Historians have long debated the importance of religion as a determining factor in relations between Christians and Muslims during the Middle Ages. On the one hand, each side consigned adherents of the enemy's religion to eternal damnation. Religious animosity provided the casus belli of crusade and jihad; Christian and Muslim met each other on the field of battle with great frequency. On the other hand, Christian-Muslim relations also included peaceful commerce, institutional borrowing, and even cultural exchange. Christians and Muslims spent more time fighting their coreligionists than making war on each other. Churches continued to exist in the lands of Islam, and mosques survived under Christian rule as well. Such evidence has led some historians to minimize the degree to which religious intolerance influenced Christian-Muslim contacts during the Middle Ages.

This is a strange enterprise and an incautious one. What do we find reasonably to compare in two systems so contradictory to each other's basic premises? Are they not mirror images, opposite in every particular? Even so, while living and teaching at Moscow University in 1979, where during the spring semester it was my task to offer a course of lectures and small group instruction on American history to some forty students majoring in the subject (and to their faculty), comparative reflections were irresistible. Tracing parallels between the two countries is a risky undertaking for someone who is an Americanist and must rely upon the scholarship of others for the Soviet dimension, but what is intended here is an essay of suggestion only.

For comparative history to be meaningful, the phenomena compared must possess important and comprehensive unities of character. In his “Systems of Domination after Slavery: The Control of Land and Labor in the British West Indies after 1838”, which appeared in the October 1981 issue of Comparative Studies in Society and History, O. Nigel Bolland accepts this maxim in theory; he ignores it in practice.

The development of world-systems theory enables us to explain human migration without resorting to the theoretically barren lists of “push-pull” factors and personal motivations that characterize previous studies. Although individuals still make private decisions to move, the patterned movement of groups is better understood as an essential component in a global economic order with shifting demands for labor. National migration policies can also be interpreted within this global context. Since migration plays a central role in moving workers to regions where their labor is needed, governmental legislation regulating these movements has reflected capitalists' needs for a free labor force. It is with this in mind that Aristide Zolberg summarizes the behavior of one nation-state in the world-system as “an element in the interest-calculus of others.”

The preceding article by William A. Green does not make clear the basis upon which he criticizes my October 1981 comparison of Belize and the British sugar colonies. He begins by saying that the “phenomena compared must possess important and comprehensive unities of character” and writes later that “it is the presence of similar people performing similar functions under similar circumstances that renders comparative analysis valuable. These identities did not prevail between Belize and the British sugar colonies.” Belize, he writes, had a “unique system of domination” (his emphasis). Is the problem, then, that there are no “unities of character,” that “identities did not prevail,” or that Belize was “unique”? Every case is unique, surely, yet comparisons are made in social, as in natural, science between selected common factors which appear under similar, but not identical, conditions. There exists a range between John Stuart Mill's formulae called The Method of Agreement, in which one compares two situations which differ in every respect save one, and The Method of Difference, in which one compares two situations which are alike except in one respect, but Green seems to think only the latter is acceptable.

This essay is about torture and the culture of terror, which for most of us, including myself, are known only through the words of others. Thus my concern is with the mediation of the culture of terror through narration—and with the problems of writing effectively against terror.

The study of material culture and geography is relatively new and underdeveloped in most fields of history, but this underdevelopment is particularly acute for the history of the Middle East since the rise of Islam. Although, for most historians, the period when nearly everything in Middle Eastern history was ascribed to Islam has passed, and there is a new awareness of socioeconomic factors, discussions of these factors often overstress trade or center almost exclusively around dependent relations with the West, virtually ignoring specific internal developments in Middle Eastern material culture and ecology that help explain Middle Eastern history. This essay will suggest what may be learned from such studies by drawing attention to some of the relevant conclusions of works written on these subjects. It will also show how study of material culture can illuminate phases of development and decline in the Middle East and suggest some reasons why the West overtook and passed the Middle East economically.

