of this discipline in explaining the region’s ethnic and religious violence. It is analyzed how massacres can be linked to globalization and the underlying consequences of implemented neoliberal reforms. The role of population movements, migrations and of the rural-urban dynamics are also touched on. It is discussed how identity and state-shaped narratives played a role in promoting hatred and public participation in the massacres.  Introduction  “We feel that we used our full strength to set out to do the right thing” said Narendra Modi in 2013 (Reuters, 2013). This is how he explained, a few months before being elected Prime Minister of India, his implied involvement in the 2002 surge of violence in Gujarat, which has remained in public memory as one of the bloodiest conflicts between Hindus and Muslims since the 1947 Partition between India and Pakistan. The Hindu nationalist leader, member of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), was at the time the Chief Minister of the western India state, where the outbreak of communal violence occurred, triggering a wave of international condemnation. The United Kingdom, United States, and several European nations imposed travel bans and denounced state-sponsored anti-Muslim rhetoric. The triggering incident that prompted this wave of killings and rapes was the deaths of fifty-seven Hindu activists in a train fire, a tragedy immediately labeled as a terrorist attack perpetrated by Muslims. It led to an unprecedented level of state-sponsored communal violence targeting Muslims, fueled by Hindu nationalist activists, which claimed the lives of more than 2000 people, most of them Muslim. If the post-Godhra riots, where Hindu women were the primary target, have to be inscribed in a long tradition of communal violence between Muslims, which account for about 88% of the population and Hindus, which account for about 9.5% of the population and are therefore the largest minority group, a few specificities distinguished them from previous riots. Besides an unforeseen scale of public participation, including middle-class and upper-caste groups, one of the peculiarities of these riots is that the violence, after initial concentration in mostly urban areas, spread to rural areas. Significant literature has thus developed to understand the roots of the bloodbath, generally analyzed as an ethnic-cleansing pogrom by scholars. It has primarily focused in political science terms on the role of the state and of the BJP party, given that this pogrom was coordinated at the highest level, by Modi’s ministers. Besides the sociological analysis which has drawn attention to the impact of social structure transformation, this paper aims to apply an anthropological eye on these riots, to see what the input of this discipline can add to explanations of this ethnic and religious violence. How can one link these massacres to   20                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  globalization and the underlying consequences of the neoliberal reforms being implemented? What about the role of population movements, migrations, and of the rural-urban dynamics? How have identity and state-shaped narratives played roles in promoting hatred and in the high degree of public participation witnessed? How is communalism, the idea that “India is composed of separate religiously-driven communities or nations that were opposed to each other” (Kirmani 2013) a colonial construct?  We will thus here argue that the intensity and specificities of the 2002 Gujarat riots, besides stemming largely from state-sponsored rhetoric associating Islam with terrorism and from a BJP-led pogrom, planned and coordinated for electoral purposes, lie the roots they have in broader structural socio-economic processes and state-shaped narratives drawing on caste, class, and gender. Anthropological studies have indeed shown how the post-Godhra events cannot be understood without a deep investigation of the impact of the process of globalization on political structures and religious identities, as this process is an important factor in the emergence of a quasi-hegemonic Hindu nationalism. A wave of terrorist attacks inspiring anti-Muslim rhetoric to the Indian state First of all, it should be noted that this episode of violence occurred in a particularly sensitive context, that of a wave of terrorist attacks that inspired the Indian state to adopt a highly anti-Muslim rhetoric, stressing Muslim fundamentalism and its threat. Between 2001 and 2008, India faced a series of terrorist attacks triggered for the most part by Islamist groups and nationalist Hindus. If initially the Indian state held the Pakistani state, and to a lesser extent, Bangladesh, responsible for these attacks, it became increasingly interested in the role played by Indian Muslims. Thus, as Jaffrelot writes, “diffusing the conclusions of the police, the Indian press described these local terrorists as being constituted in networks and as working in a close collaboration with foreign organizations, without playing solely a role of informer and facilitators” (Jaffrelot 2010). If the reality of fundamentalist Islamic terrorism at this period cannot be denied, with a few of these terrorists having met through the Students Islamic Movement of India, a particularly politicized student union, it was nevertheless highly instrumentalized by the government, which made spurious associations between Muslims and terrorists. This was for instance the case following the September 11 attacks, where Narendra Modi, Gujarat's chief minister, declared on the TV that "all Muslims are not terrorists but all terrorists are Muslims" (Sundar 2004). Thus, following the burning of the train, without any further investigation, “the BJP government immediately issued a press release calling the fire a ‘pre-planned terrorist attack’” (Dhattiwala & Biggs 2002) – a claim which was later made null and void, as the central government’s Ministry of Railways concluded that the fire was accidental. As Dhattiwala and Biggs claim, “in a state where trivial incidents had previously triggered large-scale violence, this was a trigger of immense magnitude, its impact further heightened by inflammatory headlines in the vernacular press” (Ibid.). Then, during the whole period of violence, the state and the BJP played on a wider public narrative of Muslim anti-nationalism, due to which they were able to secure public support for the acts of violence. Sundar claims that “they were able to tap into ongoing RSS and BJP propaganda on Indian Muslims as fifth columnists, which, in turn, reflects those organizations' wider vision of religious minorities as foreigners and aliens” (Sundar 2004). Such rhetoric accusing a religious minority of having intrinsic fundamentalist and terrorist roots is however not new in the history of the Indian state. Indeed, the Sikhs were for instance labeled as terrorists during the violence in Punjab in the 1980s and during the 1984 massacres. Besides, one should also note that such rhetoric, which, “by transforming ordinary Muslims into potential terrorists, both dehumanizes them and makes them culpable for their own victimhood” (Sundar 2004), was later entrenched in judiciary applications. The Prevention of Terrorism Act (POTA), passed by the Parliament of India in March 2002, a few months before the riots, was indeed applied in a very partial and problematic way following this pogrom. As an example, among the hundred suspects arrested, all but one identified as Muslims. These people were held in detention pending trial for seven years, before an intervention by the Supreme Court. As Sundar emphasizes, such political use of the judiciary power is “equally powerful [to the public discourse on Muslim terrorism] in that it enables the long, drawn-out, silent incarceration of those   21                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  accused. Under such draconian legislation, the reversal of the burden of proof (denial of bail until the court is satisfied of a person's innocence), the lowering of the threshold for acceptable evidence (including accepting confessions made to a notoriously corrupt and brutal police), and the media-promoted notion of a public baying for retribution against terrorist acts make it that much harder for anyone accused to prove his or her innocence” (Ibid.).  The role of the state and the BJP in the planning and execution of the attacks Behind such rhetoric lies the importance of the Gujarat state and of the BJP in the planning and execution of the attacks following the burning of the train – a point of consensus among all scholars, who insist that the post-Godhra must be understood as a “planned, one-sided, state-sponsored violence against the Muslims” (Ahmad 2002). Such state implication, though not new in Indian politics, was nonetheless brought to an unprecedented level, making Jaffrelot argue that “the violence of 2002 in Gujarat is unique, due to the level of implication of political actors and to the government of that particular State” (Jaffrelot 2003). It seems that, whereas public authorities sought to make these events appear to be a spontaneous reaction of an angry and threatened population, they were in fact organized, scrutinized, and coordinated at the highest level of the state. A major aspect of this is, besides the state rhetoric of Muslim terrorism, the overall play on identity politics, through discourse, and on notions of majority and minority. Brass conceptualized this through the notion of an institutionalized riot system, a “network of actors and organization whose objective is to keep a town or city in a permanent state of awareness of religious conflict” which “eventually culminates into violence that is framed as legitimate self-defense, by a “weak” state, against minority aggression” (Dhattiwala & Biggs 2002). Among these actors, the police played a particularly important role, accompanying the mobs who attacked settlements, welcoming local BJP leaders in its control rooms to monitor the situation, but also, in the post-killings period, “in not recording or in misrecording first information reports and to the appointment of VHP members as public prosecutors by the state” (Sundar 2004). Such a system thus implies a division of tasks between actors – certain media or columnists writing incendiary pamphlets, certain actors managing the material resources (cooking gas, etc.) needed, certain actors promoting measures aiming at easing the killings (asking the inhabitants to stay indoors, to create easy targets). As Ahmad argues, “the leaders of the rioting mobs had detailed information about the homes and business establishments of the Muslims, that they had mobile phones to contact one another as well as their leaders, that the BJP, the VHP and the Bajrang Dal leaders were constantly monitoring the situation, all point to an informal organizational network of persons and forces” (Ahmad 2002). The high number of victims – these events hold the “highest annual death toll in any event of Hindu-Muslim violence in a single state in the history of independent India” (Dhattiwala & Biggs 2002) – is thus to be explained in part by the fact that the crime perpetrators “were armed with computer printouts listing names and addresses of Muslims, which enabled specific targeting, often leaving Hindu houses or shops on either side of the targets untouched” (Sundar 2004). Therefore, and contrary both to the BJP rhetoric and to the colonial construct, which viewed riots as symptomatic of Indians as fanatical, caught up in religious fervor and removed from norms of civil behavior, as Pandey (1992) famously argued, the riots were highly disciplined and organized. The clear underlying objective was for the BJP to secure its grip on the state, as it was beginning to erode. State elections were to be held at the end of the year, and, after poor scores in the 2000 district elections, under criticism for its response to a massive earthquake, the BJP’s hold on Gujarat was increasingly being questioned. Such events were a way for the party both to mobilize its troops on an easy focal point, while not having to make too many electoral gifts or promises. As Dhattiwala and Biggs stress, “the cost of mobilizing voters on an issue that is symbolic is lower than if the voter is mobilized on a material issue, such as employment of an ethnic group wherein the party needs to deliver results if victorious” (Dhattiwala & Biggs 2002).     22                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Globalization, authoritarianism, and the killings Besides these electoral dynamics, sociologists and political scientists have also pointed out the intersection of globalization and authoritarianism in fostering the killings. The state of Gujarat, and in particular its textile industry, had been suffering significantly due to globalization, causing many factories to close and leaving thousands of people unemployed. As Ahmad explains, the deep economic crisis of the last two decades, which globalization strengthened, “has led to the closure of over 50 textile mills only in Ahmedabad, resulting in at least one lakh workers becoming unemployed. […] With no regular source of income and without any regular job, they, exceptions apart, have been swept by a wave of lumpenisation” (Ahmad 2002). Such lumpenisation made them way more vulnerable to communal politics. The unemployment rate, especially that of youth, seems to have had a positive correlation with the outburst of violence, as Dhattiwala and Biggs’s quantitative analysis found. They argue that “where competition for jobs is more severe, Hindus are more likely to blame Muslims for their plight. Even if the urban middle classes take the lead in planning and coordinating violence, they often depend on a reserve of unemployed and underemployed people to do the actual killing—perpetrators are often paid in money, liquor, or kerosene” (Dhattiwala & Biggs 2002). But besides unemployment, the globalization process brought structural socio-economic and socio-cultural changes to India and to the state of Gujarat, which seems to have had an impact on communal violence. Among these, social transformations, namely the fragmentation of the working class and the rise of the middle class, as well as an overall decrease in the meaning and reliance on caste as a main marker of identity, discontent and fears linked to the supposed alienation brought by globalization, have all contributed, along with increasing economic inequities and a pauperization of a portion of the population, to a political crisis. One way Hindu nationalism has handled this crisis has been by increasing religious polarization. As a result of these processes, “ideologically and linguistically, Hindu nationalism has become mainstream as the vocabulary of politics and culture has been transformed through concerted will” (Simpson 2017). Moreover, globalization has had a major impact on migrations, in part due to a growing rural exodus, which has led to major demographic shifts in rural areas. These patterns of “population movement, displacement and forced migration” (Ibid.) might serve as an explanation for the spread of this violence to rural areas. One of the remarkable features of these events was that violence, after being concentrated mostly in urban areas, spread into rural areas, in about 1200 villages which had never experienced such communal violence and where only a few Muslims were actually living. As Dhattiwala and Biggs remark, “this was unique and contrary to established literature that treated ethnic violence as an urban phenomenon rooted among the petty bourgeoisie” (Dhattiwala & Biggs 2002). It seems for instance that violence “increased with demographic threat, as indicated by the size of the Muslim population and the rate of Muslim in-migration” (Ibid.), that is that the greater the size of the Muslim community that had grown in rural areas, the more entrenched fears and hatred about this minority were, and thus the more likely killings were. Finally, this economic, social and political crisis has been used by public authorities as a way to strengthen the communalization of the society, presumably as a way not to address the actual structural socio-economic problems. As Ahmad emphasizes, “the economic and political contradictions have been manipulated to promote communalism so that it serves as an escape route for the brewing tensions among people, provides a breathing space to certain sections of the ruling elite and ensures the victory of some of them in the number game of electoral politics” (Ahmad 2002). These processes, while deeply endangering the values of peace, pluralism and secularism entrenched in the post-independence Constitution, therefore not only make “Gujarat violence presenting a synoptic view of the convergence of the processes of globalization, authoritarianism and communalism” (Ahmad 2002), but also seem to be reminiscent of the colonial narrative. Indeed, as Kirmani argues, communalism was “a discourse that came to represent Indian society’s fundamentally irrational character and that, for colonialists in particular, stood for everything that Western society was not. The view of Hindus and Muslims as separate, fundamentally opposed, and driven primarily by primordial religious loyalties guided the   23                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  colonial administration’s strategy for imposing law and order on Indian society” (Kirmani 2013).  The gendered dimension of the killings One of the major contributions of anthropology has been to shed a light on the gendered dimension of the killings. As Jaffrelot argues, the “privileged target of the Hindu activists were Muslim women who were raped and assassinated at a massive scale. At Naroda Patiya, a Muslim neighborhood of Ahmedadbad, one of the leaders of Bajrang Dal [an extremist and militant Hindu organisation that forms the youth wing of the Vishva Hindu Parishad] disemboweled a 9-month pregnant woman, before throwing in the fire the fœtus and burning her alive” (Jaffrelot 2007), becoming thereby the “hero of Naroda Patiya” for Hindu activists. Such large-scale crimes can but remind us of the 75,000 women who were raped and abducted during Partition and whose later restoration became a matter of national honor for both the Indian and the Pakistani governments, as both states which had to reconstruct showed deep interest in their reproductive and sexual role. Displaying a patriarchal masculine state and a public anxiety over these fragile bodies, the future of the nation was indeed considered at stake. During the pogrom, women were at the heart of the discourses and representations in a highly gendered manner. The news coverage of the first days of the events particularly, in particular that of pro-BJP newspapers, like Sandesh or Gujarat Samachar, conveyed rumors of abduction of young women – papers explained for instance that women had not been burnt in the train, but rather abducted alive from the burning train. For instance, a report displayed on the front page of Sandesh on March 1st accused: “As part of a cruel inhuman act that would make even a devil weep, the breasts of both the dead bodies had been cut. Seeing the dead bodies one knows that the girls had been raped again and again, perhaps many times. There is a speculation that during this act itself the girls might have died.... Is there no limit to the lust?" (Sandesh 2002). Through such discourses, “women inevitably become the object of "national," "ethnic," or "religious" honor even as war and chauvinism increasingly circumscribe their everyday lives within their communities of birth” (Sundar 2004). Ghassem-Fachandi shows how such media representations clearly impacted the behaviors of the mobs, with young men referring to such rapes to justify why they were throwing stones at Muslim shops. Here, he notes that these Hindu women – often referred to as “Hindu girls” or “missing girls” – were said to have been used for enjoi – a word having connotations of sexual relations for the sake of pleasure (and therefore of pure enjoyment, as opposed to reproductive purposes). As he claims, “tied to an imagery of excessive expenditure, this enjoi of the abduction of young Hindu girls accesses secret sexual fantasies. With this entrance into a complex emotional register a generation of young men are able to relate their experience of violence to conceptions of sacrificial expenditure” (Ghassem-Fachandi 2010). Besides, what is striking is that though denouncing such horrifying acts, Hindu activists replicated the same logic for the sake of revenge on Muslim women, the female body being considered as a “weapon to humiliate a whole community” (Ibid.). As Ghassem-Fachandi points out, “the tale of the invisible women expressed sexual fantasies that were later to be acted out, not on invisible women but on actual Muslim women of flesh and blood, who in turn were made ‘invisible’. The evidence of raped and mutilated female Muslim bodies was subsequently systematically destroyed with a disturbing thoroughness” (Ibid.). Few activists were later condemned for these rapes, an exemplary exception of this being the recent decision of the Bombay Court, in May 2017, to uphold the life sentences of 11 men convicted in the gang rape of Bilkis Bano, a 19-year-old pregnant woman, during the post-Godhra events.  