Silva Lisboa's first five publications were published from 1821 to January 1822. The first four publications, Conciliador do Reino Unido, Diálogo entre Filósofo e Pastor, Notas ao Despacho Circular do Congresso de Laibach and Despertador Brasiliense, respond to current events, even when they adopt a lyric style as in the Diálogo. The fifth one, Sabatina familiar de amigos do bem-comum, has a pedagogical interest and does not relate directly to any current events. However, some of the ideas presented in it are important for an understanding of Silva Lisboa's conception of politics and society and its last issue, and the decision to end this publication, is influenced by the latest events. All these early publications are anonymous, and some are incomplete, as identified by Vianna. The analysis Vianna made of those he was able to access was superficial and vague, in line with his idea of presenting a general overview of the Brazilian press in the nineteenth century.

These first five publications by Silva Lisboa were all published before the Fico. It was a period in which the ideas of independence were not openly discussed in the press, especially by those who were part of the administration and held allegiance to the King, the ‘coimbrões’. Silva Lisboa epitomized some of the ideas of this group and was appointed in 1808 by the fellow Coimbra alumni and secretary of Foreign Affairs and War, Sousa Coutinho, as one of the three directors and censors of the Impressão Régia (Regal Press). According to Kirschner, he presented the ideal profile to exercise a royal position of importance: ‘Erudito, fiel vassalo e bom católico, preenchia as condições para exercer o cargo de censor na Impressão Régia com “probidade, prudência e zelo da religião e do bem público” ‘ (A scholar, faithful vassal and a good Catholic, he fulfilled the conditions to exercise the position of censor at the Royal Press with ‘probity, prudence and zeal for religion and the public good’).

He launched his career as a journalist by retaining his allegiance to a union with Portugal under Dom João VI even if in his earliest publications, such as the Conciliador, he presented a favourable view of the Constitution due to his education in Coimbra and his reading of authors such as Montesquieu

The work behind this book began more than 25 years ago when we, the authors, were young history students at Roskilde University in Denmark. During our studies we came across the fact that thousands of Danes (how many was unknown at the time) had joined the Waffen-SS and chosen to fight for Hitler during the second world war. Yet no one had examined the history of these men whose actions so obviously ran counter to the many stories of resistance fighters and the rescue of the Danish Jews that we had been brought up with. In contrast, the academic, and indeed the national, interest in those who had chosen the wrong side was almost non-existing. This caught our common interest to a great degree and we chose to study this phenomenon.

Starting out as students we spend four very exiting years interviewing former SS-soldiers, and digging through archives in Germany, the Czech Republic, Russia, Sweden and Denmark in an attempt to locate the Danish volunteers in the vast machinery of the Third Reich. It was sometimes like looking for a needle in a haystack and with little money in our student pockets we spend many nights at youth hostels around Europe while researching huge amounts of Nazi records in different archives during the day. Remembering those days together now, when finishing this book, makes us smile as we think back on the immense amounts of time and energy that we were able to dedicate to our academic endeavours in that early phase of our lives. In 1998, we published a book on the Danish volunteers in the Waffen-SS for the first time documenting, among other things, how these Danes had committed war crimes and in various ways contributed to the Nazi war of extermination.

We also realised from the start that the Waffen-SS was an organization that could tell us something unique about human behaviour and the power of ideology and hence we continued our research. We kept finding new material about the SS-men from a wide range of sources including not only official archives but also private collectors who, for example, had diaries and letters written by soldiers at the front. In 2008, we decided that the time had come to apply for funding for a full-scale study of the entire Waffen-SS.

Introduction

Everybody is a symbol, everything is a symbol, every action is a symbol.