Every year, around the time of the meetings of the American Anthropological Association, the New York Times asks a Big Name anthropologist to contribute an op-ed piece on the state of the field. These pieces tend to take a rather gloomy view. A few years ago, for example, Marvin Harris suggested that anthropology was being taken over by mystics, religious fanatics, and California cultists; that the meetings were dominated by panels on shamanism, witchcraft, and “abnormal phenomena”; and that “scientific papers based on empirical studies” had been willfully excluded from the program (Harris 1978). More recently, in a more sober tone, Eric Wolf suggested that the field of anthropology is coming apart. The sub-fields (and sub-sub-fields) are increasingly pursuing their specialized interests, losing contact with each other and with the whole. There is no longer a shared discourse, a shared set of terms to which all practitioners address themselves, a shared language we all, however idiosyncratically, speak (Wolf 1980).

As the quotation from R. Park's 1928 work demonstrates, sociologists have a rather longstanding interest in migration and its consequences, in “the conflicts and fusions of peoples.” The period of relative tranquility between 1925 and 1955 was followed by a marked resurgence of ethnicity and a revitalization of international migrations during the 1960s and 1970s. Neither of these phenomena was confined to the Western Hemisphere or the new countries in Africa and Asia, but included a revival of ethnic mobilization in such nationstates as Great Britain, France, and Spain and the migration of millions of workers from southern Europe to the advanced industrial countries in northern Europe.

Beginning in 1613, when the Prussian royal family converted to Calvinism while the vast majority of its subjects remained part of the state-regulated Lutheran church, the Hohenzollern kings found themselves living with an anomalous religious situation. Royal discontent with this circumstance had always existed, but efforts to bring about a change failed until, in the years after the Napoleonic Wars, Frederick William III resolved to take decisive action. A pious man and conscientious theologian, the king was deeply troubled by the continuing existence among large numbers of his subjects of rationalism and religious indifferentism, legacies of the Enlightenment. Moreover, reflecting on the defeat of Prussia by the French in 1806, he was also committed to national regeneration, which seemed blocked not only by the lack of religiosity he perceived, but by the disunity inherent in the religious gulf which separated Reformed monarch and Lutheran subject. In 1817, with the three-hundredth anniversary of the Reformation in mind, he proclaimed the intention to merge the Reformed and Lutheran churches of Prussia, and proceeded actively to involve himself in framing a common agenda for the doctrine of the new church. Serving God and the state in one bold stroke, the king was doubtless proud of the decision, and the large majority of his Lutheran subjects and their pastors unquestioningly accepted it.

The historiography of French colonial educational policy and practice has advanced considerably over the past decade. Not long ago W. Bryant Mum-ford's allegation, “Africans learn to be French,” was taken literally, and most scholars presumed that France, either out of cultural arrogance or blind reflex, brought metropolitan schooling in undiluted form to her colonies. We know better now. Recent studies of education in French West Africa and Indochina have suggested that colonial schools were not only adapted to the colonial context, but taught the students a great deal about their own societies. This article focuses on the knowledge that the two basic school levels, the elementary and primary, distributed about indigenous society in two French colonial federations—French West Africa and Indochina—in the period 1918–38 and speculates as to why the content and distribution of that knowledge took the forms they did. The discussion is based on analysis of texts in use in the primary schools, government curriculum guides, and student school notebooks. It begins with a brief survey of the structure of the educational system and curriculum of the schools as a whole, then proceeds to an analysis of the presentation of indigenous society in the schools.

The use of internal colonial theories to examine racial developments within the United States of America had become almost fashionable by the late 1960s. A decade later, a study of the political economy of Wales described the internal colonial approach which it criticized as a “new variant of a time-worn model.’ Amongst historians, however, the internal colonial concept does not appear to be as familiar as it is to other social scientists. This article is addressed to historians who do not subscribe unreservedly to Alfred Cobban's belief that sociologists are their natural enemies, and amongst whom some might still be considering the implications of Fernand Braudel's contention that a “general history always requires an overall model, good or bad, against which events can be interpreted. ‘No theory, no history.’” The purpose here is to indicate some uses and characteristics of theories that the internal colonial concept has promoted, to comment briefly about some of the methodological issues which these theories present, and to suggest some benefits that the concept might have for certain types of social and historical enquiry.