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In conflict-ridden communities, justice specialists gather evidence through verbal accounts and material vestiges of violations committed by repressive regimes and during warfare, to eventually lay legal charges against alleged perpetrators. Anthropologists and sociologists engage with similar contexts but have included conventional bodily rituals, routinized practices, and commemoration practices as sources of knowledge of violent pasts and struggles for historical justice, although without the intention of determining legal accountability. This article shifts from the prevailing focus on repressive regimes and warfare to analyze the famine continuum and expands the procedures for gathering evidence of violations. It shows how, in one Mozambique community, a contingent combination of singular bodily actions, collective imagination and negotiations, and kinship norms evolved and became instrumental in two ways: contested fragments of evidence of violations perpetrated during the experiences of the 1980s famine were refined, and local struggles for accountability conveyed through bodily actions were sustained. The ensuing embodied accountability reshaped relationships by overcoming silence and denial, exposing ordinary perpetrators of violations, and cementing memories of guilt in the landscape. To capture the diversity of legacies of violations marred by fragile evidence, we must be attentive to the versatility of singular bodily actions. We need to consider the multiplicity of meanings, contexts, and perpetrators and how those in conflict zones struggle with embodied accountability.
At a crucial meeting during their proceedings, on 9 November 1983, the sixteen members of Britain's influential Warnock Inquiry into Human Fertilisation and Embryology reached a key decision on how to base proposals for comprehensive legislation governing this largely uncharted territory. Famously, they chose the formation of the “primitive streak” in the early embryo as the basis for the fourteen-day rule that has now served as the global benchmark for experimental research in this area for nearly thirty years. Based on newly available archival material and interviews, this article offers a sociological account of the ways in which a specific translation of biological facts became the basis for an enduring social contract governing controversial bioinnovation in the UK. In particular, the combined roles of Committee Chair Mary Warnock and biologist Anne McLaren are examined in terms of how a decision, or “iterative settlement,” was reached as to “where to draw the line” using specific “developmental landmarks” to establish a basis for legal regulation. Drawing from this analysis, I offer a broader argument concerning the sociology of biological translation and biogovernance that is germane to ongoing debates such that over how to limit CRISPR-Cas 9 gene editing. I contend also that we have yet to fully grasp the historical and sociological lessons to be drawn from the early histories of establishing governance over new forms of technological assistance to human reproduction, and in particular the formation of the “Warnock Consensus.”
This article seeks a deeper understanding of inheritance by examining how kinship and personhood propel, and are altered by, schooling. It foregrounds kinship's and personhood's transformative and historical dimensions with an eye to their complexity and unevenness. The post-1945 generation in the central Philippines considers schooling (edukasyon) as their inheritance from their parents, who had few or no educational credentials themselves. This view reflects edukasyon’s increased value after the war, how people both judge and emulate the old landed elite, and the ongoing salience and elaboration of hierarchical parent-child ties. Alongside this view, children are recognized as completing, redeeming, and compensating for their parents. Attainment of edukasyon is seen to require not only personal striving but also solidarity and sacrifices among siblings. Yet, edukasyon also fosters autonomy and at times severs kinship ties. Finally, as an inheritance, edukasyon both depends upon and generates inequality, with long-term intergenerational implications.
This essay examines relations between eastern Africa and western India in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries in respect to two related sets of problems: the changing regimes of commercial circulation, and more particularly the evolution of patterns of human movement, notably via the slave trade from Ethiopia and the Swahili coast to Gujarat and the Deccan. It argues that over the course of the sixteenth century, commercial relations between Deccan ports such as Goa and Chaul, and the Swahili coast, came to be strengthened through the intervention of the Portuguese and their military-commercial system. At the same time, large numbers of African slaves reached the Muslim states in India, especially in the period after 1530, where they played a significant role as military specialists, and eventually as elite political and cultural actors. The shifting geographical dimensions of the African presence in India are emphasized, beginning in western Gujarat and winding up in the Deccan Sultanates. This contrasts markedly with the African experience elsewhere, where the meaning and institutional context of slavery were quite different.