At some level, symbols are universal because everything we describe is a narrative and, as such, ipso facto, follows the structure of a myth. Even if we only describe it to ourselves, and even if that description is not a conscious narrative but what we term perception it is, after all, structured as a narrative. Archetypal impulses inform that structure of perception, as they inform all mythical narratives. This means that the framework of deep culture can be usefully applied not just to all manner of explicitly “fictional” narratives, but indeed to all narratives even if they are a different sort of “fiction” that is not recognized as such. Among these are narratives of politics, religion, and everyday life. In this chapter, we discuss how the framework of deep culture can be used to identify archetypal impulses in descriptions of these cultural domains beyond fictionalized myths.

First, though, as we pointed out in the introduction, we have taken a different view of “myth” than is common in ordinary parlance or even in much social research. People tend to see myth as a “false,” constructed discourse and so something that is opposed to the truth, as in “myth vs. reality.” Such views tend to stop at the literary or aesthetic value of myths. Indeed, from this perspective, when myths are employed in the “real” world, they are either seen as puerile—such as obviously nonfactual cosmic origins of humanity—or as downright destructive, for example, the “Aryan myth” of nationhood promoted by Nazis during the Second World War (Lincoln 1999).

The ‘moment of independence’ is one of the few times in which a nation is obliged to take ‘fundamental decisions of a founding nature’ including the ‘organization of the social and economic sphere; continuity of property rights and claims; perhaps decisions over the relationship between church and state’, among other institutional measures such as taking decisions about laws, public administration, banks, currency and tariffs, according to Maxwell. To discuss the context in which Independence took place, this chapter is divided into three sections, the first being a biographical summary of Silva Lisboa's early life using as reference Kirschner's work; Antonio Penalves Rocha's introduction to José da Silva Lisboa, Visconde de Cairu (2001), a compilation of his texts on Political Economy; Belchior's Visconde de Cairu: Vida e Obra; and Hélio Vianna's Contribuição à História Da Imprensa Brasileira, a renowned and accomplished guide for the history of the press in Brazil. Vianna's work was helpful to me in comparing the documents I investigate with those already attributed to Silva Lisboa, since apart from one, all his publications from this period were either anonymous or written under a pseudonym. Although Vianna's analyses of the pamphlets to which he had access are short, one-dimensional and vague, his organization of the sections is very effective and I partially drew on it for my own approach to dividing up the material.

To contextualize the situation of the Portuguese Empire from the late eighteenth century up to the consolidation of Independence I relied on the work of Brazilian, Portuguese and Anglo-American authors. It is useful to see how these three different perspectives engage with each other and which topics benefit most from an internal or external point of view. For example, foreign authors tend to try to insert Brazil into a broader context, such as Gabriel Paquette who, in his text José da Silva Lisboa and the Vicissitudes of Enlightened Reform in Brazil, 1789–1824, discusses Cairu's ideas as part of a transnational movement including most Catholic countries where Enlightenment ideals were expressed in a more subtle way than in France or England. Portuguese authors such as Valentim Alexandre are suspicious of the historiographical recreation of an independence process rooted in the Enlightenment and in eighteenth-century rebellions.

This chapter deals with the history of some Jewish families from Vienna who escaped to Colombia, the reasons for their escape from Austria and the choice of exile. It also addresses their routes through Europe and across the Atlantic as well as their integration. First, we will consider the dimension of the Shoah by citing scientific literature, on the one hand, and by resorting to interviews of Shoah survivors. All the survivors who were interviewed by us were children of different ages (15, 9, 4) when they had to escape from their home country. This way, we can see through the eyes of children their experience of antisemitism, hatred, persecution and discrimination, but also the flight itself and the integration into exile. The sections follow a chronological order based on the biographies of Shoah survivors. This chapter also explores the daily-life, micro-historical content, including marriage, birth, school and work, which are connected with the macro-historical content of geopolitics, World War II and antisemitism.