Gender and caste-specific narratives This importance of tales and rumors brings to our attention the overall role played by the construction of narratives both by media and public authorities. As Ahmad remarks, “dissemination of knowledge about all cases of collective violence is a function of narratives about them” (Ahmad 2002). This construction of narratives, which is “an exercise in focalization, contextualization and representation of facts”, is to be considered as a “function performed by the elite” (Ibid.) and not by the great masses, who however contribute to a large part to their massive circulation and amplification. Here, Ghassem-  24                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Fachandi’s ethnographic work is of particular relevance. His starting point is to question why people “explained the violence as an extralegal collective punishment of a recalcitrant Muslim minority by the Hindu majority, conceived of as ‘the people’” (Ghassem-Fachandi 2010) and not by “politics”, which they used to refer to as the main explanation in previous instances of collective violence. For him, what is at stake here is an evocative imaginary, displayed in particular by vernacular media, which, besides the reference to the abduction of women, relied on “an unusually evocative terminology for killing, the circulation of images of corpses whose identities remain unstated, and visual imagery drawn directly from the widely viewed 2001 Bollywood feature film Gadar, ek prem katha providing a screen memory of Partition” (Ibid.). He here particularly emphasizes the resort to a sacrificial jargon, which was nothing but insignificant in terms of reasserting the boundaries between Muslim and Hindus and in terms of particular references to dietary metaphors, in what is India’s most vegetarian state, and where, more than everywhere else, dietary habits regarding meat are of crucial importance in terms of class and caste. As he shows, “Sandesh newspaper, for example, surpassed even the VHP’s usually very heavy deployment of terms for sacrifice and sacrificial victims by supplementing them with visual imagery that would shock and fascinate at the same time. The consequence of this lustful expenditure in language is that people were not only depicted as ‘burnt alive’ but also as ‘roasted’, not only killed but also ‘ensnared by devils’ and ‘sacrificed as food offerings’ to ‘beasts’ in a communally sensitive town like Godhra” (Ghassem-Fachandi 2010). Thus, a frequent overlap was made between Muslim males’ eagerness to eat meat and make animal sacrifices – considered as backward and shocking by the Hindu majority, though it was secretly practiced by a rather large portion of lower Hindu castes - and their supposed willingness to “consume women”. The figure of the Muslim butcher was here often put forward, as “killing was expressed with reference to a series of terms for killing which are also employed by local Muslim butchers for animal slaughter” (Ibid.). Another important aspect of these narratives lies in the sensationalist diffusion of images of burned bodies, with no captions or references to the identities of the victims. This way, the picture is reduced to its imagery, to the horror it seeks to highlight and can be used by any group to assert its claims. Ghassem-Fachandi therefore considers that “the excessive violence in the photographic imagery reinforced the circulation of rumors of abduction and the deployment of sacrificial language and dietary stigma, producing collective hallucinatory effects that both further incited and legitimized violence on the streets. The ‘missing girls’ reappeared spectrally as burned corpses, giving retroactive evidence to their alleged abduction” (Ibid.). This prevalence of narratives may explain another striking specificity of these killings, that there was no overrepresentation, as in most instances of collective violence, of illiterate people. As Ahmad indicates, “participation of apparently well-to-do middle class individuals in violence and loot was a new feature” (Ahmad 2002). Besides, as Dhattiwala and Biggs’s quantitative findings reveal, “literacy did not reduce violence and indeed possibly increased it”, with “recent convictions for murder in 2002 revealing the involvement of upper castes” (Dhattiwala & Biggs 2002). This was contrary to most of the literature, but also to the usual narratives of Muslim people where “people who take part in riots are assumed to be uneducated and ignorant” (Kirmani 2013). Thus, one can here make the hypothesis that these middle-class individuals might have had, due to their social position, a greater exposure to the media circulation, and that the upper-class individuals involved might have been particularly sensitive to the narratives relative to dietary practices and to the metaphors of meat consumption. The narrative of the construction of a Hindu state Beyond a detailed deconstruction of these narratives, anthropological studies have been seeking to understand the structures that enabled such narratives to develop and to be deployed. Here, Simpson’s thesis is particularly interesting, in the sense it deepens the previous analyses seeing such violence as the product of the convergence of globalization, authoritarianism and communalism, to explain how a Hindu state has been able to emerge – both substantively and discursively. He sees such eruption of violence, as well as the everyday discourses of ordinary people, as resulting from “the rise of a distinctively   25                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Hindu form of nationalism, the implementation of neoliberal economic reforms, and the deregulation of state functions”, treating therefore individuals as “symptoms of wider structural transformations” (Simpson 2006). Arguing that “patterns of economic and political liberalization in western India have created vast and legally ambiguous intermediate zones between the state and society in which the possibility of religious violence is incubated” (Ibid.), he shows how Hindu organizations have benefited from this ambiguous space to proliferate. Relying on the devolution process, they have developed a bottom-up perspective, building on and amplifying the voices of grassroots movements and citizens who find themselves increasingly underrepresented in the traditional political structures. Thus, “together, these processes have enabled the transformation, and thus popular ‘re-imagination’, of the state into a ‘Hindu’ entity personified primarily by elite and non-elected intermediaries. The moral and organizational heart of this enlarged state is determined by the principles of political Hinduism” (Ibid.). This broad and well-rooted network of organizations has been particularly keen on shaping and determining Hindus’ conceptions of and relationships towards the Muslims. To do so, they have been drawing on the frequent stereotypes about Indian Muslims – their non-loyalty towards the nation and acquaintance towards Pakistan, their polygamy and their willingness to procreate a lot, so to become the demographic majority in the near future, their insalubrity, their promiscuity, and communitarianism – and have sought to promote actions which can but reinforce the features of Muslims they keep on criticizing. As Simpson underlines, “given the impression of danger, Hindus shun interactions with Muslims and occasionally threaten violence. Muslims sensibly avoid situations of potential conflict and group together for safety, and thus appear secretive and isolationist. Therefore, through its very actions the state enlivens its own central legitimizing and foundational myth, which is that Muslims are uninterested in participating in the democratic processes of modern India” (Ibid.). It must be here noted that this entity they frame as “state” encompasses a great number of organizations, most of which are non-governmental, but are those through which people encounter the political power. They include, among others, “Rotary and Lions clubs, trade and industrial associations, temple and pilgrimage committees, caste organizations, history societies, educational trusts, local newspapers and organizations that offer access to charismatic religious leaders” (Simpson 2006). If they are not governmental strictly speaking, their members tend nevertheless not only to overlap quite heavily with the political and economic elites who are won over to the BJP, but also to have a quite direct influence on people’s socio-economic conditions (determining the distribution of lands, the emergence of industrial projects, the building of religious sites…). With this strong focus on the way Muslims are viewed by the non-Muslims, Simpson illustrates Ruth Beneditk’s anthropological notion that “that the margins of a culture are intimately related to its center and that understandings of the abnormal and the normal reciprocally reinforce each other” (Nanda 2010), later applied to the study of state by Das and Poole who “suggest symbolic, imaginary and territorial margins are to the state as the exception is to the rule” (Simpson 2006).  In India, the 2002 Gujat riots have become, to use Das’ (1995) notion, “critical events”, that is “those which criss-cross a variety of state and non-state institutions and encourage new social and political formations and modes of action” (Kirmani 2013), along with, for instance, the 1947 Partition or the Sikh massacres of 1984. They have also become once again under international spotlight, following Modi’s election as Prime Minister, with major international newspaper recalling the past involvement of this controversial figure in this event – The Guardian’s columnist Chakrabortty arguing for example that “Narendra Modi, a man with a massacre on his hands, is not the reasonable choice for India” (Chakrabortty 2014). This can but underline the ongoing significance of these events in Indian politics, but also in the intimate stories of Indians, fifteen years after their occurrence. For the past ten years, an important scholarship has developed to understand the reasons behind this surge of communal violence, which claimed more than 2000 lives, mostly that of Muslim. If the government rhetoric around terrorism and the major state and BJP involvement in this pogrom have long been highlighted to explain the high death toll, but also the important degree of public participation – including that of people not   26                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  used to take part to such riots, namely women and middle-class people – and the spread of these massacres to rural areas, such accounts do not seem sufficient to understand the structural roots of this outbreak of violence. Indeed, as ethnographic studies have shown, socio-economic factors have also played an important role in these massacres, whose highly gendered dimension has been pointed out in several accounts. Indeed, the process of globalization has destabilized highly entrenched economic, social and political structures, leading to a rise of authoritarianism. Such authoritarianism has been embraced by the Hindu nationalist movement and has been both materially and discursively targeting the Muslim community, the 2002 riots being here a peaking point in a growing governmental rhetoric denouncing their supposed link with Bangladesh or their unhealthy dietary habits. Thus, by further marginalizing this stigmatized community, the Hindu nationalist movement had succeeded in sustaining the founding myth for the state it has sought to build, at the expense of hundreds of lives.   Works Cited Reuters. 2013. “No guilty feeling about Gujarat riots, says Modi” The Hindu, July 12th 2013.  URL: http://www.thehindu.com/news/national/no-guilty-feeling-about-gujarat-riots-says- modi/article4908704.ece#  Kirmani, Nida. 2013. Questioning the Muslim Woman: Identity and Insecurity in an Urban Indian  Locality. New Delhi: Routledge. Jaffrelot, Christophe. 2010. “La dialectique des terrorismes en Inde depuis 2001 : la « main de  l’étranger », les islamistes et les nationalistes hindous.” Critique internationale 47: 345- 368. Sundar, Nandini. 2004. “Toward an Anthropology of Culpability.” American Ethnologist 31(2):  145-163. Dhattiwala, Raheel, Biggs, Michael. 2002. “The Political Logic of Ethnic Violence: The Anti- Muslim Pogrom in Gujarat.” Politics & Society 40: 483-516. Ahmad, Riaz. 2002. “Gujarat violence: meaning and implications.” Economic and Political Weekly  37 (20): 1870-1873. Pandey, Gyanendra. 1992. “In Defense of the Fragment: Writing about Hindu-Muslim Riots in  India.” Today Representations 37: 27-55. Simpson, Edward. 2017. “Book review - Communal Violence, Forced Migration and the State:  Gujarat since 2002, by Sanjeevini Badigar Lokhande.” South Asia: Journal of South Asian  Studies 40(2):421-422. Jaffrelot, Christophe. 2007. “Gujarat : cinq années amères dans la démocratie indienne.” Esprit 53- 66. Sandesh. 2002. “Two Distorted Dead Bodies of the Women, from Those Women Who Were  Kidnapped from Sabarmati Express, Found.” Ghassem-Fachandi, Parvis. 2010. “Ahimsa, identification and sacrifice in the Gujarat pogrom.”  Social Anthropology 18(2):155-175. Simpson, Edward. 2006. “The State of Gujarat and the Men without Souls.” Critique of  Anthropology 26: 331–348. Nanda, Serena. 2010. “Life on the Margins, A Hijra’s Story.” Mines, Diane P. and Lamb, Sarah,  Everyday Life in South Asia. Second Edition, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Das, Veena. 1995. Critical Events: An Anthropological Perspective on Contemporary India. New  Delhi: Oxford University Press. Chakrabortty, Aditya. 2014. “Narendra Modi, a man with a massacre on his hands, is not the  reasonable choice for India.” The Guardian. URL:  https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/apr/07/narendra-modi-massacre-next- prime-minister-india.   27                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                   Locating the Individual in the Structure: An Analysis of Paris is Burning   Zachary Goldman University of British Columbia zdavgoldman@gmail.com  Abstract This paper explores and compares group kinship dynamics in which the performance of the ‘self’ comes into conflict with not only the prescribed norms of a pluralistic, multiethnic, yet, stratified society, but also with the network of kin to which the individual has found belonging. I follow Mattingly in her argument supporting ‘first-person ethics’; however, where she separates the first-person ethics from its structural approach to society at large, I attempt to bring them closer together by analyzing the agency of individuals. Particularly, agency within the context of a particular group. This paper poses the following question: what happens to those who become marginalized within their own marginalized community, and how can the discipline of anthropology not only problematize the ‘self versus group’ dynamic, but also ‘agency versus structure’. These questions tug at the very ends of how the discipline characterizes kinship.  Popular Works and Theories Marshall Sahlins’ work, What Kinship is—and not argues that, “the specific quality of kinship is ‘mutuality of being’, [that] kinfolk are persons who participate intrinsically in each other’s existence; they are members of one another” (Sahlins 2013). In so, Sahlins emphasizes ‘culture’ as opposed to ‘biology’ as the defining feature of kinship. Anthropological literature has since moved from Sahlins’ “mutuality of being” by exploring its very counter— the lack of mutuality (Carsten, 2013; Das & Leonard 2008; Das 2015; Edwards & Strathern 2000; see also Stack 1974). Such a turn presents a logical process in understanding kinship, not just as an inclusive force that suggests individual membership within groups, but also an exclusionary force that suggests who isn’t in that group.  In anthropological literature prior to Sahlins’ work, dichotomies of inclusivity and exclusivity were inherent to any discussion of kinship, even if not outright expressed. Frederik Barth’s Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Differences, discusses some of the prevailing issues within Anthropology pertaining to this notion of ethnic and cultural boundaries. Most succinctly he writes that: “It is clear that boundaries persist despite a flow of personnel  across them. In other words, categorical ethnic distinctions do not depend on an absence of mobility, contact and information, but do entail social process of exclusion and incorporation whereby discrete categories are maintained despite changing participation and membership in the course of individual life histories. Secondly, one finds that stable, persisting, and often vitally important social relations are maintained across such boundaries, and are frequently based precisely on the dichotomized ethnic statuses” (Barth 1969). Here we can see that Barth has framed his discussion of ethnic boundaries around this idea of inclusivity, despite the inherent exclusivity that ethnic boundaries entail. Barth is mainly concerned with problematizing typologies of ethnicities that demarcate ethnic territory. He highlights an inclusivity to social relationships and kinship that becomes foundational in later discussions of kinship leading up to Sahlins’ work. In a critique of Sahlins’ work, Janet Carsten (who references her own work with Malay women, What Kinship Does—and How) writes that “while the   28                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  inclusive tendencies of Malay kinship are very apparent, it can often also have a coercive tinge…. amiable relations between neighbors and kin may be transformed overnight into jealousy and rancorous accusations of witchcraft” (Carsten 2013). Here we see that networks of kin form, disband, include and exclude as consequences related to life events. Yet, to quote Sahlins’ work, even the lack of “member[ship] in one another” illustrates a kind of relation, thus, a level of involvement in the lives of those who are excluded.    In asserting that along with a mutuality of ‘being’ there is a mutuality of ‘(not) being’, there exists a fundamental problem that anthropology has strugg led with: the dynamic of agency vs. structure (otherwise framed as a self/group dynamic). Cheryl Mattingly’s book, Moral Laboratories: Family Peril and the Struggle for a Good Life, discusses this problem at length in her attempt to arrive at an appropriate theoretical positioning for her ethnographic work on African American families. Mattingly frames an argument for both positions, but here I want to focus on the questions she asks of neo-Artistotelian first-person ethics and of the anthropology of morality in general. For example:  “what exactly is meant by a ‘self’ here? Is this the ‘self’ consistent with the one presumed by most first person ethics philosophers? One who has agentive powers, is capable of self-reflection, interpretation, and critique of moral norms? Or is this self best understood as a product of a particular cultural, historical milieu—a self identified by its subject position? In other words, is this moral self best thought of as an effect of the moral practices, traditions and technologies in which it has been enculturated?” (Mattingly 2014, emphasis added). With respect to these questions, this paper explores and compares group kinship dynamics in which the performance of the ‘self’ comes into conflict with not only the prescribed norms of a pluralistic, multiethnic, yet, stratified society, but also with the network of kin to which the individual has found belonging)—or in applying a structural framework, ‘should have’ 1  (Butler 2007 [1990]; Mattingly 2014; Stack 1974. I follow Mattingly in her argument supporting ‘first-person ethics’; however, where she separates the first-person ethics from its structural approach to society at large, I attempt to bring them closer together by analyzing the agency of individuals. Particularly, agency within the context of a particular group. It is important to note that both parties- the individual and the group at large- face levels of marginalization. Therefore, this paper poses the following question: what happens to those who become marginalized within their own marginalized community, and how can the discipline of anthropology not only problematize the ‘self versus group’ dynamic, but also ‘agency versus structure’. These questions tug at the very ends of how the discipline characterizes kinship.2 Part I: Paris is Burning through Structuralism The film Paris is Burning is an exposé on New York City’s underground Ball culture of the 1980s and early 90s. The Balls are characterized as events where gay men and transgender women (predominantly African American origin) dress in drag3 and compete in various categories to demonstrate their ability to ‘pass’ 4 in American society at large. Some of the categories include:  -High Fashion/Evening Wear  -Luscious Body  -School Boy/School Girl   -Town and Country  -Executive Realness   -Butch Queen, (first time in drag) -Military    -Realness   There are a number of instances throughout the film where footage of individuals perform these categories down the runway—either to the applause or condemnation of their peers. One’s ability to perform an identity with a high degree of perceived accuracy associated with a given category ‘wins’ the competitor points from observant judges (Paris is Burning 1992). Individuals may compete in multiple   29                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  categories, but as there are various traits (notably, clothing) associated with each category, participants strategically choose the categories in which they feel most confident to effectively compete (Paris is Burning 1992). The performance of these categories explicitly brings to mind the performance of gendered roles and of the ‘self’. We see this in scholarly work from Judith Butler and others, and we will return to this aspect of Ball Culture later in our discussion. To commence, it is important to explore the structural elements that organize this group through House kinship, descent theory, and social boundaries.   