The Jewish communities of the Iberian Peninsula had an origin story that placed their arrival in the peninsula after the destruction of the first temple in Jerusalem by the Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar II in 587 BCE. Actual archaeological evidence (mostly tombstones), however, only testifies to their presence in the Iberian Peninsula during the Roman Empire and it is more likely that Jewish communities gradually established themselves in the Roman province of Hispania as the exiled Jewish diaspora spread across the Mediterranean following the destruction of the Second Temple by the Romans in 70 CE. Although they were persecuted during the post-Roman period in which the Christian Visigothic kings ruled the peninsula, the Jewish communities flourished economically and culturally in the wake of the Muslim invasion in 711 and Islamic takeover of most of the Iberian Peninsula. When the Muslim Umayyad caliphate of Cordoba collapsed in 1031, the various Christian kingdoms of the north (Portugal, Castile–León, Navarre and the Crown of Aragón) slowly began to expand southwards and increasing numbers of Jews came under Christian rule.
Until the end of the fourteenth century, Jews, Christians, and Muslims living in the various Christian kingdoms of the Iberian Peninsula coexisted in their daily lives—what historians have described as convivencia—although interfaith tensions always existed. The Jews who came under Christian rule were granted the same status as Jewish communities elsewhere in Christian Europe and their inferior status (relative to the dominant Christians) was enshrined in laws that threatened fierce punishments for Jews (and Muslims) whose actions threatened the religious status quo. Nonetheless, the frontier conditions in the Iberian Peninsula continued to create favourable economic conditions for Jews as Christian rulers, short of resources and manpower in their newly conquered lands, were keen to protect their Jewish subjects and to offer them inducements to remain under their authority.
In comparison with the Jewish communities of other areas of Europe, the size of the Jewish population in the Iberian Peninsula appears to have been large. Although the available evidence is scant, it is sufficient to allow historians to confi-dently guestimate that there were around a quarter million Jews in Castile alone in the fourteenth century, a number that may well have approached three hundred thousand if Portugal and the lands of the Crown of Aragón are included.
The previous chapter has examined developments in how medieval Christian theologians perceived Judaism and the Jews. This chapter departs from the discourses of theologians on the status of Jews to focus on the evolving perception of the Jews in medieval Christian society more generally. The Christian notion of a relationship between the Jews and the Devil and of a perpetual curse afflicting Jews and distinguishing them from Gentiles has its origins firmly in the New Testament, namely Matthew 27:24–25 (“His blood is on us and on our children”) and John 8:44 (“You belong to your father, the devil”). The medieval period witnessed what Joshua Trachtenberg accurately described in 1943 as a normalization of the representation of the Jew as an “alien, evil, antisocial, and anti-human creature, essentially subhuman,” a demonic Jew who “was born of a combination of cultural and historical factors peculiar to Christian Europe in the later Middle Ages.”
The rise of an anti-Jewish discourse that demonized Jews in western Christendom occurred gradually and at the same time as Jewish communities were expanding not just in terms of their demographic and geographical distribution but also in terms of their economic significance. Jewish merchants and their families seeking economic opportunities migrated northwards from the Mediterranean area and established themselves across France, Germany, and (after the Norman Conquest in 1066) England. The expanding economy and urban centres of medieval western Europe as well as the Church's prohibition on Christians lending money at interest encouraged Jewish migration and involvement in moneylending and tax farming. It also encouraged Christians to perceive usury and Jewish economic activity as synonymous, entrenching an image of Jews in Christian eyes as parasitical and rapacious moneylenders.
This chapter assesses the way in which Jews were dehumanized and demonized in medieval Europe. It departs from the theological discussions in the treatises and polemics of the previous chapter to focus on what could be described as “popular” anti-Jewish beliefs, prejudices, and stereotypes in the medieval period. The use of the term “popular” is employed to denote various ideas and concepts about Jews that were not officially endorsed by the medieval papacy but which were expressed in popular folklore, medieval iconography, or the writings of some churchmen.