One of the objectives of the Nazi regime was the total extermination of Jews in Europe (Holocaust or Shoah). More than six million children, women and men identified as “Jews” by National Socialist Germany (not all people who were identified as Jews by Nazis were really Jews) were killed between 1933 and 1945 (systematically from 1941 to 1945). About half of them died from the effects of toxic gases in Nazi death camps built mainly in what are now Poland and Belarus. Others were shot by execution commandos or died in concentration camps as a result of forced labor, hunger, cold, exhaustion or disease (Götz and Grüner 2008, 13-15). Along with Jews, communists, social democrats, Roma, Shinto, Yenish people, people with genetic disorders or mental illnesses, twins, homosexuals and prisoners of war were persecuted, deported, killed or abused for medical “experiments.” These crimes were committed by both male and female members of the SS and other NS criminal organizations. Only a minority of the persecuted managed to survive by hiding or fleeing into exile. According to the Alsatian writer Adrienne Thomas (1897–1980), who fled from the Gurs concentration camp in France to the United States, it was “always flight, but never emigration” (Paul 1988, 147).

Only around 400,000 people marked as “Jews” managed to flee from the German Reich between 1933 and 1945 (Heim 2019, 14).

In the mid-1930s, 10 million ethnic Germans lived in countries outside the three great, totally or partially, Germanophone states, Germany, Austria and Switzerland. The most important, in this respect, were Czechoslovakia, the USSR and Poland, followed by the French regions of Alsace and Lorraine. Additionally, there were Germanophones in Yugoslavia, Romania, Hungary and Italy (Alto Adige), as well as in the Baltic countries, eastern Belgium, and in southern Denmark.

From a Nazi point of view, all these groups – the Volksdeutsche – were of ‘German blood’ and, ideally, ought to be united in a Greater German Reich. However, the right to speak on behalf of the German minorities was fraught with internal struggles over power and responsibilities among various Nazi institutions. The primary contenders were Alfred Rosenberg's Außenpolitisches Amt (APA), the party's foreign department, Auslands-Organisation der NSDAP (AO) and not least the foreign ministry, Auswärtiges Amt, under Joachim von Ribbentrop. The latter forged an alliance with Himmler and the SS in order to clip the wings of APA, Rosenberg and AO. Moreover, a number of private organisations wielded their influence. One of these the Verein für das Deutschtum im Ausland was an establishment that, since the days of the Weimar Republic, was co-operating with the German state.

In 1935, Rudolf Hess, Hitler's party deputy, ordered that a new party office be set up to cover this area. The SS member, Otto von Kursell, became head of this office. While he purposively implemented the Gleichschaltung – Nazi regimentation – of the organisations of the German minorities, he tried to keep aloof of the conflicts. To Himmler, the appointment of Kursell became a means to increase the influence of the SS and, gradually, his office managed to out-manoeuvre other players in this field. In 1936, however, a disagreement arose between Kursell and Himmler. Consequently, in 1937, Kursell was dismissed as the head of the office, which, from then onwards, was designated Volksdeutsche Mittelstelle (VOMI).

Although VOMI was never integrated in the SS, in reality, from the mid-1930s, it functioned as a de facto SS office with Himmler as the top boss. Like his predecessor, the new head, Werner Lorenz, as well as his chief of staff, Hermann Behrends, were highranking SS officers. In particular after Himmler's appointment as Reichskommissarfür die Festigungdeutschen Volkstums in 1939, VOMI became involved, under SS control, in activities concerning Volksdeutsche in the occupied countries – predominantly recruitment for the Waffen-SS.