i.      Houses The Houses are the juro-political units5 of Ball culture and function in much the same manner as sports teams or fraternity; however, they have a number of additional characteristics. For example, in order to be accepted into a house, one needs to demonstrate their capability at performing at the Ball. In order to be accepted into a house, one needs to compete and participate on more general terms in the dynamics of Ball culture (Paris is Burning 1992). Performing in a Ball in order to gain entrance to a house effectively acts as a rite of passage for the participant, earning them respect among their peers (Paris is Burning 1992). The implementation of the house is a direct response to participating in Ball culture as a whole: the result of having been kicked out of their natal households. Houses are generally understood to be of equal value by the participants, but are stratified by the use of the term ‘Legendary’. A ‘Legendary house’ is one that has produced ‘legends’: individuals of great performative skill to whom all current members of that house share affinity (Paris is Burning 1992). It is common for the ‘mother’ of a house to also hold ‘legend’ status. This is the case for Pepper LeBeija, one of the main participants in the film. Legendary status cannot be claimed, but only given by the community. Additionally, one’s status as legendary is often contested through the act of ‘throwing shade’— a form of insult (Paris is Burning 1992).   Participants can move in-between houses as long as the house they claim affinity with reciprocates their choosing; however, moving between houses is generally predated by a conflict of some kind and follows other forms of African American kinship structures (Stack 1974; Paris is Burning 1992). While each house has a leader, there is no authoritarian structure in place. House structure is very much acephalous and segmented much in the same way Ashanti or Nuer kinships are structured 6  (Evans-Prtichard 2004 [1940]; Fortes 1969; Paris is Burning 1992). Conflicts are settled through the performance of ‘Voguing’ which involves all the members who are in conflict which is then graded by the judges at the time (Paris is Burning 1992). Individuals who have been ostracized can re-enter a house through voguing with those who were once previously conflicting with—although this may only settle the conflict on a structural level (Paris is Burning 1992).  ii.    Descent As mentioned above, houses are led by ‘mothers’ where new members in the house are called ‘children’, or ‘sister’ by other children of equal rank (Paris is Burning 1992). The notable absence of a paternal kinship terminology negates patrilineal descent and bilateral relations between children in the house and their mothers; therefore, the system can be said to be unilinear. From the transgender context, defining this system of descent as matrilineal is similarly problematic. Pepper LaBeija, the mother of house LaBeija, states during one of the film’s interviews: “I’ve been a man, and I’ve been a man who emulated a woman. I’ve never been a woman...I’ve never wanted to have a sex change…” (Paris is Burning 1992). In thinking about the unilinear descent of Ball culture kinship, i t also relates to the way Corinne Hayden describes the role of biology in Lesbian kinship. Her article, Gender, Genetics and Generation: Reformulating Biology in Lesbian Kinship, argues for “an exploration of the ways in which many lesbian mothers employ notions of biology… to articulate their own sense of uniquely lesbian kinship” (Hayden quoted in Parkin & Stone 2004:378). In this context, house kinship structure is similarly distinct from patrilineal or matrilineal descent. In   30                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  addition to the implementation of maternal kinship terms, individuals will also take the names of their houses as their surnames (Paris is Burning 1992). Thus, the implementation of kinship terms indexes a social relatedness that deemphasizes the role of biology, while adding emphasis to the role of motherhood. This retains the jus in personum as outlined by Radcliffe-Brown in his work, Patrilineal and Matrilineal Succession7 (Radcliffe-Brown 1934; Hayden in Parkin & Stone 2004; Paris is Burning 1992).    iii.   Boundaries and Inclusivity  Looking at ball culture specifically within the broader category of drag culture, both mark something different than the cultures of straight, urban African Americans, or even of gay men. Each one of these identifiers, while marking an individual who claims them, creates another level of distinctiveness to the self. The intersection of class, race, sex, gender means that on an individual level, the participants in drag culture, experience both the drag world and the straight world differently from their contemporaries. On the one hand, the navigation of these intersecting identifiers involves a level of incorporation. For example, while gay black men have a different experience than straight black men, their experience as black men subjugates them to the various forms of racism against blacks in the United States. The added stigma of ‘being gay’ further stratifies the hierarchy and inherently creates boundaries of exclusion (Barth 1969; Goffman 1986[1963]; Paris is Burning 1992). In his discussion on the persistence of cultural boundaries, Barth writes: “Different circumstances obviously favour different performances. Since [ethnic] identity is associated with a culturally specific set of value standards, it follows that there are circumstances where such an identity can be moderately successfully realized, and limits beyond which such success is precluded” (Barth 1969: 25). My intention here is not to equate sexuality with ethnicity - the latter of those being what Barth discusses - but the ways in which both of facets of identity are discriminated within more mainstream American society. This indexes the particularities surrounding these facets, which often overlap. The Balls are places of inclusion for gay, black men who would otherwise be discriminated against in gay circles for being black, straight circles for being gay, and in American society because of a dominating cultural expression (this expression being white heteronormativity).  Houses, and the kinship terminology implemented throughout them, alongside the inheritance rights for assuming control of the houses indicates - on one degree - a ‘mutuality of being’. Sahlins describes this dynamic within his discussion of kinship. Yet, said mutuality of being among black queens (to use their own terminology) is a result of the very traumatic experiences accumulated in their own natal families and in society at large.  Part II: Finding the First-Person Subject in the Structure Thus far I have attempted to structurally analyze the ways in which drag cul ture creates its own distinctive kin network. Consequently, in doing so I have limited the capacity of individual subjectivities highlighted by Mattingly’s line of question featured earlier. The self I have described so far only exists as the culmination o f a particular history of race and sexuality prevalent in American discourse: the balls and houses themselves are the cultural structures that define the group from others (Mattingly 2014). What becomes neglected is the self as an agent of its own devising. In engaging the subject as an agent, I have found it useful to draw from the work of Judith Butler as a guiding force. Much of what defines drag culture deals with issues of gendered performativity and the role of individual agency. By asserting the self as agent, my aim is to illustrate the complementarity of both anthropological ‘trains of thought’. I frame the individual as part of a series of   31                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  cultural structures, also incorporating their own phenomenological distinctiveness into that cultural structure. In order to do this, I first analyze the performance of gender and class that occurs in Paris is Burning. I then continue with an analysis of phenomenological expression that occurs throughout the quotidian events which summon such expression.  i. Gendered Performativity    In her famous book, Gender Trouble, Judith Butler makes the case for the analytical separation of sex and gender, claiming that gender is performative while sex is biological (Butler 2006 [1990]). Intersectional feminism and the transition towards a phenomenological analysis of the individual subject has widely adopted Butlerian ideas about gender and sex. While Butlerian ideas of sex and gender have often been used as focal points throughout the social science discourse on the discussion of trans lives, it is important to remember that many trans people do not necessarily view sex and gender in these terms. Moreover, the dynamics of gender and sex cannot be separated from those of class, race and other modalities of power in relation to individual agency (Butler 2006 [1990]; Mattingly 2014). I take Saba Mahmood’s position on agency. She outlines in her book, Politics of Piety, stating that, “Agency… is understood as the capacity to realize one’s own interests against the weight of custom, tradition, transcendental will, or other obstacles (whether individual or collective)” (Mahmood 2012 [2005]). In the context of Drag culture, it is not difficult to imagine how the while Ball itself operates as an expression of individual agency while acting against societal dynamics of power. The takeaway from this discussion is, as a collective, the expression of the self becomes contested and reformulated on an individual level.  Throughout the interviews within the film Paris is Burning, differences between the straight and gay ‘worlds’ (as referred to by interviewees in the film), are made apparent by an attached stigma to homosexuality and the transgender; directing those to only reveal the stigmatized aspects of their identity in a given context. In his book Stigma, Erving Goffman writes that, “an individual who might have been received easily in ordinary social intercourse possesses a trait that can obtrude itself upon attention and turn those of us whom he meets away from him… he possesses a stigma, an undesired differentness from what we had anticipated” (Goffman 1986[1963]:4). Goffman’s work on stigma is fundamental to a phenomenological discussion of agency. It tackles the discussion of how, and when, one chooses to reveal their stigma—if they choose to reveal it at all. In echoing Goffman, Pepper Lebeija states that, “because [the childrens’] real parents… give them such a hard way to go, they look up to me, to fill that void. A lot of the kids that I meet now they come from such sad backgrounds, broken homes, or no home at all. And then the few that do have families—when the family finds out that they’re gay, [the families] ex them completely.” (Paris is Burning).  As previously mentioned, points in the Ball are awarded based on one’s ability to ‘pass’ as a straight man or woman.  Dorian Corey, one of the interviewees in the film, explains passing as a two-part performance. On one hand, the categories serve to put the performers ‘back into the closet’ by enhancing their ability to hide, and on the other, proclaim to the straight world that they can ‘be’ those that they perform if given the opportunity. On the association between balls and class, Dorian reveals:  “In real life, you can’t get a job as an executive unless you have the educational background and the opportunity. Now, the fact that you are not an executive is merely a fact because of the social standing of life. That is just… a pure thing. Black people have a hard time getting anywhere, and those that do, are usually straight. In the ballroom you can be anything you want. You’re not really an executive, but you look like an executive and therefore you’re showing the straight world that ‘I can be an executive, if I had the opportunity to I could be one, because I can look like one.’ And that is like a fulfillment….” (Paris is Burning 1992 emphasis added).   32                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  The balls then, express not only exclusion based on sexuality, but on economics as well. This exclusion is factored into the very ability for participants to perform at all. ‘Mopping’ – a term explained by Kim Pendavis in the film – refers to shoplifting, and is one of the ways performers acquire the clothes they use to compete (Paris is Burning 1992). Being unable to afford the clothes which help the performers win the competition and participate in the social spheres of the  Ball (via the houses, etc.) hurt a performer’s chances.     However, a performance in the ball is not simply an expression of race or class as socially exclusive phenomena in American society. And as Dorian Corey implies, this gives the opportunity for the performer to become someone else. In Mahmood’s discussion of the topography of moral becoming for Muslim women in Egypt’s da’wa movement, she writes that, “women pursued the process of honing and nurturing the desire to pray through the performance of seemingly unrelated deeds during the day…. All mundane activities—such as getting angry with one’s sister, the things one hears and looks at, the way one speaks—become a place for securing and honing particular moral practices” (Mahmood 2012 [2005]). The connection here is demonstrated between the performance of salat amongst the Muslim women in Egypt and the Drag Queens in New York City. Both salat and the balls are instances to demonstrate not just the attempt of one changing themselves in a particular manner, but to show how far they’ve come in their endeavors through everyday experiences (Goffman 1986[1963]; Mahmood 2012 [2005]; Mattingly 2014). This kind of moral becoming illustrates on one level, the moral laboratory which Mattingly describes, and the fluidity of social identifiers which Butler presents on another.  Part III: Quotidian Experience and the Importance of Place This paper has sought to explore how anthropology can bridge together two primary trends within the discipline, while furthering our understanding of human kinship—without necessarily defining it. Janet Carsten’s, Cultures of Relatedness is concerned with the two major discourses on kinship within anthropology: namely the relationship between kinship and nature versus kinship and contextualized cultural experience (Carsten 2000). In her theory of relatedness, she attempts to, “make cross-cultural comparisons without relying on an arbitrary distinction between biology and culture, and without presupposing what constitutes kinship” (Carsten 2000). By framing the question of ‘what constitutes kinship’ through the theory of relatedness, Carsten forces two analytical perspectives of kinship into conversation with one another. This allows anthropology to think about the question of kinship in a different light. Yet, ‘relatedness’ offers no definition in and of itself. Carsten points out the dangers of defining kinship so broadly as to make it analytically vacuous (Carsten 2000). Mattingly and others convincingly argue for a theory of kinship that incorporates the ‘quotidian experience’. By changing the way anthropology understands kinship, how we define the ‘quotidian’, matters.  The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines the word quotidian as:  1) occurring every day   2)  a. Belonging to each day   b. commonplace, ordinary  These are straight-forward definitions, and the range of activities encompassed by them are infinitely vast. In applying this to kinship, the everyday interactions one has with those around them are indeed vital for the production of morality and agentive personhood, yet, isolating the production of morality within the realm of the quotidian seems a dangerous prospect. First, it redefines the way anthropology has identified non-quotidian experience and ritual as sites of enculturation and social reproduction. An early chapter of Mattingly’s book, Moral Laboratories, she remarks upon a soccer game as a site of moral production being quotidian. She simultaneously remarks that the game is being played by mentally and physically   33                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  impaired children under the guise of nervous parents, some of whom are only allowing their children to play for the first time (Mattingly 2014). Her description of the events certainly do not make them out to seem quotidian. Consequently, by placing such emphasis on what we describe as “commonplace, ordinary” we seem to divorce the term from its very definition. The danger in doing this is not so much that we alter the signified from the signifier (to borrow terms common to Saussarian Linguistics),8 but rather that anthropology runs the risk of making the production of morality so commonplace as to be analytically void. This degree of danger directly applies to our referring of ‘relatedness’ (Carsten 2000; Mattingly 2014). In this instance, the social explanation provided by the parents for ‘why they are allowing their children to play soccer’ creates an additional dynamic to the activity—removing it from its quotidian place. Therefore, the term ‘quotidian’ needs to be contextualized.  Throughout the film Paris is Burning, the Ball is seen as the event that separates drag queens from other groups. To participate in the ball is to participate in the group structure that cyclically produces and reproduces the means of moral production. It produces a ‘mutuality of being’ amongst the participants (Paris is Burning 1992; Carsten 2000; Sahlins 2013; Mattingly 2014). It occurs bi -weekly, and while the event may seem routine to the participants, for the anthropologist or film producer it is in no way a quotidian event. In applying a first-person ethics to ethnography it is equally important for anthropologists to apply that same logic to ourselves. In our interactions with the subjects of our ethnography, our own moralities are constantly being produced and reproduced through our own phenomenological understandings of the events and people around us.   At the heart of this debate surrounding the ‘quotidian’, it is moreover a question of subjectivity in a broader sense. Note that this is not restricted to the ways humans relate to each other, but to their environments as well. Analyzing the extent which anthropologists influence and are influenced by the people they interact with, that same moral ‘becoming’ can also be extended to the non-human. This is similar to the extent that Mattingly applies moral laboratories to moral experimentation and production. The importance of the laboratory itself needs to be analyzed as well. In other words, the quotidian should be contextualized not only through social frameworks that solicit different histories and dynamics of power, but also through the locations in which those frameworks come to exist. Thinking back to our film, Paris is Burning, it would be utterly unthinkable to host the event on the streets of New York (as opposed to the club in which it occurred). Placing the Ball outside and within public space would summarily defeat the expressed purpose of the ball: to provide a safe space and familial networks for gay, black men and transgender people (Paris is Burning 1992).    Conclusion This paper sought to bring into conversation, and to subsequently problematize the major perspectives on kinship by analyzing the drag culture of 1980s-90s New York City. In discussing two prominent trends of thought regarding an understanding of kinship, structure and agent should be considered not only in relation to one another, but also in relation to the localities in which those relationships take place. The literature presented expands the modalities of kinship to include, ironically, exclusionary forces and what I have (perhaps ineptly) called the ‘mutuality of not being’. I acknowledge that it should also be applied to how we experience the non-human.  Consequently, in suggesting that anthropology consider the relationship between the human and the non-human, the risk of turning kinship into a term devoid of meaning looms large (Carsten 2000). As relationships between people become redefined and re-contextualized in the wake of new technologies and living patterns, navigating the danger of overgeneralization and arriving at a more defined understanding of kinship remains one of Anthropology’s most crucial endeavors.    34                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                   Endnotes 1 Structuralism is mainly concerned with social systems such as kinship or ritual as the defining features of culture. Structuralism isn’t as concerned with the production of culture as it relates to the individual. Instead, Structuralism deals with the systems which organize culture and differentiate cultural groups from one another. For example, when Barth writes about the persistence of ethnic boundaries, he is arguing that X culture is different from Y culture because of the social systems that organize said culture, not because individuals within one group or another embody practices associated with the group. 