The principle of national self-determination has been haunting the world since the French Revolution. In Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union alone 20 new “nation-states” were created in the 1990s—200 years after the French Revolution. They were all established on the basis of the principle of national self-determination. There may be no other term in modern political discourse which is used with more emotion and passion. Recent history has known many wars fueled by conflicting interpretations of self-determination. Woodrow Wilson thought that implementation of the principle of self-determination would lead to a better world, a world without wars and “safe for democracy.” His secretary of state, Robert Lansing, had doubts. He suspected the concept of self-determination to be “loaded with dynamite” and capable of causing even more bloodshed because it “will raise hopes which can never be realized.”

With these words, the Romanian–Jewish writer Mihail Sebastian expresses within his private diary some of the darkest moments of a World War II “transfigured” Romania, populated as they are by the gothic characters of legionaries, Nazis, and antisemitism. His death soon followed in 1945, when Romania was at the threshold of fascism and communism. However, with the discovery and the subsequent publishing of Sebastian's diary in 1996, and following 50 years of communist mystification of the Jewish Holocaust, the entire chaotic war atmosphere with the fascist affections of the Romanian intellectual elite was once again brought to light with all the flavor and scent of the dark past. In this entry from Sebastian's diary he speaks of his friend, Eugen Ionescu who, born of a French-related mother and a Romanian father, was living in Bucharest at that time. He would later become known to the world as Eugène Ionesco, the famous French playwright and author of the well-known plays The Bald Soprano and The Rhinoceros. The above quote from Sebastian's journal, predating the international fame of Ionesco, but already marking the end of Sebastian's career under fascism, remains a traumatizing testimony of the Jewish Kafkian torment as “guilt,” a deeply claustrophobic identity that many Eastern European Jewish intellectuals have learned to internalize. Beyond this symbolism, the publishing of Sebastian's diary in Romania unintentionally challenged an existent post-communist tendency of legitimizing inter-war fascist personalities within the framework of a general lack of knowledge about the Jewish Holocaust in both the communist and post-communist periods.

This article analyzes the ideas of Adolf Fischhof (1816–93) on the nationalities question in the Habsburg Monarchy. Throughout his career Fischhof argued that the survival of the multiethnic Habsburg polity required the strengthening of each nationality's separate consciousness as an ethno-cultural unit. In terms of the reform plan he espoused, he was perhaps more supportive of the rights of the non-German peoples of Austria than any other German liberal politician of the post-1848 era. Nevertheless, Fischhof's rationale for proposing such reforms, namely that they would lead the Monarchy's Slavs to reject the notion of ethnic kinship with Russia and instead join the civilized, European (read: German) side in its inevitable clash with barbarous Muscovite tyranny, revealed a clear belief in the supremacy of German Kultur and in a German-centered mission for the Austrian state.

National identity is everywhere constructed through a process of negotiation with other categories of identity—local, regional, class, confessional, and gender. In borderlands, however, there is another element in this negotiation process—the sharing of public space with another national group, an element that further complicates identity formation. Here categories can change and/or function differently than in the interior of a country. In many respects, the construction of Germanness in the province of Poznania [German: Posen; Polish: Poznań] proceeded along similar lines as in the rest of the German Empire. German nationalists, both in the eastern provinces and in the rest of the Reich, produced publications and organized lectures about and celebrations of German history and German culture in an effort to mobilize national loyalties in support of policies that would consolidate Germandom both within and without. However, the presence of a Polish challenge in Poznania—the defining problem of the province—complicated constructions of German national identity.

In the first days of August 1914, as enthusiastic crowds hailing the German declaration of war on Russia and France swarmed in front of the imperial residence in Berlin, Kaiser Wilhelm II famously declared that he no longer knew political parties, only Germans. The remark was intended to be rhetorically inclusive, of course, to signal the surmounting not only of party-political divisions but also of the empire's chronic class, confessional, and regional tensions. But for one of the empire's most marginalized groups of subjects—those millions who did not consider themselves of German descent and who spoke Polish rather than German as a native language—the Kaiser's invocation of a common German identity was more effective in underlining the limits rather than the promise of civic solidarity. Unlike the Habsburg Monarchy or (to a lesser extent) the Czarist Empire, where Polish nationalists could hope to reconcile commitment to their national cause with faithfulness to an imperial dynasty or even a diffuse sense of patriotism to a multinational state, the Hohenzollern monarchy had, over the previous half-century, become virtually synonymous with hostility to all things Polish. Upholding the Prussian monarchy, it seemed, was functionally inseparable from promoting a culturally homogenized German nation-state.

With his contingent of geographers, historians, and other academic “experts” collectively known as The Inquiry in tow, Woodrow Wilson arrived in Paris in January 1919 to redraw the map of Europe. Wilson wanted to fulfill his Fourteen Points and guarantee national self-determination to the peoples of Europe. A peaceful community of ethnically homogeneous nation-states was to replace the great multinational empires (defined by central European nationalists as prisons of the peoples) that had previously dominated central and eastern Europe. During the inter-war period, the governing elites of central Europe, their new “nation-states” legitimated by the post-war settlement, created new national holidays, national anthems, and nationalist school text books lauding the history and achievements of the state-bearing nation. These simple and seemingly coherent national narratives elided the messy, confusing, and jumbled past of multiple identities, mingled ethnic groups, and alienated social orders, and legitimized political, economic, and territorial claims made in the name of the “national community” lending its name to the new state.

For decades the residents of Taos, New Mexico have been afflicted by a low frequency humming—sometimes louder, sometimes almost inaudible—but never completely absent. On almost every college campus in North America, the buzz about using technology in teaching can be almost as annoying—and with each passing year, it gets louder. Although recent events in the American stock market have taken a good deal of the shine off of the idea that the Internet will fundamentally transform the economy, in higher education there seems to be no corresponding waning of enthusiasm for the infusion of new media into the educational experiences of students.