Gothic, according to Richard Gray, is a means by which the secret history of a culture is told, the repressed revealed, the monstrous encountered, and boundaries crossed (37). The Gulf world presents an archive, both fabulous and gothic, of our secret histories and boundary-traversing traumas. Its hyperracialized space produced a critical “double-consciousness” (3) as W. E. B. Du Bois memorably presented it, haunted by recognition that the ruling archive was partial and false since in this postplantation space of thick entanglements “[t]he price of culture is a Lie” (144). Just as the first gothic novel appeared in London in 1764, the Gulf's north shores faced accelerating pressures, spurred on by political revolution (1776), the cotton gin (1794), and the Louisiana Purchase (1803). Steady violence accompanied Jacksonian-era expansion of the plantation system over a twenty-five-year period from 1821 to 1846. Jackson's victories in the Creek War (1813–14) and the Battle of New Orleans (1815) set the stage. Then, in rapid succession, with Spain's sale of Florida (1821), the Indian Removal Act (1830), the Second Seminole War (1835–42), and the Invasion of Mexico (1846), the whole US Gulf South became a site of accelerated investment in slave-produced cotton culture. All while slavery was abolished in Mexico (1829). Indigenous peoples faced genocide and removal, slave markets expanded, and the more ethnically fluid frontier spaces between La Florida and Tejas were recharted. Anglo-Protestant notions of “the impassable gulf between the races” created by God became dogma in the US south and gripped the nation as an intensely racialized plantation belt hit expansion mode. Gothic expression proliferated with plantation space.

I last traveled to Gaza in September 2016, two years after the horrific assault on the territory known as Operation Protective Edge. The destruction of Gaza's infrastructure was still evident in some places but much of it had already been cleared away. The mountains of rubble—formerly homes, schools and hospitals—were gone but what remained was an ineliminable emptiness that echoed the destruction it had replaced. Many things struck me on that trip but one, perhaps more than all the others, was particularly distressing. In many conversations, I had with young and well-educated adults, I learned that they knew little if anything about the first Palestinian uprising or Intifada, which was a formative and watershed event in Palestinian history. Their lack of knowledge was profoundly disturbing, a form of privation both tragic and self-defeating. As I observed in 2016, “I was … struck by how little the young but well-educated adults I met knew of the first Intifada and the Oslo years, absorbed as they were by the present day. In other words, not only do they feel disconnected from a possible future, they are also cut off from their very recent past—and the many important lessons contained in it.” Of course, many young adults in Gaza today were toddlers or not yet born during the first Intifada. Perhaps they never learned about the Intifada because it did not end the occupation or achieve an independent Palestinian state. Yet embedded in these defeats were certain remarkable achievements that forever changed Gaza.

This piece draws on nearly 300 pages of field notes I kept while living and working in Gaza during the second year of the Intifada (1988–1989). It took me some time to read through my field notes, which were comprised of interviews, observations, commentary, statistics, relevant newspaper articles and excerpts from books and journals, and what I found astounded me. I discovered in those notes a meticulously recorded history of a truly remarkable yet deeply painful and brutal period—long since erased—that I was fortunate to experience.

On the 18th of January 1942, Himmler's private judge wrote to the central SS office responsible for the management of the SS courts. This judge – whose official title was ‘SS-Richter beim RFSS’ – functioned as a sort of liaison-officer between Himmler and his bureaucracy in matters concerning the SS courts and the SS legal code. This particular letter was a reminder to the SS-bureaucrats that Himmler personally demanded to see all applications for pardon in cases concerning the death penalty within the SS-court system. As in previous correspondence it was stressed that Himmler required that these applications contained detailed CV's and descriptions concerning the parents and the family including actual photographs of the parents.

Himmler's priorities in these cases had nothing to with concern for the welfare of the next of kin of the SS men who had been sentenced to death. On the contrary, the letter reveals two other central phenomena when it comes to punishment and discipline in the Waffen-SS: on the one hand, the ever-present importance of ideology in the formulation and practice of SS law, and on the other hand Himmler's minute interest in every possible detail in that regard. Simply put the Reichsführer-SS wanted to racially screen and evaluate his SS-men down to extraordinary detail and the SS court system and the SS legal code provided ample opportunity to do just that. For the men involved this could be a matter of life and death. Having a racially strong family (in Himmler's eyes) might provide a pardon for an SS soldier with a death sentence hanging over his head. In that way, the head of the SS organisation believed, he could save the Germanic blood he thought so precious for the future of the Third Reich.

The Third Reich: A Dual State or a Racial State?