2 This is a paper about the discussion of an anthropological understanding of kinship, but it is also about the lives of transgender women and gay men of color. So, I would like to here address my own position within the community being discussed, which is to say, my own lack of position. I am not part of the trans community, nor am I part of the gay community. In exploring this topic through the frame of an anthropological discussion of kinship, I want to pay homage to the trans women and gay men of color to whom this community belongs, and who may disagree with how I’ve analyzed the Ball community featured in Paris is Burning. As it was relayed to me by a close friend, “placing [a once] sacred and expressive place under the lens of white academia” has often resulted in the theft and destruction of those places.   3 The history of Drag is well documented and often contested by members of the community. In an attempt to quickly define it—Drag is a performance whereby the participant acts in a way that is not perceived as the status quo for how their gender should behave. Historically, Drag took the form of men wearing women’s clothes and engaging in over the top performances of femininity. It has changed significantly since its inception. See Roger Baker’s Drag: A History of Female Impersonation in the Performing Arts (1994) and Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990).  4 Passing, in most simplistic terms—is the ability to hide one’s stigma (in this context, gender) from ‘the straight world’. Discussion around Passing has moved on from this idea as the LGBT community —and the Trans community in particular— negotiates emic ideas with respect to the relationship they have with gendered concepts and the world around them. See Julia Serano’s, Excluded: Making Queer and Feminist Movements more Inclusive (2013) and Arturo Aldama’s, Violence and the Body: Gender, Race, and the State (2003). 5 Juro-Political Units refer to the strata of power within a group—generally used in the discussion of kinship networks. 6  Ashanti and Nuer Kinship are both acephelous in the sense that the political structure is segmented—each juro-political unit operates autonomously or outright independently of each other. While in an Ashanti context there is a King which is the head of the clan, making them not entirely acephelous, on an individual level people can flow between political units based on life events.  7 In law, jus in personum refers to the right to act against or enforce a legal duty of a particular person or group. In this context it refers to the sociological bond between parents and children—i.e. that parents and children have obligations toward one another.  8 In Saussarian Linguistics the signifier is the verbal or symbolic pronouncement associated with an object. The signified is the actual thing to which the signifier refers. For example, a physical tree can be described as either a ‘Tree’ in English, or as ‘Derevo (Дерево)’ in Russian. Both words are the signifiers, while the physical tree is the object being signified.     Works Cited Aldama, Arturo. 2003. Violence and the Body: Gender, Race, and the State. University of Indian  Press. Baker, Roger. 1994. Drag: A History of Female Impersonation in the Performing Arts. New York  University Press. Barth, Fredrick. 1969. Ethnic Groups and the Boundaries of Difference. Universitets Forlagert:  Bergen-Oslo. Butler, Judith. 1990. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York:  Routledge. Carsten, Janet. 2013. “What Kinship does—and how: Comment on Sahlins, Marshall. 2013.” What  Kinship is—and is not. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Carsten, Janet. 2000. Cultures of Relatedness: New Approaches to the Study of Kinship. Cambridge  University Press. Evans-Pritchard, E.E. 1940. “African Political Systems” The Nuer of Southern Sudan. Oxford  University Press. Das, Veena. 2015. Affliction: Health, Disease, Poverty. Fordham University Press: New York.   35                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                   Das, Veena, & Lori Leonard. 2008. Kinship, Memory, and Time in the Lives of AIDS/HIV Patients  in a North American City. Blackwell Publishing Ltd. Fortes, Meyer. 1970. “Kinship and Marriage among the Ashanti.” African Systems of Kinship and  Marriage. Oxford University Press. Goffman, Erving. 1986. Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity. Simon & Schuster,  Inc. New York. Livingston, J., Labeija, P., Pendavis, K., Pendavis, F., Corey, D., Xtravaganza, V., Ninja, W., …  1992. Paris is Burning. United States: Fox Lorber Home Video. Mahmood, Saba. 2012. Politics of Piety: The Islamic Revival and the Feminist Subject. Princeton  University Press. Mattingly, Cheryl. 2014. Moral Laboratories: Family Peril and the Struggle for a Good Life.  University of California Press. Parkin, Robert; Stone, Linda. 2004. “Gender, Genetics, and Generation: Reformulating Biology in  Lesbian Kinship.” Kinship and Family: an Anthropological Reader. Blackwell Publishers. Radcliffe-Brown, A.R. 1934. Patrilineal and Matrilineal Succession: Iowa Law Review. College of  Law, State University of Iowa. Sahlins, Marshall. 2013. What Kinship Is—and Is Not. The University of Chicago Press. Chicago  and London. Serano, Julia. 2013. Excluded. Making Feminist and Queer Movements More Inclusive. Da Capo  Press. Stack, Carol. 1974. Sex Roles and Survival Strategies in an Urban Black Community. Stanford  University Press. Pgs. 113-128.      36                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Plenty of Fish in the Sea? A Comparison of Marine Resource Use in Early Hominins   Hayley McLeod University of British Columbia hayley.mcleod@ubc.ca  Abstract This paper analyzes data regarding the abilities of early hominids to acquire and process fish and other aquatic flora or fauna as subsistence resources. I will be considering data from a temporally and geographically broad scope of sites in an attempt to find patterns throughout early hominids, and to compare subsistence patterns between specific locations. Through these patterns, I will review the genealogy of marine based technological capabilities of the hominids. I will also analyze the effect that location has on the subsistence patterns of these species, with particular regard to the accessibility of aquatic resources. My central focus will be on the adaptability of Homo neanderthalensis in comparison to early modern humans.   Introduction The discovery of the Neanderthal shocked the world as it was the first specimen to be identified as a fossil hominin. The public and researchers alike saw the Neanderthal as a missing link between humans and earlier primates, although this has been widely debated. But why did they disappear, only to reemerge in the fossil record? Countless theories have been proposed as to the reason for their extinction. Michael Richards and Erik Trinkaus (2009) focus on the isotopic evidence surrounding the diets of anatomically modern humans (AMH) and Neanderthals to suggest that Homo neanderthalensis relied on an unvarying omnivorous diet, with a protein base consisting primarily of large herbivores. This article also shows that AMH’s, on the other hand, made use of a far more diverse dietary subsistence base, and their relatively high ẟ15N ratios indicate the persistent consumption of marine fauna. Many questions arise from this inference. Was this the reason that early modern humans thrived? Would Homo neanderthalensis have disappeared as quickly (or at all) if, like early modern humans, they were dietarily adaptable, and cognitively capable, enough in order to take full advantage of their surrounding resources?  This paper will analyze data regarding the abilities of early hominids to acquire and process fish and other aquatic flora or fauna as subsistence resources. I will be considering data from a temporally and geographically broad scope of sites in an attempt to find patterns throughout early hominids, and to compare subsistence patterns between specific locations. Through these patterns, I will review the genealogy of marine based technological capabilities of the hominids. I will also analyze the effect that location has on the subsistence patterns of these species, with particular regard to the accessibility of aquatic resources. My central focus will be on the adaptability of Homo neanderthalensis in comparison to early modern humans. Primarily, I will be collecting evidence to determine whether Neanderthals made use of marine resources around them, whether this be by hunting aquatic animals or gathering other marine resources. I will then compare this evidence to known examples of AMH fishing technologies.    Considerations for Research In order to make any observations or gain any insight into the past, scholars must have evidence to guide them towards conclusions and to support their theories. Material evidence, however, can be altered and often destroyed by many ext rinsic factors, such as weathering, animal or human scavenging, fire or water. Other   37                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  factors, such as object size and material, can affect the speed at which the evidence deteriorates. For example, bones of large mammals preserve far better than those of small animals and fish, as larger bones are more robust (Stewart 1994). Because of this, the remains of larger mammals are statistically more prevalent among finds in archaeological sites, especially at sites where the soil is not screened during excavation (ibid). This creates a bias when analyzing faunal remains, potentially skewing the ratio between faunal types based on the minimum number of individuals (MNI), and number of identified specimens (NISP) and other measures of ubiquity. Additionally, it is possible that an animal can be processed with no detectable traces left on the bones, or else the traces can be destroyed or altered over time by one of the many factors previously mentioned. All of this must be taken into account when analyzing data from Neanderthal sites. Luckily, we have other sources of evidence to draw from for our conclusions. By using new methods such as isotopic analysis, we can uncover specific information regarding diets and the food chain.  Therefore, this paper will be supported by evidence collected mainly through isotopic analysis, archaeo-faunal assemblage analysis, and use-wear analysis. I will be evaluating and comparing assemblages of lithic and other technological remains in order to assess how early hominids were taking advantage of the available resources around which they lived.    Isotopic Evidence of Early Hominid Diets The first clear evidence of the exploitation of marine resources by anatomically modern humans in Africa appears after the middle to late stone age transition, which occurred circa 40 kya (Richards and Trinkaus 2009). There is, however, scattered evidence of earlier fish consumption in Africa during a temporal overlap with the timeline of Neanderthals. The differences in the diets between the two hominids may be linked largely to the evolution of technologies between time periods (ibid).  Isotopic evidence taken from both Neanderthal and AMH sites supports this claim. Isotopic analysis relies on the fact that different types of consumed food items are distinguished based on their stable isotope ratios. The isotopes measured in Richards and Trinkaus's (2009) research are C13 and N15. Based on these signatures, researchers can gain insight into the diet of early hominids. Furthermore, analysis of stable isotopes such as strontium and oxygen is used to analyze geographical environments of prehistoric animals and to ultimately reconstruct early food chains, seasonal migrations, and sub-adult versus adult habitats (Bocherens 2011). While the lack of strontium and oxygen isotopic analyses in the aforementioned research is a limitation, the carbon and nitrogen ratios can provide necessary information in order to achieve dietary reconstruction. Stable nitrogen isotopic ratios , especially, are extremely useful when researching marine based subsistence. ẟ15N values increase at a measurable rate, between 3-5‰ dependant on the climate, and subsequently the vegetation, throughout each trophic level of the food web due to fractionation (Layman et al 2012). Subsequently, significantly higher nitrogen levels reflect the complex food webs of marine systems, more so than comparative terrestrial food webs.  Homo neanderthalensis relied on a limited diet. Scholars identify the species as omnivorous, due to the placement of their isotopic values between those of carnivores and herbivores (Richards and Trinkaus 2009). A multitude of evidence suggests that Neanderthals primarily hunted and consumed large terrestrial herbivores. However small game, molluscs, birds and other small animals are increasingly apparent in Homo neanderthalensis site remains (Hardy and Moncel 2011). According to Richards and Trinkaus (2009), isotopic analysis shows that from circa 120 to 37 kya, Neanderthals had a relatively unvarying diet all over Europe relying on large herbivores as a their source of protein. The low ẟ15N ratios suggest that Neanderthals were not consistently consuming significant, if any, quantities of marine resources. It is important to note here that the occasional or   38                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  minute consumption of certain resources (i.e. low trophic level fish) would not show up in an isotopic analysis. There is growing evidence that Homo neanderthalensis were collecting and consuming certain marine resources, primarily mollusks (Stringer et al. 2008; Hardy and Moncel 2011; Yravedra-Sainz de los Terreros et al. 2016). It is not predominant among the faunal remains at known sites, however, and the low nitrogen levels of their isotopic samples permit the conclusion that marine resources were relatively insignificant within their diets.  Anatomically modern humans, unlike Homo neanderthalensis, relied on a wide variety of sources for their protein intake. According to isotopic analysis, the ẟ15N ratios of AMH’s are greatly varying depending on location, and many samples show evidence of the consumption of freshwater resources. In general, ẟ15N ratios in these samples are far higher in comparison to those of Neanderthals, which suggests a strong reliance on marine resources in their diets (Richards and Trinkaus 2009). Included in the samples for this research is data from Oase 1, the oldest sample of an AMH that can be directly dated in Europe around 40 kya (Ibid). This sample is particularly important as its timeline overlaps temporally and geographically with that of the Neanderthals, and therefore can give us a direct comparison between the subsistences of the two hominids (Ibid). This isotopic research indicates that despite coexistence in a shared geographic region, only anatomically modern humans were making use of marine resources.   Subsistence Tools Artifactual evidence, or the lack thereof, also supports the claims made by isotope analysis. Very little evidence has yet been discovered to link  Homo neanderthalensis to practices of fishing marine mammals, however certain discoveries suggest that they were, in fact, making use of certain specific marine resources. Excavators at Vanguard Cave in Gibraltar discovered an ash layer containing mussel shells associated with a hearth, significant knapping debris and Mousterian stone tools (Stringer et al. 2008). They concluded that Neanderthals at this site had been collecting mussels and transporting them to nearby caves, where they may have been using heat to open the mussels and prepare them for consumption (ibid). This is consistent with suggestions that at  least some Neanderthals had the capability to use fire (Goldberg et al. 2012). Also among the discoveries found at this site were the remains of two seals. While these remains showed signs of human activity (defleshing and dismemberment as evidenced by signs of cutting and bending bones), Stringer and colleagues (2008) note the absence of associated tools which could have been used to hunt a marine mammal such as a seal. They comment on the fact that seals breed on land and could have been hunted in a similar manner to that which Neanderthals use when hunting terrestrial animals. While this may indicate the consumption of marine mammals it is likely indicative of opportunistic hunting rather than a pointed and continual use of a resource. This kind of sporadic consumption would not be reflected in isotopic signatures.  Another example of marine resource exploitation has been found in a site in Payre, France where there is evidence of fish processing associated with Neanderthal remains (Hardy and Moncel 2011). Researchers used use-wear analysis on lithic remains at the site, matching edge scarring and polished, greasy surfaces  to accompanying fish remains (Ibid). Mollusk remains have also been found in Neanderthal sites in Greece, Italy, Spain and Portugal (Cortès-Sànchez et al 2011). Dependant on the trophic level and subsequent isotopic signatures of the fish Neanderthals were consuming at these sites, an apparently terrestrially-based isotopic signature may still result. In order to clarify this further, researchers should compare the isotopic evidence of these sites' terrestrial and aquatic faunal remains with those that are present in the Neanderthals from the same sites.  Anatomically modern humans turned to marine resources far before, and far more consistently, than Homo neanderthalensis. Evidence for the production of bladelet   39                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  stone tool production in association with marine resources at AMH sites dates all the way back to 164 kya on the southern coast of South Africa (Marean et al. 2007). This early adoption of aquatic resources into their diet may indicate a response to a food shortage as a result of the harsh climate or a growing population, however it was a lasting adaptation from which they profited greatly. These tools indicate the cognitive capability of anatomically modern humans to make use of all available resources. If early AMH’s in South Africa around 164 kya had the ability to fish and hunt marine mammals, it is likely that the knowledge travelled North into Europe with the AMH’s as they moved.   The reason behind the Neanderthal extinction is unclear and widely debated, yet because they were able to prosper for over 200,000 years, the explanation is likely not a simple one (Hardy and Moncel 2011). Of the 500 examples of Neanderthal remains uncovered, approximately half were children, indicating that Neanderthals had high child mortality rates. The reason for this could be anything from violence to lack of a steady diet. Evidence for cannibalism is also prevalent in Homo neanderthalensis sites, as human bones have been discovered in bone heaps among other animal bones, all exhibiting markings of processing and consumption (Stapert 2007). These findings show the Neanderthals’ hard-fought battle for survival, exemplifying the degree to which their diets were restricted.    Conclusion Little evidence conclusively proves that the cognitive abilities of Homo neanderthalensis were ultimately the main reason for their demise. Their adaptability with regards to technologies and subsistence strategies , when compared to those of anatomically modern humans, may seem inferior. The survival of anatomically modern humans may correlate with this as they were able to exploit marine resources more-so than Neanderthals. But the fact that the two hominids cohabitated the same locations around the time of the Neanderthals’ extinction suggests that they interacted with each other. Scholars might be able to assume that this coexistence led to a reduction of their resource pool, and that the superiority of the AMH technologies and cognitive ability allowed them to dominate the area and access a wider range of resources. With their increasing limitations to adapt within their environments, Homo neanderthalis faded to extinction.   Works Cited Bocherens, Hervé. 2011. “Diet and Ecology of Neanderthals: Implications from C and N Isotopes.”  Neanderthal Lifeways, Subsistence and Technology. New York: Springer. Cortés-Sánchez, M., A. Morales-Muniz, M.D. Simon-Vallejo, M.C. Lozano-Francisco, J.L. Vera- Pelaez, C. Finlayson, J. Rodriguez-Vidal, et al. 2011. “Earliest Known Use of Marine  Resources by Neanderthals.” PLoS ONE 6(9): e24026. Marean, Curtis W., Miryam Bar-Matthews, Jocelyn Bernatchez, Erich Fisher, Paul Goldberg,  Andy I.R. Herries, Zenobia Jacobs, et al. 2007. “Early Human Use of Marine Resources  and Pigment in South Africa During the Middle Pleistocene.” Nature 449(7174): 905-908. Goldberg, P., Dibble, H., Berna, F., Sandgathe, D., McPherron S. J. P., Turq, A., 2012. “New  Evidence on Neandertal Use of Fire: Examples from Roc de Marsal and Pech de l’Azé  IV.” Quaternary International 247(2012): 325-340. Hardy, Bruce L., Marie-Hémlène Moncel. 2011. “Neanderthal Use of Fish, Mammals, Birds,  Starchy Plants and Wood 125-250,000 Years Ago.” PLoS ONE 6(8): e23768. Layman, Craig A., Marcio S. Araujo, Ross Boucek, Caroline M. Hammerschlag-Peyer, Elizabeth  Harrison, Zarchary R. Jud, Philip Matich, et al. 2012. “Applying Stable     Isotopes to  Examine Food-web Structure: An Overview of Analytical Tools.” Biological Reviews 87:  545-562. Neubauer, Fernanda. 