Historical anachronism—the utilization or application by historians of concepts or key terms that did not exist in the period that they are studying—has long been held to constitute one of the cardinal sins that historians can commit. Accusations of historical anachronism have generated many debates amongst historians and the appropriateness of using the term “antisemitism” to refer to anti-Jewish rhetoric and sentiment expressed in the western world prior to the nineteenth century, and especially in the medieval period, is a salient example. Furthermore, the debate has been complicated considerably by the fact that there is no consensus about the definition of the term “antisemitism” itself or even whether the term should be spelled “antisemitism” or “anti-Semitism.” Whilst “antisemitism” is commonly used as a generic shorthand for a hatred of Jews, such a definition is far too general to be used uncritically by historians seeking to examine the complexities of pre-modern Christian–Jew-ish relations. This chapter sets out to examine the different ways in which historians have used the term “antisemitism” in a medieval context since the late nineteenth century. The existing literature on the history of “antisemitism” and Christian–Jewish relations is vast and this chapter will present only a concise analysis of the heated controversies generated by the use of the term “antisemitism.” As the concept of “race” is considered to be vital to any definition of “antisemitism,” it then endeavours to survey the different perspectives of scholars (both historians and non-historians) on the existence of “race” in Europe during the Middle Ages.
It has been repeatedly and rightly pointed out that the term itself was apparently first used by the German journalist Wilhelm Marr (1819–1904), who founded the League of Antisemites (Antisemiten-Liga) in 1879, and it became popularized by Marr and others in the 1880s. Moreover, for many historians of antisemitism, the concept carries a clear racial component. Marr and other antisemites defined Jews collectively by their supposedly shared ethnicity and “racial identity” as “Semites” rather than their adherence to the religion of Judaism in order to distinguish them from “Aryans.”
It was noted in the first chapter of this book that many modern historians have described the use of the term “antisemitism” before the nineteenth century as an anachronism. These historians have argued that the history of anti-Jewish rhetoric should instead be divided into a “religious” pre-modern period and a “racial” modern period. In many respects, however, this is even more of a historical anachronism. Moreover, it is a dangerous anachronism since it has been conveniently used by modern Catholic and Protestant theologians and apologists to diminish or even negate the responsibility of their churches in the horrors of the twentieth-century holocaust.
The developments in anti-Jewish thought and rhetoric in the medieval period were, from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries onward, complex and cannot be labelled as merely amounting to an “anti-Judaism” based on a hostility to Judaism as a rival religious movement. Likewise, the concentra-tion on race as the defining feature of modern antisemitism oversimplifies its multifaceted nature. Modern antisemitism has been, and continues to be, characterized by a range of beliefs that go beyond the obsession with defining Jews as a distinct race. These are (i) the fixation on a secret Jewish conspiracy to take political and economic control of the world by subverting Christian society; (ii) the belief that modern Jews follow a form of Judaism that has been perverted by the Talmud and which incites them to undermine Christian society and attack Gentiles in general and Christians in particular; and (iii) the equation of Judaism and Jewish ethnicity.
Whilst the medieval papacy was more-or-less consistent in espousing the Augustinian position of a grudging toleration of the Jews as a “witness people,” it is important to note that its position was not always followed by many Christians, including many men of the Church. By the end of the medieval period, circa 1500, the notion that the Jews were intrinsically inclined to evil and the conflation of Judaism and Jewish ethnicity had become common across Europe. In a short pamphlet detailing a host desecration allegation printed in 1510, the German printer Hieronymus Höltzel, for example, asserted that a Jew attacking a consecrated host was acting out a “hate” and “envy” that was “congenital” (angeboren) among Jews.
In the first three centuries after the crucifixion of Christ, the relationship of the early church with Jews was dominated by anxieties about the identity of Christianity as a separate religious movement whose faithful included Gentiles as well as Jews. The debate between the Apostles Paul and Peter over circumcision and the decision to abandon compulsory circumcision “in the flesh” (the Old Covenant) did not abate worries that Jews would influence early Christians to “judaize.” This chapter, however, focuses on the perception of the Jew in Christian thought after Christianity became the dominant religious movement in the Mediterranean Basin and Western Europe. Its focus is on thinkers in Western (Roman Catholic) Christendom from the fifth century to the close of the fifteenth century.
What status should Jews, who refuse to accept Christ's Messiahship, have in a majority Christian society? This question exercised the minds and drained the inkwells of numerous Christian theologians throughout the medieval period. As it will become clear in this chapter, the work of St. Augustine in the early fifth century helped to establish a theological framework for a form of grudging religious pluralism in which Jews had a place in Christian society. The Augustinian concept of the Jews as a “witness people” to be tolerated proved to be enduring and became the guiding policy of the papacy. From the twelfth and thirteenth centuries onward, however, many theologians were influenced by the works of Jewish converts to Christianity and their “revelations” about the Talmud and rabbinical Judaism. The result was a distinct hardening of attitudes towards Jews and, in some cases, a renewed questioning of their status in Christian society. Just as significantly, the rise of a polemical Christian tradition that focused on the Talmud was to have very serious consequences for Christian–Jewish relations in the modern era.
