In March 1998, the political leadership of the Arab-Palestinian citizens of Israel was looking for ways to commemorate al-Nakba (“The Disaster,” in Arabic), referring to the war of 1948, during which about 700,000 Palestinians were uprooted and hundreds of Palestinian villages were destroyed. This leadership, organized in the Follow-Up Committee (FUC), nominated a Nakba and Steadfastness Committee (NSC) chaired by the author Muhamad Ali Taha. Among the Committee's several initiatives, one gained front-page headlines in the Arabic media: a call for Arab municipalities to establish memorial monuments for the Palestinian martyrs (shuhada) of 1948.

On 20 July 2006, eight days into an Israeli air assault on Lebanon, Israeli shells hit the Khiam detention center, the notorious site where Lebanese resistance fighters and civilians had been imprisoned and tortured during the twenty-two-year (1978–2000) Israeli occupation of south Lebanon. A news article describing the destruction of the center was subtitled, “After being remade in recent years into a monument to political atrocity, the jail at Khiam now lies destroyed by Israeli strikes,” and noted, “Fragments of walls, concrete held erect by stubborn rebar, point mute to the sky” (Quilty 2006).

On 11 December 1912, Philadelphians encountered an extraordinary sight in their city's streets. Groups of prominent society women—“famous beauties and matrons … known all over the continent”—were selling eggs all over town. These eggs differed from those we buy today in that most had been in storage since April. Housewives nonetheless flocked to buy them, because they cost only 24 cents a dozen, much less than other April eggs. The sellers, themselves members of the Housekeepers' League, claimed they would not make money off the “hen fruit” that they had bought by the carload, but neither would they lose it. Rather, they aimed to break a commercial corner on eggs that, they claimed, fostered unfair and deceptive trade practices. In particular, they wanted to stop merchants from charging “strictly fresh” prices for what were in fact refrigerated eggs.

This essay probes the role of commodities in the crafting of state power, working from the vantage point of contemporary Ghana, a polity at once post-socialist and staunchly neoliberal, least-industrialized and highly cosmopolitan. Among the many commodities which Ghana's citizens and state bodies identify with and rely upon, cars are of critical significance. In what follows, I explore the raft of interventions surrounding car importation and allocation imposed by Ghana's Customs Service, and the resulting public critique, in an effort to capture the shifting contours of state authority in the context of an electoral and economic transition spurred by neoliberal reform.

When I first started fieldwork in Wannian, a village in southwestern Taiwan, I stayed in the village leader's house. At this early stage of the fieldwork, my relationship with the villagers was no more than polite and formal. One afternoon, I heard villagers talking in low and urgent voices about their temple's god statue. When I approached, they fell silent. No matter how I tried to question them about what had happened, they would tell me nothing. In the following days the village atmosphere became ponderous and oppressive, and I felt my presence there becoming increasingly awkward. Thinking that leaving for a while might provide a relief for both the villagers and me, I moved to a neighboring village. Since it was only one kilometer away, the wind brought the sound of the Wannian village loudspeaker. Though they had lowered the volume, I could vaguely hear announcements of preparations for upcoming ceremonies of worship. After a month, I moved back to Wannian, but only several years later did I understand what had happened.

In 1929, French colonial officials in Mauritania began monitoring a young man named Yacouba Sylla, the leader of a religious revival in the town of Kaédi. A Sufi teacher (shaykh), Yacouba Sylla had incurred the hostility of local administrators and the disdain of Kaédi's elite for preaching radical reforms of social and religious practice and for claiming authority out of proportion to his age and his rather minimal formal education. He claimed to derive his authority instead from a controversial shaykh named Ahmed Hamallah, then in exile from his home in Nioro, French Soudan (now Mali).

In this paper I examine the economic and political factors that undermined the social class structure in an ethnic community—the Jews of Russia and eastern Europe at the end of the nineteenth century. Compared with the documented rise and articulation of working classes in non-Jewish society in that region, Jews were caught in an opposite process, largely owing to discriminatory state policies and social pressures: Among Jews, artisans and petty merchants were increasingly reduced to a single, caste-like status. A Jewish middle class of significant size did not emerge from the petty trade sector and no significant industrial working class emerged from the crafts sector. Historians have largely overlooked the significance of these facts, in part because they have viewed this east European situation as a mere preamble to more sophisticated, modern class formation processes among immigrant Jews in Western societies, particularly in light of the long-term middle-class trajectory of their children. Those historians interested in labor history have mainly shown interest in such continuity as they could infer from the self-narratives of the Jewish labor movement, and have thus overstated the case for a long-standing Jewish “proletarian” tradition. In reassessing the historical record, I wish to put the Jewish social and economic situation in eastern Europe into better perspective by looking at the overall social and economic situation, rather than at incipient worker organizations alone. I also query whether a developing class culture, along the lines suggested by E. P. Thompson, was at all in evidence before Jewish mass emigration. This paper is thus a contribution to the history of labor—rather than organized labor—as well as a discussion of the roots of ethnic economic identity.