2014. “A Brief Overview of the Last 10 Years of Major Late Pleistocene  Discoveries in the Old World: Homo floresiensis, Neanderthal, and Denisovan.” Journal  of Anthropology. Richards, Michael P., Erik Trinkaus, Richard G. Klein. 2009. “Isotopic Evidence for the Diets of  European Neanderthals and Early Modern Humans.” Proceedings of the National  Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 106(38): 16034-16039.   40                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Stapert, Dick. 2007. “Neanderthal Children and their Flints.” PalArch Journal of Archaeology of  Northwest Europe, 1(2): 16–39. Stewart, Kathlyn M. 1994. “Early Hominid Utilisation of Fish Resources and Implications for  Seasonality and Behaviour.” Journal of Human Evolution 27: 229-245. Stringer, C.B., J.C. Finlayson, R.N.E. Barton, Y. Fernández-Jalvo, I. Cáceres, R.C. Sabin, E.J  Rhodes, et. al. 2008. “Neanderthal Exploitation of Marine Mammals in Gibraltar.”  Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 105  (38): 14319-14324. Yravedra-Sainz de los Terreros, José, Alberto Gómez-Castanedo, Julia Aramendi-Picado, Ramón  Montes-Barquín, Juan Sanguino-González. 2016. “Neanderthal and Homo sapiens  Subsistence Strategies in the Cantabrian Region of Northern Spain.” Archaeological and  Anthropological Sciences 8:779-803.   41                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Revitalizing Salmon Fishing Practices: An Effort to Eradicate Food Insecurity and Promote Food Sovereignty   Gabrielle Morin University of British Columbia gabrielle.morin@ubc.ca  Abstract This paper identifies the specific causes of the disruption of salmon fishing as practiced by Northwest Coast First Nations of British Columbia and explores potential solutions to overcome these challenges. It is suggested that revitalizing salmon fishing practices by using them as tools of resistance could pave the way for food sovereignty and restore the health ⸺understood from the Native people's perspective⸺ of communities.   Introduction In Canada, 41% of First Nations households living on reservations are food insecure (Chan in Elliott et al. 2012). In addition, it is widely acknowledged that Indigenous communities who are traditionally dependent on salmon for dietary, ceremonial, and social purposes are fishing less and less. Diverging opinions regarding the value of salmon, certain social and economic factors, and various environmental disruptions have been putting considerable pressure on salmon populations, and salmon fishing as traditionally practiced by many First Nations of British Columbia—subsequently disrupting the long-standing symbiotic relationship which has been uniting people, fish, and their environment since time immemorial. This paper acknowledges that salmon fishing is part of the  longue durée of the Northwest Coast (what was), identifies the specific causes of the disruption of salmon fishing practices (what is), and explores a few potential solutions which might allow Nations to overcome these challenges (what is possible). I suggest that revitalizing salmon fishing practices could provide opportunities to overcome food insecurity, and even pave the way for food sovereignty—thereby restoring the health of communities, improving resource access and management, and granting them greater political and economic agency within their ancestral territories.     The Value of Salmon First and foremost, the widespread failure to consider Indigenous perspectives acts as one of the main impediments to obtaining food sovereignty. Even the terminology commonly used in academia, such as food security, food sovereignty and TEK (Traditional Ecological Knowledge), are heavily charged with Western assumptions, and this must be kept in mind as we use this language to discuss issues of agency. Since time immemorial, salmon fishing has been practiced throughout British Columbia, and there is evidence that large scale capture, processing and storage of salmon began possibly as early as the beginning of the Holocene— promoting increased sedentism and the emergence of winter villages (Grier et al. 2012). Thus, salmon fishing and presumably the ceremonial, spiritual and technical practices associated with it, exist through the longue durée. This term, borrowed by Kenneth M. Ames from Fernand Braudel, is used to define a long-term structure which can last for centuries, or even millennia. It is used in comparison with short term events—which only last days, months, or perhaps a few years—and medium length conjunctures, which can last from years to a significant portion of a century. The idea iterated by Ames is that “to understand historical developments, to explain their causes and dynamics, one must know their temporal and geographic scale: one must know what happened at their edges and their centre, why they developed and why they passed away; and how they changed during their span”  (Ames 1991). The lens of the longue durée, for this paper, will give us a sense of the widespread and   42                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  long-standing nature of the traditions associated with salmon for many Indigenous Peoples in what is now referred to as British Columbia.  Still today, salmon represents not only a source of food for many First Nations on their territory, but also a past, present, and hopefully, a future way of life. James Curtis emphasizes the importance of salmon for the Ahousaht, saying “we do more with it than just eat it, we prepare it for long term, down the road. Some people [fish salmon] for sport, luxury—we do it as a way of life. It’s something that my parents done [sic], [...] and probably our kids will do” (Schreiber 2002). This contrasts with many Westerners’ view of salmon as a resource to be commercially exploited, and these opposing dialogues translate into radically different land management strategies, as shown by the advent of salmon farms. In an exchange between Henry Scow—a Kwakwaka’wakw Hereditary Chief—and the BC Salmon Farmers Association in 2001, Scow wrote, “we the Kwicksutaineuk Band would like to inform you, people will not allow any fish farms within the Kwicksutaineuk territories” (Schreiber and Newell 2006). The email sent out in response to Scow by the BC Salmon Farmers Association failed to acknowledge the territorial claims made explicit by the Chief, instead presenting him with a fait accompli1. It focused on the possibility of collaboration, and stressed that “partnering with First Nations [Peoples would] add a strong element of responsible steward[ship] to the continued improvement of farm practices” (Schreiber and Newell 2006). However, the suggested partnership was not exactly an invitation for First Nations people to join the decision-making circle, and at most, it was a demonstration of the association’s willingness to consider TEK when managing the fishery. Schreiber and Newel (2006) mention how TEK is often perceived by non-Indigenous people to be “all tradition and no politics” (Ibid.). In other words, the access to decision-making is limited by the idea that Indigenous practices are primitive and outdated. One might also note that the language of TEK is dominated by verbs such as “collect”, “harvest”, “extract” and “use”, which pertain to business vocabulary, rather than to holistic notions of health as defined by First Nations communities (Schreiber 2002). I suggest, therefore, that negotiating TEK in salmon farming is not a strategy that is used to exchange knowledge, but rather to “eliminate contention”, and circumnavigate First Nations’ opposition through assimilation (Schreiber and Newell 2006).  Similarly, the notion of food security cannot be seen only through the calorie lens; it is necessary to consider how salmon fishing—in addition to yielding a staple food, and forming the basis for physical health—contributes significantly to the overall emotional, mental, and spiritual health of individuals and communities (Carolan 2016; Elliott et al. 2012). In essence, food sovereignty needs to be understood differently when used in the context of Indigenous issues. The Indigenous Circle—a division of Food Secure Canada dedicated to ensuring food sovereignty for Indigenous Peoples—supplements the six pillars of food sovereignty outlined by the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations with a seventh one: “food sovereignty understands food as sacred, part of the web of relationships with the natural world that defines culture and community” (Desmarais and Wittman 2014). Hence, throughout this paper, notions of food security and food sovereignty refer to the versions augmented by Indigenous perspectives.  A Matter of Limited Access There are several social and economic factors which are responsible for limiting Indigenous Peoples’ access to traditional foods, despite the fact that the majority would to feature them more prominently in their diet2. To this day, the effects of colonization and assimilation are deeply felt within communities, and act to hinder food security. For example, the residential school system gradually implemented in Canada from 1867 to the late 1990’s 3 , was largely successful in disrupting the traditional passing on of knowledge between generations (National Center for Truth and Reconciliation 2015). As a result, younger generations have been prevented   43                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  from learning how to capture, process, store, and appreciate the taste of many traditional foods (Kuhnlein et al. 2013). Moreover, the loss of traditional knowledge can be attributed to increased urbanization, which has dislocated people away from the rivers, and thus away from learning opportunities (Elliot et al. 2012). Financial limitations can exacerbate this, and impede the acquisition of transportation, fishing equipment, and licenses (Elliott et al . 2012). Another effect of increased urbanization is the mixed culture which is brought about, and young people may feel the pressure to be successful as both urban Indigenous youth, and as members of mainstream society. These identities—and their associated values—can often come into conflict (Elliott et al. 2012). For example, among the Gitxaała people, sharing—a value which is less prevalent in individualistic Western societies—is a cornerstone of the food system. Every community member is allowed to partake in the meals after harvest, regardless of whether they were part of the process (Gendron 2016). This emphasis on sharing has been observed in every stage, and should not be viewed as an individual step, but rather, as a key component of the harvesting, processing, storage, cooking, and ultimately, eating of the fish (Gendron 2016). Jarring salmon involves the participation of many family members—including children—to catch the fish, clean the jars and consume the meals (Gendron 2016). Even those who do not partake in the process receive a share, which highlights the importance of sharing salmon—and salmon-related knowledge—in reaffirming and strengthening social ties. Disrupting fishing practices therefore, does not merely prompt First Nations like the Gitxaała to replace a food source by another; it also interferes with their transmission of traditional knowledge, damages the negotiation and reaffirmation of their social networks, and impedes the transmission of important communal values.   Environmental Decline Deteriorating environmental conditions due to climate change and contamination have spearheaded the destruction of ecosystems, and severely affected the salmon runs. It has been shown that resource extraction through activities such as mining, logging and fishing are accountable for much of the damage occurring across British Columbia (Kuhnlein et al. 2013). For instance, until the 1980s, many species of salmon were abundant in the Bella Coola River and its tributaries, providing the Nuxalk Nation with a steady source of fish. However, over time, salmon consumption has declined due to resource collapse and decreased local availability (Kuhnlein et al. 2013). Climate change—a growing concern worldwide—has also affected the symbiotic relationship between the St’at’imc people and salmon in central British Columbia. Increased water temperatures have reportedly modified the salmon’s behaviour and quality, as well as its ability to reproduce. Fraser River sockeye salmon now encounters water temperatures above 19°C, which raises concerns about its ability to reproduce because no sockeye elsewhere is known to migrate in rivers warmer than 20°C. This results in a 50-95% mortality rate in late-run salmon before they reach their spawning grounds (Hodgson and Quinn in Jacob, McDaniels, and Hinch 2010; Jacob, McDaniels and Hinch 2010). St’at’imc fishers have noticed the fish is harder to catch, as it swims deeper and around the nets, or stays in certain spots of the river. Others have mentioned that it arrives later (in September), when water levels are too low for the stocks to go through (Jacob, McDaniels, and Finch 2010). Furthermore, it has been reported that the fish look tired, deformed and diseased. Some have noticed that they are badly bruised, scarred, and discoloured, and that their flesh is softer, infested with worms, or covered with white lumps (Jacob, McDaniels and Hinch 2010). Ultimately, the quality of the fish has been deemed too poor for air-drying. The flesh is too soft, and reportedly peeling off the skin—something unseen prior to recent years (Jacob, McDaniels, and Hinch 2010). Moreover, warmer air temperatures are problematic for air-drying; hotter temperatures and lack of wind tend to attract bugs—causing the fish to become wormy before it has a chance to dry. Decreased production of t’swan4 is particularly worrying, as it is a staple food eaten throughout the winter, as   44                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  well as something which provides a strong sense of community for the St’at’imc people (Jacob, McDaniels and Hinch 2010). Concerns grow as the salmon’s environment deteriorates, thus raising questions about the status salmon can hold as a reliable food source, and as a meaningful cultural marker. Finally, fish farms have been identified as releasing contaminants into rivers, and neighbouring clam beds. The net pens used in fish farms become full of fish feces, uneaten feed, and pharmaceuticals, which are then released into the watershed (Schreiber et al. 2006). According to Namgis and Ahousaht clam diggers, the beaches in the vicinity of salmon farms yield seafood that they deem unhealthy,  and thus inedible (Schreiber 2002). Health concerns in relation to salmon farming extend not only to shellfish, but to fish spawn, marine mammals, seabirds, and other resources generally not considered food by Non-Indigenous people. The effects of the farms on clam beds, for instance, are ignored by farm managers, because they fail to appreciate their value as food-gathering spaces (Schreiber 2002). Furthermore, there is the risk of farmed salmon escaping into neighboring rivers. Invasive Atlantic salmon has been seen spawning in the area, raising concerns as to whether they will create competition for the native species which are already threatened (Schreiber et al. 2006). Yet another concern is the spread of sea lice, a worm which lives in the salmon’s skin and mucus, and which proves particularly harmful to juvenile Pacific salmon. According to a study conducted by the Pacific Fisheries Resource Conservation Council, high salmon mortality rates in the Broughton archipelago were strongly correlated to sea lice infections, which in turn were linked to salmon farms (Schreiber and Newell 2006). In sum, the impact of fish farming needs to be understood in terms of the direct threat they pose to wild salmon stocks, but also in terms of the indirect impact they have on other traditional food sources such as clams. This highlights the prevalence of cultural understanding in shaping the way different groups—in this case Indigenous versus Non-Indigenous—decide to manage the land.   Adaptive Strategies The aforementioned obstacles form a complicated web, making it difficult to pinpoint which solutions will prove most effective in eradicating food insecurity and fostering food sovereignty.  I will discuss some of the adaptive strategies Jacob, McDaniels, and Hinch have come up with while working with St’at’imc people, and argue that in order to observe lasting changes, it is necessary to implement community-based solutions such as the Nuxalk Food and Nutrition Program, which has had a considerable influence in revitalizing and preserving traditional food practices. Ultimately, however, I believe that meaningful change will occur at a state level—something achievable only if First Nations communities are better represented in politics, and increasingly empowered to manage their land how they see fit. One of the more practical changes which St’at’imc people might consider would be to fish other types of salmon—such as pink salmon, which appears to be less affected by warmer waters (Jacob, McDaniels, and Finch 2010). Unfortunately, due to its smaller size and lower oil content, pink salmon cannot be air-dried, and so while this shift would allow people to rely on salmon as a predictable source of protein, it would also require them to give up air-drying as an important pillar of St’at’imc identity. Similarly, it would be hard for Namgis people to smoke farmed Atlantic fish the way they smoke “their” sockeye. According to Rodney Morris, from the Namgis Nation, wild fish is leaner and stronger, as it has been swimming for four years. The farmed fish, on the other hand, has been continually eating and swimming in an enclosed tank, thus growing  much fatter, and is therefore not fit for traditional barbecuing or smoking, as the flesh tends to break easily (Schreiber 2002). It becomes clear that while changing the source of salmon is an effective way to compensate for food insecurity, it is not a way to preserve and restore traditional   45                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  food preparation, and that additional strategies are needed to combat this. It is however, a beginning.   In response to the plague of food insecurity, malnutrition and chronic diseases, the Nuxalk Food and Nutrition Program (NFNP) began in the 1980s with the goal of restoring the health of the Nuxalk people. This program, developed in collaboration with elders, was based off a study of previous and current food traditions. Its goal was to revitalize the community’s health in terms of diet and fitness by using local food sources, and emphasizing traditional ideas of health (Kuhnlein et al. 2013). Intergenerational interviews5 revealed that the use of fish—including salmon—was more continuous in comparison to plant foods. This can be explained by the fact that plant foods are very labour-intensive, and became easily accessible through conventional amenities (Kuhnlein et al. 2013). Through the program, activities such as food events with elders, adults and youth, feasts featuring local foods, school presentations, and fitness classes were held. In addition, a garden was created, and documents such as a handbook, and a recipe book on traditional Nuxalk foods, were presented to the community. During an impact assessment in 2006 it was noted that people still remembered the activities, and even still used the recipe book, and in a 2009 assessment, it was determined that 27% of households were engaged in fishing (Kuhnlein et al. 2013). In short, traditional food was still being obtained through a network of family and friends who collectively harvested or shared equipment—highlighting the cultural importance of shared communal practices, and how their value has proven crucial to the perpetuation of traditions (Kuhnlein et al. 2013). There have been new challenges to food sovereignty since, but nonetheless, the program is a prime example of how community efforts might in turn improve community health. Built in collaboration with elders, it specifically targeted Nuxalk conceptions of food and well-being. I suggest that it would be beneficial for many Indigenous groups to have such a program tailored to their needs if they feel the need for it in their communities.   