St. Augustine's “Witness People”
The first Christian theologian to formulate a clear status for Jews in a majority Christian society was the prolific theolo-gian St. Augustine, bishop of Hippo in North Africa (354–430). To understand Augustine's doctrine regarding the Jews, it is important to remember the historical context in which the bishop was writing.
In October 2012, I was invited to give a research seminar paper on anti-Jewish propaganda produced in the late medieval and early modern Iberian world at an Australian university. The title of the paper included the term “antisemitic propaganda” and the terms “antisemitic” and “antisemitism” were used a few times during the paper. In the question and answer session that followed the paper, several academics in the audience—historians of twentieth-century Europe—vigorously questioned the appropriateness of using the concept of “antisemitism” in a pre-modern context. I was forcefully reminded that antisemitism is a “racial hatred of Jews,” linked to the rise of “scientific racism” in the nineteenth century. Therefore, whilst “modern” hatred of Jews is racial, pre-modern hatred of Jews was distinguished and defined by its purely religious character. It was the height of absurdity, a terrible anachronism even, for a historian to use the concept of “antisemitism” in a medieval or early modern context.
Such a reaction will not come as a surprise to historians who have worked on the subject of anti-Jewish sentiment and propaganda in medieval Christian Europe. “Antisemitism” is certainly a nineteenth-century term that defies any facile attempt to define it. Kenneth L. Marcus has articulated the crux of the problem:
To open up the question of the definition of anti-Semitism is to encounter one puzzle after another, each opening into the next like a set of Russian nesting dolls. To begin with, are we defining an attitude, a form of conduct, or an ideology or pathology?
In a twenty-first-century context, “antisemitism” has been used to define, alternatively, a refusal to recognize the legitimacy of the existence of a Jewish homeland (the State of Israel), criticism of Zionism as an ideology and movement, or indeed sometimes even criticism of Israeli government policies in Gaza and the West Bank. Some writers have even argued that these now constitute a “new” form of “antisemitism,” adding another layer of complexity to the problem of defining “antisemitism.” Even if it is reduced to its vaguest (and most imperfect) definition as “a hatred of Jews,” the use of “antisemitism” is problematic. Does it merely mean a hatred of Jews defined as a specific racial/ethnic group?
Eighteenth-century Britain is often understood as a time of commercial success, economic growth, and improving living standards. Yet during this period, tens of thousands of men and women were imprisoned for failing to pay their debts. The Poverty of Disaster tells their stories, focusing on the experiences of the middle classes who enjoyed opportunities for success on one hand, but who also faced the prospect of downward social mobility. Tawny Paul examines the role that debt insecurity played within society and the fragility of the credit relations that underpinned commercial activity, livelihood, and social status. She demonstrates how, for the middle classes, insecurity took economic, social, and embodied forms. It shaped the work that people did, their social status, their sense of self, their bodily autonomy, and their relationships with others. In an era of growing debt and the squeeze of the middle class, The Poverty of Disaster offers a new history of capitalism and takes a long view of the financial insecurities that plague our own uncertain times.
In the spring of 1797, when French invasion appeared likely, the Spithead and Nore mutinies successively immobilized the two Royal Navy fleets responsible for home defence. The Spithead mutineers gained more pay and greater food rations for all Royal Navy sailors, and a general pardon for themselves. The Nore mutiny ended in collapse, courts martial, and the execution of approximately twenty-eight prominent mutineers. In their scale and potential danger, these fleet mutinies rank among the most serious manifestations of collective resistance in eighteenth-century Britain. In complexity, they far exceeded single-ship mutinies like the Bounty or Hermione. The mutineers deliberately subverted symbols of the legitimate rule of officers and deployed them in support of their own rival regime. “Counter-theatre” allowed the mutineer leaders to perpetuate their rule with minimal recourse to coercion by combining familiar symbols of naval order, new mutineer power structures, and sailors’ traditions of resistance. As such, the mutinies speak to wider literatures: to histories of the age of revolutions, to the revolutionary Atlantic, and to histories of popular protest and resistance.