Jewish cosmopolitanism has long assumed a central place in the ideology of anti-Semitism. Well before the publication of “The Protocols of the Elders of Zion,” the idea of international Jewish solidarity served as an argument against Jewish emancipation. In Britain, Sir Robert Inglis famously opposed granting the Jews political rights because “[t]he Jews of London have more sympathy with the Jews resident in Berlin or Vienna than with the Christians among whom they reside.” Likewise, in 1840, the ultramontane Univers saw international lobbying on behalf of Jews accused of ritual murder in Damascus as proof that “the Hebrew nationality is not dead … What religious connection is there between the Talmudists of Alsace, Cologne or the East, and the Messrs. Rothschild and Crémieux?” That L'Univers saw this cosmopolitan fellow-feeling as an expression of Jewish national identity is irrelevant. The point is rather that for anti-Semites Jewish ‘nationalism’ was an inherently international force.

In Society Must Be Defended, Michel Foucault characterizes the permanent, conflictual relationship that exists “between the two groups that constitute the social body and shape the State [as] in fact one of … permanent warfare” (2003: 88). Foucault argues that acknowledging that “race wars” constitute the substructure of the state enables a new conception of power, one that is simultaneously implicated in knowledge regarding the source of that power: re-conceptualizing the bases of power also demands a shift in knowledge practices. This problem (of power/knowledge) was administrative/managerial from the start: it constituted the conditions of possibility for the exercise of sovereign power, and was itself sovereign-like. “The administration allows the king to rule the country at will, and subject to no restrictions. And conversely, the administration rules the king thanks to the quality and nature of the knowledge it forces upon him” (ibid.: 128–29). Foucault asserts that historical knowledge is produced at precisely this juncture, as a form of counter-knowledge that is the outgrowth of a race war or class war, in which the nobility seek to defend society—their society—from new challengers, “the people,” for example, as well as from the sovereign himself. Thus, modern history germinated as a form of knowledge against absolutist sovereign power, but it was grafted onto the edifice of the state to buttress the sovereign's threatened legitimacy. Thus, “From 1760 onward we see the emergence of institutions that were roughly the equivalent of a ministry of history” (2003: 130 ff).

In Hagen's Community in the Balance, one finds both a fine and deeply empathetic ethnography of a marginal hill-people in Eastern Indonesia and a subtle meditation on the fragility of this, and indeed any, human community.

Appadurai's Fear of Small Numbers is an important contribution to the study of one of the most harmful aspects of modernity, violence against minorities. Although anthropology—a discipline prolific on the topics of ethnicity, nationalism, and religious identity, as well as modernity—is well situated to offer insight into this problem, few anthropologists have addressed it in general terms. We can thus view Appadurai's monograph as the beginning of an important conversation, and like many seminal works, his contains both monumental insights and notable missteps.

Anthropologist Veena Das here revisits two critical events in Indian history: the Partition riots of 1947, and the violence against Sikhs following the 1984 assassination of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi. Though Das has grappled with complex (and sometimes tortured) analyses of these same events in previous works, Life and Words represents an important departure from her more narrowly ethnographic essays. She readjusts her focus toward a theoretical/philosophical interrogation of the “ordinary” in an effort to complicate existing temporal and epistemological assumptions that have characterized studies of violence in India. The book is a two-part study: It first examines the way in which extraordinary violence (in this case that of Partition) gets “folded” into the everyday lives of those who have survived catastrophe. Second, she turns to how the violence of everyday life provides the necessary conditions for “eventful” eruptions of collective violence (in this case that against Sikhs in 1984). In blurring the boundaries between the ordinary and the eventful, Das is able to gain significant insights into the interface between the individual and the collective, the local and the supralocal, and the historical and the anthropological.

The politics of nature are at play in forests and nations, as well as within contested memories and variably shaded skin. By tracing the connections between these realms, we can learn how difference becomes racialized in cultural politics. This is Jake Kosek's argument in Understories, an ethnography of the virulent struggles that have raged over the use and control of forests in northern New Mexico. Aligning himself primarily with a Hispano community in Truchas, New Mexico, while also reaching out to local forestry officials and environmentalists, Kosek conducted ethnographic fieldwork and archival study into the conflict that has pitted advocates of conservation, scientific management, and local subsistence use against one other. Kosek found that race was a powerful but frequently avoided factor in the dispute, and rather than shying away from race as a politically sensitive subject, he takes this as a motivation for writing. The book represents a successful example of engaged anthropology, since the analysis is both ethnographically innovative and politically useful to those he studies.

The early modern period has aptly been called the “wooden age,” when timber, directly or indirectly, provided most of the material underpinnings of European and other societies. Most scholars who have been interested in wood as a historical problem have approached it from the perspective of historical geography or landscape. In this new book, Paul Warde analyzes the economic and political dimensions of timber in early modern Germany. Focusing on the relatively small Duchy of Württemberg in southwestern Germany, Warde uses timber as a way to both map out the material constraints of life in early modern communities, and to undertake an analysis of state development that moves away from abstract categories such as sovereignty and authority, and toward the concrete problems faced by rulers and bureaucrats as they sought to regulate crucial aspects of everyday life. In so doing, Warde seeks to situate local and regional communities within a well-defined ecological context so as to understand better the kinds of economic choices that early modern Europeans, like other pre-modern people, faced. This is something that environmental historians like to talk about at great length, even though they often neglect it in practice. To his credit, Warde puts his analysis where his mouth is.