Moving Forward Although salmon is one resource among many others, it is a an ideal one to focus on because it is ubiquitous and versatile, and because its use has been continuous until present day. I think it is particularly productive to perceive traditional food as a way of resistance. As Schreiber points out, “while farmed fish can signify oppression, and continued attempts [to] assimilat[e] First Nations people into white society, catching, preparing and eating wild fish allows for both resistance and change, as well as the ability of First Nations to direct their own future.” (2002) Mitigating these disruptions through short-term adaptation strategies and programs such as the NFNP can provide opportunities to revitalize salmon fishing practices. Likewise, opposing resource extraction projects such as salmon farms is a mode of resistance which mobilizes traditional food systems and practices towards restoring the health of Indigenous communities, as shown by the successful opposition by the Pull Together campaign to keep the Enbridge Northern Gateway Pipeline from being built (Proctor 2016, Pull Together n.d.). Nonetheless, it is important to acknowledge that a grassroots movement which fosters access to land and sea, counteracts the effects of colonization and assimilation, reaffirms social ties, and brings traditional knowledge and values to the forefront, would benefit from stronger support by the Canadian state. That being said, as shown by the recent approval of the Kinder Morgan Transmountain expansion project by the Trudeau administration—without proper consultation with First Nations groups—there is limited will to recognize Indigenous rights when it comes to land and resource management (Pull Together  n.d.). However, attitudes such as Henry Scow’s are inspiring. Indeed, as expressed in his email, he understands “aboriginal rights as pre-existing, but needing recognition, rather than as rights created by the Canadian state” (Schreiber and Newell 2006). Insisting that territories are unceded creates obstacles in turn for industries which attempt to settle on land for which they lack sustainable   46                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  management skills. Ultimately, salmon fishing is to be understood as a powerful driving force, one which has the potential to foster resilience, while being revitalized through adaptation and change brought about by community-based programs. This relationship facilitates a sense of pride and identity for many individual Nations, but also has the power to unite and consolidate their efforts—by creating shared goals and a pan-Indigenous identity rooted in the value given to fish.  Conclusion In conclusion, while the principal disruptions of salmon fishing practices are varied and complex, they ultimately combine to have a detrimental effect on Indigenous Peoples’ food sovereignty in BC. Conflicting views paired with systemic power imbalance impedes proper collaboration between Indigenous and non-Indigenous people, and a multitude of social, economic, and environmental factors make it increasingly difficult for First Nations people in BC to access salmon. Understood as being part of a deeply-rooted way of life—and necessary to individuals and communities’ well-being—the capture, processing and consumption of wild salmon can be used as a tool of resistance to foster resilience and future self -determination. As Chief Lee Spahan from the Pull Together campaign states, “We’re gonna do whatever it takes to protect our drinking water, and to have that water there for salmon. Not only for today, but for future generations.” (Pull Together n.d.)  Endnotes 1Fait accompli: an action which is completed before those affected by it are in a position to query or reverse it. In other words, for the BC Salmon Farmers Association, the salmon farm projects on Kwicksutaineuk territories were to unfold regardless of the Band’s wishes. 2 For example, in 2009, 85% of Nuxalk families expressed their desire to incorporate more traditional foods in their diet (Kunhlein et al., 2013, 164). 3 Although the implementation of residential schools became more systematic post-confederation, religious boarding schools for Indigenous youth existed prior to this—as early as the beginning of the 17th century in French Canada. For a more thorough discussion on the origins of the residential schools in Canada, refer to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s report on the topic.  National Center for Truth and Reconciliation. The Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada Volume 1: Canada’s Residential School The History, Part 1 Origins to 1939. (University of Manitoba: National Center for Truth and Reconciliation, 2015). Consulted March 15 2018. http://nctr.ca/assets/reports/Final%20Reports/Volume_1_History_Part_1_English_Web.pdf. 4 T’swan is the name St’at’imc people give to air-dried fish (Jacob, McDaniels, and Hinch 2010, 865). 5 Over the course of the study, elders suggested that interviews be conducted with grandmothers, mothers and daughters of the same families, to measure the change in the use of traditional foods over time from 1920 to 1980 (Kuhnlein et al. 2013, 4).   Works Cited Ames, Kenneth M. 1991. “The Archaeology of the Longue Duree: Temporal and Spatial Scale in  the Evolution of Social Complexity on the Southern Northwest Coast.” Antiquity 65(249):  935-945.  Carolan, Michael. 2016. “Food Security and Food Sovereignty” The Sociology of Food  Agriculture, edited by Michael Carolan. London: Routledge. Taylor and Francis Group. Desmarais, Annette A. and Hannah Wittman. 2014. “Farmers, Foodies and First Nations: Getting  to Food Sovereignty in Canada” The Journal of Peasant Studies 41(6): 1153-1173. Elliott Bethany, Deepthi Jayatilaka, Contessa Brown, Leslie Varley, and Kitty K. Corbett.  2012.  "We Are Not Being Heard: Aboriginal Perspectives on Traditional Foods Access  and Food Security." Journal of Environmental and Public Health 5:1-9.  Gendron, Danielle Renee. 2016.  “Eating Gitxaała, Being Gitxaała : Food and Cultural Security.”  Ma diss. University of British Columbia. Grier, Colin, Kelli Flanigan, Misa Winters, Leah G. Jordan, Susan Lukowski and Brian M. Kemp.  2013. “Using Ancient DNA Identification and Osteometric Measures of Archaeological  Pacific Salmon Vertebrae for Reconstructing Salmon Fisheries and Site Seasonality as   47                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                   Dionisio Point, British Columbia.” Journal of Archaeological Science 40(1): 544-555. Jacob, Colleen, Tim Mcdaniels, & Scott Hinch. 2010. “Indigenous Culture and Adaptation to  Climate Change: Sockeye Salmon and the St'at'imc People.” Mitigation and Adaptation  Strategies for Global Change 15(8): 859-876. Kuhnlein, Harriet, Karen Fediuk, Charles Nelson, Elizabeth Howard, and Suzanne Johnson. 2013.  “The Legacy of the Nuxalk Food and Nutrition Program for the Food Security, Health,  Well-Being of Indigenous Peoples in British Columbia.” BC Studies 179:159-256. National Center for Truth and Reconciliation. 2015. The Final Report of the Truth and  Reconciliation Commission of Canada Volume 1: Canada’s Residential School The  History, Part 1 Origins to 1939. University of Manitoba. Proctor, Jason. “Northern Gateway pipeline approval overturned: Federal Court of Appeal finds  Canada failed to consult with First Nations on pipeline project.” CBC News, June 30,  2016.  Pull Together. “The People vs. Kinder Morgan Part 2.” Pull Together video. URL: https://pull- together.ca/www.cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/northern-gateway-pipeline- federal-court-of-appeal-1.3659561 Schreiber, Dorothee and Dianne Newell. 2006. “Negotiating TEK in BC Salmon Farming:  Learning from Each Other or Managing Tradition and Eliminating Contention?” BC  Studies 150: 79-148. Schreiber, Dorothee. 2002. “Our Wealth Sits on the Table: Food, Resistance, and Salmon Farming  in Two First Nations Communities.” American Indian Quarterly 26 (3): 360–377.    48                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Attacks on Art and the Repatriation Dilemma: A Look into the Global Effects of War and Politics on the Justifications for Repatriation from Western Museums to Eastern Sites of Conflict   Anna M. Nielsen University of British Columbia a.nielsen@alumni.ubc.ca  Abstract This article discusses the argument for repatriation in light of political crises in Iraq and Syria where The Islamic State (ISIS) is currently waging a pursuit of ethnic cleansing and war on cultural heritage. It is commonly agreed upon by anthropologists that artifacts in Western museums should be repatriated back to their communities of origin. However, it is argued that in certain cases this is not the best solution. While these artifacts may be cases of tangible heritage and ancestral identity, they also need to be safeguarded from the ramifications of War.  Introduction The argument for repatriation is a passionate one, where anthropologists commonly agree that artifacts in Western museums should be repatriated back to their communities of origin. However, in certain cases this is not the best solution. While these artifacts may be cases of tangible heritage and ancestral identity, they also need to be safeguarded from the ramifications of War. This is especially relevant in the case of Iraq and Syria. The Islamic State (ISIS) is currently waging a pursuit of ethnic cleansing and a war on cultural heritage. Presently ISIS has seized over 1800 archeological sites, along with the continuation of looting and destroying artifacts within many more museums.  There is considerable controversy over the sheer magnitude of artifacts that are held in Western Museums originating from the Middle East. Many of these objects were taken without consent or permission and have complicated legal documentation. The controversy over museum repatriation has become more popular in the last 50 years as many developing and decolonized countries are beginning to fight for their cultural identity and physical history of their culture, as well as taking action against the colonial powers that removed artifacts from their territories in the past 1 . Refusal of repatriation is also being seen as the newest form of Western imperialism and cultural control; “The vestiges of 20th-century wars, imperialism, and colonial encounters present contemporary society with contested ownership disputes,” which include repatriation and restitution claims, as well as many complexities within the laws and ethics involved. 2 The ethical and legal choices when it comes to returning objects to sites of war are intricate and problematic, as they occasionally conflict with each other. While the importance of many objects cannot be argued against, the safety of these objects can also not be assured. To ensure the safe keeping and educational benefit of these artifacts, the best plan of action is to maintain their place in Western Museums on long-term loan until the stability of political, cultural, and economic conditions is proven.  After the US Coalition of Iraq in 2003, the country was left destroyed. Not only was the country destroyed by war, but both cultural material in the museums and archeological remains were tragically lost. Iraq's National Museum of Antiquities was left stripped of thousands of artifacts after just two days. 3  The American military chose not to protect the National Library and Archives or the museum. It is estimated that two million volumes of the library have been turned to ash 4, 15,000 artifacts went missing5, and the country itself is now mourning the loss of lives as well as irreplaceable examples of their cultural history; “our heritage is finished”   49                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  and “it feels like my family has died” lamented one of the curators, Nabhal Amin 6. However, 2003 was only the beginning of the eradication of Iraqi heritage by both outside forces and locals.  The looting of museums and significant sites only continued to increase at alarming rates in 2016. Even worse than this looting is the complete destruction of sites. The Islamic state is known for attacking in three stages: First, plundering in order to steal transportable artifacts that can be sold; secondly, the site is systemically attacked with sledgehammers and explosives to destroy idols of other gods; and lastly the sites are blasted to rubble and broadcasted for the world to watch7. The paradox of ISIS selling the exact artifacts that they are pledging so strongly to destroy8 is not lost on the local communities or archaeologists around the world. This practice is also proving to be extremely lucrative; it is reported that from a single site the Islamic State was able to make $36 million by selling stolen artifacts9.  Looting of archaeological sites, specifically in the Middle East, has proven to be another one of the biggest problems facing those attempting to safeguard artifacts in and out of museums. At the site of Umma in Iraq, 8,318 looter’s pits were dug between 2003 and 2005, and another 500 were dug between 2005 and 2008.10 This was done even while there were supposedly protections in place to stop the theft. Developing countries such as Iraq and Syria are more vulnerable to the illicit trafficking of artifacts due to the high concentration of antiquities, and the societal, political, and economic unrest. 11 The process of stealing and selling artifacts has occurred for centuries in these sites, yet because it has become such an apparent means for organized crime and terrorist groups to fund their actions12, the world is taking note. As the Syrian director of museums has said, “the looting of archeological sites has been ongoing for many years, but had accelerated as ruins had been left unprotected during the fighting"13. This is also seen in times of unrest before and after the conflict in the countries, because the government does not have the resources nor is it a priority for the government to be protecting these sites. Even after the situation with ISIS changes in Iraq and Syria, the museums and cultural heritage will not be safe for quite some time.  Of the 55 recognized sites in danger by UNESCO, three are in Iraq, and six are in Syria, together making up 16% of all the sites. Of these nine sites in 2016, over half have already been attacked by ISIS, and many other locations were bulldozed before having the opportunity to make a list. These artifacts are not only being demolished out in the ruins, but those in museums have been looted and attacked as well. ISIS has made propaganda videos of its militants using sledgehammers on statues and antiquities in the Mosul Museum. The museum contained many of the saved and preserved artifacts from the archaeological sites of Ninevah and Harta that have now been bulldozed14. The director general Irinia Bokova was quoted saying that the burning of over 100,000 books and texts from the Mosul central library is "one of the most devastating acts of destruction of library collections in human history"15. This systematic eradication of heritage is being carried out by militants who are attempting to cleanse the country from art that they consider idolatrous 16 . The bulldozing of Nimrud, the first capital of the Assyrian Kingdom, famous for the frescos and sacred texts, 17  was devastating. The Islamic State has attempted to justify their actions and damage caused in Nineveh, Nimrud, and Khorsabad by claiming that these sites were destroyed according to their religious  ideology18. This is the same justification we see again and again in cases of religious wars, as well as the history of targeting and destroying Mesopotamian artifacts with the goal of “re -writing” history repeated by various groups.  Babylon, known for its hanging gardens and bluestone walls, is still considered a wonder of the world. The great Gate of Ishtar, housed in the Berlin Museum of Germany was built by Nebuchadnezzar when he rebuilt the city 19  during the 6th century BCE. This gate stood at the entry to the city and is representative of the   50                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  current situation in Iraq and Syria. Not only was this magnificent gate explorative of the culture of Babylon, but of the power, wealth and military strength that Nebuchadnezzar held. When German archeologists uncovered it, even in its state, it was noteworthy. After WWI it was taken back to Germany and stolen from Iraq. For most of the twentieth century, the Iraqi people fought to have the gate returned to them. When Saddam Hussein took power of Iraq, he headquartered his organization on the same land and rebuilt much of the site and the gate. This preserved the site until his reign of power fell. After the 2003 coalition and US invasion, the United States and Poland set up their troops on the same site and turned it into a military base20. This included trenching through the unexcavated cities, placing helicopter pads on top of temples, and driving tanks throughout the processional way, in turn destroying the foundation and structures. After 2,600 years of wars, plunder and neglect, Babylon was finally destroyed by the West. Sites of conflict located around the world are always at risk when a new power comes into the territory. However, if the Gate of Ishtar had been returned to Iraq it most likely would either have been damaged by the invasion of US troops, or from the attacks on museums and sites. The Gate of Ishar represents an important tie to heritage and history for the Iraqi people. Had the Gate been returned and inevitably destroyed, the effects of this would be even more devastating than that of having it locked up in a German Museum.  The reason that ISIS's archeological attacks have such a visceral effect on the world is that heritage is such an integral aspect of life and culture. This is illustrated by Hoelscher, who explains that heritage is not only intensely felt but an essential aspect of economic revenue and national/ethnic identity.21 These attacks hurt Iraqi and Syrian culture by stripping them of the physical evidence and records of their ancestor’s accomplishments and daily life. The Islamic State is using these attacks strategically to provoke the West through the international publication of media portraying these heinous actions. The goal of this provocation is to receive a direct western military response; it is a deliberate plan to broadcast these acts of wanton destruction in hopes that they will receive an on the ground response. 22 The artifacts in Syria and in Iraq are being threatened by destruction that is ideological, militaristic, and commercial.23 Not until we can find an international policy that protects tangible and intangible heritage from each of these unique and different threats, can the world and museums find an international peace.  ISIS is not to be blamed for every one of these incidents. They are only the most recent and one of the most publicized causes of cultural unrest and destruction in the middle east. The current focus of media attention on Syria and Iraq is related as well to the changing political times and tensions with the Middle East and the West. While Libya, Turkey, Lebanon, Tunisia, and Egypt have all experienced cultural destruction, the news media is not covering this 24  because it is not a "global priority" and the international community is doing relatively nothing to safeguard these antiquities. They attempted and failed to protect Iraq and Syria from the looting and destruction of heritage from Mesopotamia that has been happening for centuries,25 either due to greed, ignorance, or anger.  This global conversation of safeguarding heritage is recognized most by the adoption of the Convention for the Safeguarding of Intangible Cultural Heritage, the thirty-second session of the General Conference of UNESCO26. In the case of Syria and Iraq, these countries were significantly impacted as well by the 1954 Hague Convention for the Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict and UNESCO convention on the means of prohibiting and preventing Illicit Import, Export and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property27. This is because the theft of antiquities has become almost as devastating as the destruction, and many of the attempts to protect these countries and sites of heritage were insignificant. Because cultural heritage does not follow the state lines that we have drawn for political reasons, art dealers and thieves are capable of lying or forging the paperwork of the origin these artifacts, often reporting Turkey, Lebanon, or Jordan instead of Iraq and   51                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Syria28. The varying communities responsible for ancient scrolls, or artifacts cross the arbitrary boundaries we have drawn, making tracking down the accurate source location of an Assyrian sculpture, for example, very difficult.  There is much debate over weighing the priorities of an archaeological site, whether the context or the safety should be valued more, and whether stolen or undocumented objects should be held in Museums. The global community of archaeologists and museums commonly argue that objects taken away from context lose their record and meaning, yet those that have been left are now destroyed. It is important to be grateful for the pieces that have been collected by institutions and private collectors for saving aspects of tangible heritage from these sites of conflict,29 while still remaining aware of the loss that removing an object causes. Millions of dollars were invested in programs to "save" these sites starting in 2011,30 however, by 2015 it was clear that the situation had been worsening. The rest of the international community seemed to sit back and do nothing more. The other global impact of this is that it has brought up again questions of representation of art and culture in non-western museums, “the discourse of art became a significant arena in which the images and identities of …..non -western cultural others-as well as various minority groups-were produced, transformed, and circulated transitionally 31 ”. The precedent set by this lack of attention to safeguarding museums and cultural sites does not provide the world with faith that the future of objects in Iraq and Syria will be safe. The international committee of Museums has come out and stated that in the circumstances of sites of conflict "there is a need to be mindful of complex socio -political contexts that can impact the behavior and attitudes of the population towards heritage." 32  Heritage and cultural identity are critically important to relations between locals, the international community, as well with the fight against extremists.   It is critical that museums are maintaining their role in society of representation, presentation and safeguarding of tangible and intangible cultural heritage 33 . However, as has been seen time and time again, museums refuse to repatriate artifacts. When cases of restitution and repatriation are brought to  court, both the institutions and the nations involved are faced with political agendas and their colonial legacy.34The Gate of Ishtar from Iraq was famously taken to Germany after WW1 and has resulted in passionate protests and requests for its return. Ult imately the UN in New York determined that the gate could remain in Berlin, partially because of the monetary value it provides to the museum. The gate nonetheless represents a significant work of art and architecture from a non-western culture, which can cause cultural homogenization by preference to and ease of access to western artifacts35. Museums must critically look at their own role in the modern age of the repatriation dilemma and cultural heritage management in order to determine the best course for both future heritage preservation and access.  One strategy to save the lasting heritage is to rely more on community museums. In recent years, it has become increasingly evident that community museums have the ability to control their future by addressing the ways their past in represented and protecting their own histories and memories 36. Some of the most successful strategies used to protect artifacts in Syria were carried out by the new "monument men” who risk their own lives traveling through ISIS terr itory and opposition forces, in order to protect sites and remove antiquities from museums for safekeeping.37 They risk their lives to save their own heritage in the same way that Khaled Al-Assad Head of Antiquities at Palmyra gave up his own life 38 to keep secret from ISIS the location of artifacts that had been excavated from Palmyra. Mosaics and statues, covered in glue and string and protected by truckloads of sandbags39 from later attacks and airstrikes are crated and driven out of the country for safekeeping.    52                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Palmyra, one of the most famous sites in Syria and a natural oasis in the dessert, was once a major stop along the Silk Road and known for its wealth; Greeks, Romans and Palmyrans all lived side by side.40 However, now all that remains is rubble and ruins. Even the museum, housing many of the excavated items, was hit by ISIS who published videos of them causing the destruction. Palmyra is also a "key strategic location for ISIS as it is linked with a highway to some important cities in both Syria and Iraq." 41  Before the conflict in Syria even began it is estimated that the government had resources only to provide one guard for every five archaeological sites in the country42, and in times of conflict such as now, this is an even lower priority.   Six years ago, The Royal Ontario Museum created video documentation of the entirety of Palmyra and many other sites of Syria, giving a "time capsule" of sorts to the world that no longer exists. Of the 40 museums spread throughout Syria, all have been affected either directly or indirectly by the conflict; all six world heritage sites have been directly damaged, four of which have been severely damaged, and eight of the sites on the world heritage tentative list have been affected. Looting and vandalism has been reported at almost every single museum and archeological site. The next largest threat is to both the secret and known storage areas of these archeological sites.43 As grim as all of these destructive statistics sound, it also proves a point that has been demonstrated by many different cultures from around the globe; “what is important for a culture to be alive is not the objects themselves, but the knowledge which can activate the objects.”44 This knowledge is still here in Western museums that have not been attacked, in the artifacts and antiquities that have been protected and preserved and in the video documentation and reports of these sites.   Can we ethically give back artifacts knowing that they are likely to be destroyed or stolen? Currently, the most favorable option that the international community has is to maintain storage and safeguarding for these objects in Western museums on long-term loan, as opposed to repatriation. Gloria Webster is known for her role in organizing repatriation, and she has been stated saying that, "‘[i]t is unrealistic and even unnecessary to demand that all aboriginal regalia owned by large scale museums be returned to their rightful owners.45’” It is important to note that she said this because she appreciated the way in which a museum can showcase culture through exhibition and allow for meaningful collaborations around the world 46 It is also important that these artifacts are not all sent back to their originating cultures, because if museums only represented the history and culture of the local communities it would reinforce tribalism and “others vs. us” ideas. Along the same lines, a concentration of objects and heritage raise the risk of complete cultural destruction. By circulating examples of Assyrian statues and Mesopotamian mosaics through cultural institutions it allows the sharing of ideas, art and values and globalization of cultural heritage, as well protecting these antiquities into the next century47.  The case of Syria and Iraq is representative of a bigger issue in the world. It brings up questions of ethics and morals, of science and cultural ownership along with globalization and safety. The history of Western influence and Middle Eastern politics and culture is long and complicated; the relationships of museums now is more prevalent and political than ever before. Archeologists from around the world are risking their lives to save antiquities that may otherwise not exist tomorrow. The current state of world heritage is at stake as well. This is not only the history of Iraqi and Syrian people but humanity and its Mesopotamia roots. The Assyrian kingdoms from 500BC are important aspects of our ancestral heritage on this earth. Losing the opportunities to study these sites is devastating to curators, archeologists, historians, scientists and the people of these sites. We must also remember that artifacts protected in museums in Canada are being lost as well. The greater value of preserving these objects and relics of tangible heritage from the dangers in sites of conflict, is currently more important than the repatriation of these objects back   53                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  to their culture of origin. While keeping them in the West is colonial in practice, it also serves the greater good of education about the importance of these histories and of the destruction that is currently happening.   Endnotes 1 Neil Broadie "Syria and Its Regional Neighbors: A Case of Cultural Property Protection Policy Failure?" International Journal of Cultural Property 22. 2 Hilary A. Soderland & Ian A. Lilley. 2015. “The fusion of law and ethics in cultural heritage management: The 21st century confronts archaeology” Journal of Field Archaeology. 3 Steven Hoelscher. "Heritage." A Companion to Museum Studies: 198-218. 4 Norman K Denzin. 05/2004. Cultural studies, critical methodologies: The war on culture, the war on truth. 4, (2): 137 5  Nao Hayashi, "Heritage and Conflict Situations, The Role of the International Heritage Community and National Agents." Museum International 67. 6 Steven Hoelscher. "Heritage." A Companion to Museum Studies: 198-218. 7  Prof. Dr. Andreas Dittman, and Associate Prof. Dr. Hussein Almohamad. "Devastation of Cultural Heritage and Memory in Syria and Iraq: Component of a Multi-level Provocation Strategy?" International Journal of Humanities and Social Science 5. 8 Sascha Priewe, "Erasing History: Ancient Artifacts Destroyed." Royal Ontario Museum. 9  Alexander Bauer, A. "Editorial: The Destruction of Heritage in Syria and Iraq and Its Implications." International Journal of Cultural Property 22. 10  Neil Broadie "Syria and Its Regional Neighbors: A Case of Cultural Property Protection Policy Failure?" International Journal of Cultural Property 22. 11  Nao Hayashi, "Heritage and Conflict Situations, The Role of the International Heritage Community and National Agents." Museum International 67. 12  Alexander Bauer, A. "Editorial: The Destruction of Heritage in Syria and Iraq and Its Implications." International Journal of Cultural Property 22. 13 Neil Broadie "Syria and Its Regional Neighbors: A Case of Cultural Property Protection Policy Failure?" International Journal of Cultural Property 22. 14  Cullinane, Susannah, Hamdi Alkhshali, and Mohammed Tawfeeq. "Tracking a Trail of Historical Obliteration: ISIS Trumpets Destruction of Nimrud." CNN. 15 Muna Fadhil "Isis Destroys Thousands of Books and Manuscripts in Mosul Libraries." The Guardian. 16  Alexander Bauer, A. "Editorial: The Destruction of Heritage in Syria and Iraq and Its Implications." International Journal of Cultural Property 22. 17  Cullinane, Susannah, Hamdi Alkhshali, and Mohammed Tawfeeq. "Tracking a Trail of Historical Obliteration: ISIS Trumpets Destruction of Nimrud." CNN.  18  Nao Hayashi, "Heritage and Conflict Situations, The Role of the International Heritage Community and National Agents." Museum International 67. 19 Amanda Ruggeri "The Great Gate of Ishtar: A Door to Wonder." BBC - Culture. 20 Amanda Ruggeri "The Great Gate of Ishtar: A Door to Wonder." BBC - Culture. 21 Steven Hoelscher. "Heritage." A Companion to Museum Studies: 198-218. 22 International journal of humanities and social science. 23 Neil Broadie "Syria and Its Regional Neighbors: A Case of Cultural Property Protection Policy Failure?" International Journal of Cultural Property 22. 24 Neil Broadie "Syria and Its Regional Neighbors: A Case of Cultural Property Protection Policy Failure?" International Journal of Cultural Property 22. 25  Prof. Dr. Andreas Dittman, and Associate Prof. Dr. Hussein Almohamad. "Devastation of Cultural Heritage and Memory in Syria and Iraq: Component of a Multi-level Provocation Strategy?" International Journal of Humanities and Social Science 5. 26 Kenji Yoshida, "The Museum and the Intangible Cultural Heritage." Museum International 56. 27 Neil Broadie "Syria and Its Regional Neighbors: A Case of Cultural Property Protection Policy Failure?" International Journal of Cultural Property 22. 28 Neil Broadie "Syria and Its Regional Neighbors: A Case of Cultural Property Protection Policy Failure?" International Journal of Cultural Property 22. 29  Alexander Bauer, A. "Editorial: The Destruction of Heritage in Syria and Iraq and Its Implications." International Journal of Cultural Property 22. 30 Neil Broadie "Syria and Its Regional Neighbors: A Case of Cultural Property Protection Policy Failure?" International Journal of Cultural Property 22. 31  Corrine David-Ives "Maori Heads in French Museum Collections: A Recent Controversy Illuminated by the Works of a Contemporary Maori Artist." Journal of New Zealand & Pacific Studies 1.   54                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                   32  Nao Hayashi, "Heritage and Conflict Situations, The Role of the International Heritage Community and National Agents." Museum International 67. 33 Kenji Yoshida, "The Museum and the Intangible Cultural Heritage." Museum International 56. 34  Corrine David-Ives "Maori Heads in French Museum Collections: A Recent Controversy Illuminated by the Works of a Contemporary Maori Artist." Journal of New Zealand & Pacific Studies 1. 35 Cuauhtémoc Camarena and Teresa Morales. "Community Museums and Global Connections." Museum Frictions, 2006, 322-44. 36 Cuauhtémoc Camarena and Teresa Morales. "Community Museums and Global Connections." Museum Frictions, 2006, 322-44. 37  Prof. Dr. Andreas Dittman, and Associate Prof. Dr. Hussein Almohamad. "Devastation of Cultural Heritage and Memory in Syria and Iraq: Component of a Multi-level Provocation Strategy?" International Journal of Humanities and Social Science 5. 38  Nao Hayashi, "Heritage and Conflict Situations, The Role of the International Heritage Community and National Agents." Museum International 67. 39  Prof. Dr. Andreas Dittman, and Associate Prof. Dr. Hussein Almohamad. "Devastation of Cultural Heritage and Memory in Syria and Iraq: Component of a Multi-level Provocation Strategy?" International Journal of Humanities and Social Science 5. 40 Sascha Priewe, "Erasing History: Ancient Artifacts Destroyed." Royal Ontario Museum. 41  Prof. Dr. Andreas Dittman, and Associate Prof. Dr. Hussein Almohamad. "Devastation of Cultural Heritage and Memory in Syria and Iraq: Component of a Multi-level Provocation Strategy?" International Journal of Humanities and Social Science 5. 42 Neil Broadie "Syria and Its Regional Neighbors: A Case of Cultural Property Protection Policy Failure?" International Journal of Cultural Property 22. 43  Nao Hayashi, "Heritage and Conflict Situations, The Role of the International Heritage Community and National Agents." Museum International 67. 44 Kenji Yoshida, "The Museum and the Intangible Cultural Heritage." Museum International 56. 45 Kenji Yoshida, "The Museum and the Intangible Cultural Heritage." Museum International 56. 46 Kenji Yoshida, "The Museum and the Intangible Cultural Heritage." Museum International 56. 47  Alexander Bauer, A. "Editorial: The Destruction of Heritage in Syria and Iraq and Its Implications." International Journal of Cultural Property 22.  Works Cited Bauer, Alexander A. 2015. "Editorial: The Destruction of Heritage in Syria and Iraq and Its  Implications." International Journal of Cultural Property 22(1):1-6.  doi:10.1017/s0940739115000090. Brodie, Neil. 2015. "Syria and Its Regional Neighbors: A Case of Cultural Property Protection  Policy Failure?" International Journal of Cultural Property 22(2): 317-35.  doi:10.1017/s0940739115000144. Camarena, Cuauhtémoc, and Teresa Morales. 2006. "Community Museums and Global  Connections." Museum Frictions, 322-44. doi:10.1215/9780822388296-017.  Cullinane, Susannah, Hamdi Alkhshali, and Mohammed Tawfeeq. "Tracking a Trail of Historical  Obliteration: ISIS Trumpets Destruction of Nimrud." CNN. April 14, 2015. Accessed  2016. URL: http://edition.cnn.com/2015/03/09/world/iraq-isis-heritage. Curry, Andrew. "Here Are the Ancient Sites ISIS Has Damaged and Destroyed." National  Geographic. September 1, 2015. Accessed 2016. URL:  http://news.nationalgeographic.com/2015/09/150901-isis-destruction-looting-ancient- sites-iraq-syria-archaeology/. David-Ives, Corinne. 2013. "Maori Heads in French Museum Collections: A Recent Controversy  Illuminated by the Works of a Contemporary Maori Artist." Journal of New Zealand &  Pacific Studies 1(2): 115-29. doi:10.1386/nzps.1.2.115_1 Denzin, Norman K. 2004. Cultural studies, critical methodologies: The war on culture, the war on  truth. 4(2): 137. Dittmann, Prof. Dr. Andreas, and Associate Prof. Dr. Hussein Almohamad. 2015. "Devastation of  Cultural Heritage and Memory in Syria and Iraq: Component of a Multi-level Provocation  Strategy?" International Journal of Humanities and Social Science 5(11):28-40.  Fadhil, Muna. "Isis Destroys Thousands of Books and Manuscripts in Mosul Libraries." The  Guardian. February 26, 2015. Accessed 2016. URL:  https://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/feb/26/isis-destroys-thousands-books-libraries. Hayashi, Nao. 2015. "Heritage and Conflict Situations, The Role of the International Heritage  Community and National Agents." Museum International 67(1): 55-63.  doi:10.1111/muse.12088.   55                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                   Hilary A. Soderland & Ian A. Lilley. 2015. “The fusion of law and ethics in cultural heritage  management: The 21st century confronts archaeology.” Journal of Field Archaeology  40(5) 508-522. Hoelscher, Steven. "Heritage." A Companion to Museum Studies.  Ruggeri, Amanda. "The Great Gate of Ishtar: A Door to Wonder." BBC - Culture. March 2, 2015.  Accessed 2016. URL: http://www.bbc.com/culture/story/20150302-ancient-babylons- greatest-wonder. Priewe, Sascha. "Erasing History: Ancient Artifacts Destroyed." Royal Ontario Museum. 2015.  Accessed 2016. URL: https://www.rom.on.ca/en/blog/erasing-history-ancient-artifacts- destroyed. Yoshida, Kenji. 2004. "The Museum and the Intangible Cultural Heritage." Museum International  56(1): 108-12. doi:10.1111/j.1350-0775.2004.00464.x.       56                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  Unfortunately Lucky: The Persecution of Albinos in East Africa  Jordan Rokosz University of British Columbia j.rokosz@alumni.ubc.ca  Abstract This paper examines the wave of albino murders that have taken place since the early 2000s in parts of East Africa. It is argued that the belief in magic, along with socio-economic changes brought on by international mining companies, have given rise to an albino fetish where human body parts have been transformed into luck charms. It is also touched upon how the push towards greater education of the biomedical realities of albinism is offering hope and slowly changing the cultural stigmas towards albino people.  Introduction Over the past decade, a wave of murders in parts of East Africa have targeted people with albinism. Rooted in traditional beliefs of witchcraft and magic, these killings are motivated by the use of albino body parts for charms and potions – a commodification that has further distressed the lives of a group of people already ostracized and persecuted out of superstition. In Tanzania, in the face of social and economic insecurity brought about by globalization, the belief in magic has allowed many people to address and overcome the fears and concerns of everyday life. Magic is a source of security; it shapes the visible and invisible worlds through rituals. Although there is no historical precedent for the ritual use of an albino fetish, the victimisation of albinos is ultimately an extension of these traditions of magic merging with socioeconomic stress. Tanzania’s structural adjustment policies, designed to avoid economic collapse, lured foreign investment and slashed agricultural subsidies – changes that disrupted traditional ways of being. The albino fetish has emerged in response to these disruptions by targeting a people already treated with insult. Their killings are part of a reaction to poverty, to social imbalance, and to an uncertainty about the world – all of which are seen as mutable by witchcraft. The use of magic, as with mainstream religion, serves to “reduce the anxiety that comes from uncertainty, allowing people to carry on their practical life” (Bowen 2016). The problem facing people with albinism in East Africa is that these beliefs have morphed into a demand for their body parts, where a complete corpse is valued at $75,000 US (United Nations 2013). Challenges of poverty and disease can lead to desperate situations, and the impetus for these killings is often ascribed to the superstitions of fishermen and artisanal miners in rural Tanzania attempting to secure luck charms for wealth and protection from dangers (Bryceson 2010). Although most abhor these murders, the high incidence of attacks suggests a growing demand: Since 2006, more than 520 attacks on people with albinism in 28 countries have been recorded, including more than 170 incidents in Tanzania (Under the Same Sun 2018). Part of the attraction for these charms may be related to the magic of similarity: the idea that like attracts like (Bowen 2016). In the case of miners, “the rarity of albino parts, analogous to the rarity of gold and diamonds, attracts miners who believe in the power of the albino fetish to generate mineral discovery” (Bryceson 2010). Coupled with this idea of similarity are the longstanding cultural beliefs about albinos as supernatural beings. Use of the albino fetish is linked to perceptions that they harness “spirits that are far more powerful than any plant or animal charm that waganga [witch doctors] could otherwise offer” (Oestigaard 2015). Acquiring these objects therefore becomes a decisive path towards assuring personal gain, believing in the efficacy of magic as the explanation for misfortune or success Magic is efficient: its quickness serves to benefit those beset by daily struggles, looking after the here-and-now versus mainstream religions, like Christianity, which look after the soul. In a country like Tanzania, where many people live in extreme poverty, the   57                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  needs of this life demand the immediate attention of magic. Waganga, therefore, perform an important role in providing spiritual assistance, solving problems of the real world through their ability to connect with other forces (Masanja 2015). Through intervention by waganga, magic and witchcraft provide an opportunity for betterment in this world in face of the perceived silence by the Christian God. But this efficiency is proportionate to the desire of the believer: “In witchcraft there are always others to blame. Somebody else has employed stronger and more effective medicines. Misery and evil, or the success of others in becoming wealthy and powerful, becomes the ultimate evidence of why a person’s own medicines and witchcraft did not work. This circular, self-referential evidence is complete, and the only way to break out of this vicious circle is by employing even stronger and more dangerous medicines, ultimately by using human body parts.” (Oestigaard 2015) This immediate, intimate relationship with magic offers refuge for those seeking aid amidst hardships. But in this extreme form of murder, the horrors of these acts seem unjustifiable. In parts of East Africa, cultural explanations for the cause of albinism reflect the influence of magical thinking. A personalistic etiology might interpret a child born with albinism as the result of a curse, as punishment on a family for past misdeeds, or as the divine will of God; a naturalistic etiology might interpret albinism as the result of a lack of iron in the blood (Brocco 2015). These interpretations have also marked albinos as possessors of otherworldly powers and include the belief that having sex with an albino woman will cure an individual of AIDS (Winchester 2014). Misunderstandings about the cause of albinism has exacerbated their marginalization in society, ultimately stripping albinos of their humanity and allowing them to be commodified as luck charms. The necessity of seeking such powerful charms in Tanzania has grown alongside the exploitation of the country’s mineral wealth. As the previous dependency on an agricultural majority failed to deflect the economic crisis of the 1970s and ‘80s, structural adjustment policies were established by the International Monetary Fund and World Bank as a way to offset disaster. Specific to these policies included “devaluing the Tanzanian shilling, creating greater opportunity for foreign investment, [as well as] eliminating consumer and agricultural subsidies” (Vavrus 2005). Without these subsidies, life for those already on or near the margins became more difficult; at the same time, the encouragement of foreign investment provided new arenas of privatized industry, spurred by the devaluation of the currency. These distressful socioeconomic realities in East Africa have led many people to seek opportunity wherever possible. In Tanzania, promises offered by national independence went unmet, producing “no great improvement in their standards of living” as access to basic needs were “hindered by corruption and poor maintenance” (Tanner 2010). Mineral mines like diamond and gold offered the rural poor a new opportunity. Unlike with agriculture, mining does not require the need for land assets or investment capital, and yet it provides the chance for great financial gain (Bryceson 2010). But this movement away from agricultural tradition is not without its own risks. Physical dangers abound in the mines, and there is no guarantee that an individual will strike it rich. To counter these uncertainties, miners have sought assistance from waganga to secure their wealth.  The question of who finds success or who fails returns to the ideas embedded in magic: stronger medicines produce greater outcomes. And this understanding has spurred the relationship between miners and waganga as both parties seek profit: “Secret recourse to magic gives a miner a hoped-for advantage over fellow miners. Agreeing to [waganga’s] offer of an exceptionally powerful charm, an albino body part, is necessarily a secretive undertaking . . . Miners endeavour to enhance their wealth, while waganga and their accomplice assassins seek immediate profit at the high end of the market.” (Bryceson 2010)    58                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  The specific use of albino fetishes varies, but some miners are known to place them in the ground when digging for gold or diamonds, and fishermen are known to weave albino hair into their nets to ensure a good catch (Gilgoff 2013). This interplay marks waganga as the medium through which success can be found, bolstering their status while simultaneously reducing that of albinos to mere objects. The miners, in seeking advantage over one another, have helped create a fetish proportionate to their avarice. The result is the tragic devaluation of human life in the quest for cash and status. This dismissal of albinos as nothing more than valuable body parts reflects the increase in capitalist competition in East Africa. The recency of the fetish and its association with magic is a means to address the challenges of the times: It is a way of looking ahead and of keeping pace with the rapid changes of development. In this manner, “witchcraft has to some extent replaced the role of ancestors and is perceived as a way of being modern” (Oestigaard 2015). The individualism that evolved with economic opportunity created the need to secure personal advantages. Rather than appeal to ancestors unfamiliar with modern problems, modern solutions followed the guidelines of magical thinking that required the use of charms to galvanize a fortune. As labor shifted from traditional agricultural pursuits to the fast-cash of artisanal mines, those seeking magical intervention looked for more powerful, more reliable waganga to help them procure wealth. Just as miners look for advantage over one another in the mines, “the waganga compete with one another to attract customers, and somewhere along the way the albino fetish was creatively devised” (Bryceson 2010). One of the more offensive terms for albinos is the word dili (deal), which refers to the commercial value of a dismembered albino and highlights the real threats faced by albinos when encountering strangers (Brocco 2015). Although these attitudes may reflect the distressful socioeconomic realities faced by many in East Africa, where fear of AIDS and hopes for success may push people to resort to magic when all else fails, the transition to human sacrifice extends beyond the traditional use of magic and witchcraft to meet basic needs. Josephat Torner, an albino and activist who lives and works in Tanzania, describes the ideology of these attacks: “People with albinism are being killed because of superstition. If you get the body parts of an albino, you’ll become rich. So people started to hunt us like we are animals. People started to chop us because they want to become rich.” (VICE News 2015) No evidence of an albino fetish exists prior to the twenty-first century (although historical records indicate the use of human parts in East African rituals (Bryceson 2010)), and so these acts seem to reflect a recent shift in both social and moral attitudes. With individual consumerism promoted by capitalist competition, success and survival depend on strategies that reward self-interest, creating a culture where personal and financial security are obtained in spite of greater consequences which might harm others: in the desperation of a free market’s poverty, anything can become a commodity – including albino body parts. Although there have been enduring superstitions surrounding albinism, the sudden rise of these killings seems to have come out of nowhere and may be the result of marketing by waganga to buoy themselves during the recent ¬economic crisis (Red Cross 2009). The fetish is thus part of a materiality of power crafted for the modern world to keep pace with changing economic paradigms and maintain traditional authority structures. Despite evidence pointing exclusively towards people like miners, fishermen and waganga, the enormous sums of money (up to $75,000 US) imply the involvement of more prominent individuals. A Tanzanian journalist who has investigated the killings of albinos said, “If a politician needs to win an election, they will consult a witch doctor, but then politicians will blame the fishermen [for murdered albinos]. They are the scapegoats" (Gilgoff 2013). However, regardless of the hierarchy behind these killings, one of the motivating factors encouraging this practice is market demand: “If public opinion holds that there are magic medicines of great power as they contain human body parts in powdered form, then this is a social fact against which it is hard to go or indeed to disbelieve” (Tanner 2009). Essentially, because enough people seek the fetish, the killings continue. Whether the charms have any genuine value is unimportant. What matters is   59                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  that people believe in the power of the charms and that, for them, evidence is found in those who claim to “have used such medicines beneficially in the past or known of their successful use and who see in such killings opportunities for economic profit and enhanced status apart from individual betterment” (Tanner 2010).  This pursuit of profit and status has played on the cultural identity of those individuals associated with traditional authority. Prior to the market liberalisation policies that emerged in Tanzania after the economic crisis of the 1970s and ‘80s, this authority resided with traditional healers and diviners, where people depended on the arrival of life-giving rains and on waganga’s ability to communicate with ancestors and with other invisible forces to assure success with the land (Oestigaard 2015). In the past, as such communities were largely kin-based, a waganga’s power lay in these intersections between kin, clan and ethnic loyalties. But the allure of the mines attracted people from all over, creating an influx of migrant workers brought about through the arrival of mining companies into areas of East Africa, upsetting the traditional social balance of these agro-pastoralist communities. Without a shared sense of identity, the traditional structure of egalitarian consumption gave way to an individualistic attitude (Bryceson 2010). Mining, with its ability to create financial success beyond the capacities of traditional farming, suddenly upended the need of spiritual mitigation to ensure success. This shift, therefore, pushed the waganga to impress their worth, and the albino fetish became a means for them to retain authority:  “Waganga facilitated social rule enforcement . . . generating awareness, respect, awe and fear in the regulatory powers of the spirit world that they mediated. But this power base has now been seriously eroded as Tanzanian agriculture has declined and mining has surged. The albino fetish has unobtrusively become a means to redress the local power imbalance through trade in a fetishised commodity vested with value reflecting the convergence of interests of the old and new order.” (Bryceson 2010) The charms of dead albino parts are an invention created to withhold this transfer of power away from the traditional order. The fetish has been crafted as a means for waganga to remain relevant in a rapidly changing world. Through these actions, waganga have become an essential component to mining operations, at least as far as the miners themselves are concerned. By seeking the aid of waganga, miners are recognizing the authority of these traditional healers, thereby restoring a sense of order while continuing to pursue wealth over the well-being of community. And although the sudden wealth of the miners is resented by many rural dwellers (Bryceson 2010), their cooperation with waganga serves to maintain some aspect of a traditional social balance. Unfortunately, this relationship is linked to the attacks on albinos, and many of them have now lost their freedom of movement out of fear of being hunted (Red Cross 2009). The reasons for targeting albinos can be linked with their longstanding mistreatment by communities in East Africa, following patterns of discrimination and ignorance that have devalued their personhood. One of the more telling is the rumoured practice of ‘mercy killing’ albino infants, “linked to the anticipation of their perceived vulnerability and inability to pull their weight in the local farming efforts” (Bryceson 2010). The mercy, therefore, is removing the burden from the family. This dismissal of albinos as incompetent has many effects for those who survive infancy. Due to high sun exposure, it is dangerous for albinos (who lack protective melanin) to labor in the fields of Africa. Unfortunately, lack of information, health education and medical care have left many albinos without options. They often struggle in school because of poor vision (due to the lack of melanin), and without education they are resigned to manual labor. This, of course, leads to high rates of skin cancer. But as one informant described it, “If you don’t go in the sun, you don’t eat” (Red Cross 2009). This situation leaves albinos damned in both directions: either they go into the fields and risk skin cancer; or they stay inside and validate the disdain of their community based on their inability to perform certain tasks.  Much of the social discourse surrounding albinos relates to their devaluation as people. In Tanzania, one of the popular terms for an albino is zeruzeru, a word “believed by some to derive from the English word zero and by others as an archaic term for ghost-like   60                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  creatures” (Bryceson 2010). However, a more sinister interpretation of zeruzeru has its roots in the cultural understanding of albinos to disappear, “a euphemism for being hidden or killed by family members” (Brocco 2015). These kinds of derogatory terms reflect the attitudes of communities and perpetuate misconceptions about albinism, furthering the exclusion and marginalization of albinos simply because of their physical features.  Disdain for albinos, along with the surrounding superstitious beliefs and discourse, has allowed their humanity to be overlooked. The irony of the fetish creation is that it has simultaneously dehumanised and deified albinos (Bryceson 2010). Josephat Torner expressed his dismay during an interview: “People believe that if you are an albino, you are a magical person – so if it's that way, why are they killing us?” (Gilgoff 2013). At first, it seems logical that if a dead albino is lucky, then a living albino must be extremely lucky. But the roots of magical practice run counter to this idea. For practitioners, “the use of body parts in medicines is based on the assumption that it is possible to appropriate another person’s life-force literally through the consumption of that person” (Oestigaard 2015). And this is the tragedy faced by albinos: they are immensely valuable, but they are only valuable once they are dead. What these discriminations have inadvertently done is force many albino people in East Africa to seek greater self-identity and understanding for themselves. One of these approaches has been to “try to explain and conceptualize their own physical condition by identifying themselves as disabled and by adopting institutional terminology generated by western media campaigns and debates on their behalf” (Brocco 2015). Through campaigns by advocacy groups, such as Under the Same Sun, along with the greater flow of information and access to the internet, the biomedical knowledge of albinism has empowered individuals previously dismissed as zeruzeru. Even though the terminology of ‘disabled’ allows people with albinism to communicate about their condition in a context beyond superstition, what is even more promising is the approach to rightfully view themselves as nothing less than normal human beings. Deolinda Kanyane, a young girl with albinism who lives in Pretoria, describes the condition as such: “Albinism is not a curse, it’s not luck. It can happen to anyone. And albinism is not a disability. If you have albinism that does not mean you are disabled” (RUTV Journalism Rhodes University 2013).  Albinos in East Africa have had to face horrific challenges resulting from misuse of magic, social discrimination and the upending of traditional authority by new sources of wealth. Yet, it is important to understand that these atrocities are not perpetrated by all waganga or all miners or all fishermen. They are not confined to any single country (Winchester 2014), nor can they be dismissed as just being “primitive” beliefs. The majority disapprove of these acts of violence, and Chief Charles Kafipa of Bukumbi chiefdom has stated things succinctly: “Killing people for medicine is murder and has no ritual effects, and such killings are seen by all as truly horrible” (Oestigaard 2015). The perceptions of albinos have begun to change and will continue to change in a more positive direction. This development is based on biomedical knowledge that strives towards greater inclusion of albinos within their countries and their communities. Although former president of Tanzania, Jakaya Kikwete, denounced these killings while in office and established refuge centers to protect people with albinism (Brocco 2015), this response of isolating albinos from the rest of the population, while necessary for the short-term, is not sustainable.  The albino fetish is a modern construction linked to tradition only through basic concepts of magic and has gained popularity through a tandem of socioeconomic forces and superstitious beliefs. Following the economic crisis of the 1970s and 80s, structural adjustment policies opened the market for greater foreign investment, setting the stage where the sudden influx of migrant workers shifted the power dynamics away from traditional sources of authority. Cash became the new symbol of power. Cuts to agricultural subsidies pressured farming families to diversify, leading many to turn to artisanal mining. For those communities rooted in agro-pastoral traditions, the bonds of kin and clan were supplanted by the individualism of the market economy. As miners and   61                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                  fishermen sought personal wealth, waganga sought opportunities to maintain their relevance and these changes in social and moral attitudes helped create the commodification of albino body parts. Although the decision to target people with albinism has no real logic, cultural discourse and superstition had already worked to dehumanize albinos as zeruzeru. Facing these challenges, governments and NGOs have begun implementing protection programs for those with albinism, along with community education programs that strive to overwrite superstitious beliefs with biomedical knowledge. Albinos, too, are rising up to protect their freedom and announce their rights as human beings. But although the growth of awareness has helped bring support for those people with albinism, the tragedy of these killings continues to this day.  Works Cited Bowen, John R. 2016. Religions in Practice: An Approach to the Anthropology of Religion.  Routledge 6th ed. Brocco, Giorgio. 2015. “Labeling Albinism: Language and Discourse Surrounding People with  Albinism in Tanzania.” Disability & Society 30(8): 1143-1157. Bryceson, Deborah Fahy, Jesper Bosse Jønsson, and Richard Sherrington. 2010. “Miners' Magic:  Artisanal Mining, the Albino Fetish and Murder in Tanzania.” The Journal of Modern  African Studies 48(3): 353-382. Bryceson, Deborah Fahy, Jesper Bosse Jønsson. 2010. “Gold Digging Careers in Rural East  Africa: Small-Scale Miners’ Livelihood Choices.” World Development 38(3): 379-392. Gilgoff, Dan. 2013 “As Tanzania's Albino Killings Continue, Unanswered Questions Raise Fears.”  National Geographic. URL: http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2013/10/131011- albino-killings-witch-doctors-tanzania-superstition/ Under the Same Sun. 2018. “Human Rights Abuse and Attacks.” URL:  https://www.underthesamesun.com/content/issue#human-rights-abuse-and-attacks Masanja, Methusela Mishael. 2015. “‘Albinos’ Plight: Will Legal Methods be Powerful Enough to  Eradicate Albinos’ Scourge?” International Journal of Education and Research 3(5): 231- 244. Oestigaard, Terje. 2018. “Witchcraft, witch killings and Christianity: The Works of Religion and  Parallel Cosmologies in Tanzania.” Looking back, looking ahead: 182-199. Red Cross. 2009. “Through Albino Eyes: The Plight of Albino People in Africa’s Great Lakes  Region.” Global Publications. URL: www.ifrc.org/Global/Publications/general/177800- Albinos-Report-EN.pdf RUTV Journalism Rhodes University. 2013. “Xakhubasa: The White Pride.” YouTube. YouTube,  15 Oct 2013. Tanner, Ralph. 2010. “Ideology and the Killing of Albinos in Tanzania: A Study in Cultural  Relativities.” Anthropologist 12(4): 229-236. United Nations Human Rights Council. 2013. “Persons with Albinism” Report of the Office of the  United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights. URL:  www.ohchr.org/EN/HRBodies/HRC/RegularSessions/.../A_HRC_24_57_ENG.doc Vavrus, Frances. 2005. "Adjusting Inequality: Education and Structural Adjustment Policies in  Tanzania." Harvard Educational Review 75(2): 174-201. VICE News. 2015. “Albino Activism in Tanzania: VICE News Meets Josephat Torner.” YouTube,  17 Feb 2015. Web. 14 March 2017. Winchester, Maddie. 2014. “The Right to Be White: Fighting the Persecution of Albinos in  Tanzania.” The Expositor: 62-78.   62                                                                                                      The Ethnograph (2018)                                                                                                                                   

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