One of the earliest academic attempts to explain the legal developments during the Third Reich was Ernst Fraenkel's impressive work ‘The Dual State’ published already in 1941. Here, Fraenkel produced an ‘ethnography of Nazi law’ and managed to smuggle his manuscript out of Germany to get it published in the USA. In his book, Fraenkel identified two different spheres of official authority in Nazi Germany, one that he called the ‘normative state’ and another, which he termed the ‘prerogative state’.

Prologue

“To be or not to be, that is the question,” declares Hamlet in Shakespeare's play The Tragedy of Hamlet (Act III. Sc 1. l. 57). The monologue containing this state-ment about being and nothingness is resonant with Plato's thinking. In Plato's dialogue The Apology (2002), we hear Socrates philosophizing about life and, in particular, about death, having been sentenced to death by his own hand. Since ancient times, the theater has provided a stage for reflection about how people Interventionsought to live and what it means to be human (Woodruff, 2010). The same goes for philosophy. Philosophy provides a stage for reason's reflection and the soul's introspection, for people's own thoughts, emotions, and experiences can be set alongside observations from great thinkers about the nature of reality, about what is good, true, just, and beautiful. In Socrates, however, philosophy also gives rise to dialogue. Both theater and Socratic dialogue (SD) are played out between people in situ, and both demand a collective engagement to create dra-matic art on stage and existential art in dialogue.

However, while human dramas on the stage are fictional, real dramas take place in Socratic dialogue groups (SDG).

When Ignacio López-Calvo and I began to ponder and think of this anthology based on the themes of refuge and refugees, we inevitably began to speak about each other's past. Ignacio shared his daily life in Spain, his friendships, the richness of social life in his city and the ability to connect with strangers, such as a bartender or someone sitting next to us at the bus stop. I also shared with him my extensive Chilean family and how they show up unannounced without the typical formalities we abide in the America of the North.

We are both emigrants by choice and have found a home in an academic community in the United States, Ignacio in the west and I in the east, but our common points of reference always return to our own identities in Spain and Chile. We are both outsiders and insiders in the cultures we share. I am close to this theme since the majority of the generation of my great grandparents and grandparents were refugees from the Nazis and also from the Russian pogroms. This history, to cite Walter Benjamin, is part of the culture of our hearts. Since 2017, Ignacio has been working with Scholars at Risk, the organization mentioned in F. Javier Cevallos’ chapter, as the faculty representative from University of California, Merced. Responding to the urgency of the current situation in Afghanistan, he has led a campaign to bring a scholar at risk from Afghanistan (and his or her family) to teach or do research at his campus until it is safe for them to return to their country. This campaign helped an Afghani scholar at risk, a graduate student, to join the Interdisciplinary Humanities Graduate Group program at his university. UC Merced's Center for the Humanities, for which he is the director, is coordinating this effort with other University of California campuses as well as organizations like Scholars at Risk and Scholar Rescue Fund, which have extensive experience with this type of work, including the vetting of scholars that will join us at different University of California campuses. This initiative will not only help safeguard academic freedom around the world, but, more importantly, it will also save the lives of some of our colleagues in Afghanistan and those of their families.

Introduction to the Self

People have always imagined and produced multitudes of weird, eerie, and unrealistic images that often puzzle us and shatter our sensibilities. The Mesopotamian eagle with a lion's head, Assyrian winged bulls with men's heads and magnificent beards, the Islamic Buraq with the body of a winged horse and tail of a peacock with the head of a woman, or the Egyptian Sphinx with the body of a lion, head of a woman, and wings of an eagle. These are just some of the many unsettling creatures from ancient cultures, not to mention countless myths that shake us: godly dismemberment in ancient Egypt, mutilation in Norse tales of Odin, or the famous Greek Oedipus marrying his mother and killing his father.

Nor are these just ancient tales to scare children. Eerie images and strange stories continue to fascinate and strangely arrest our attention today. The Medusa Gorgon with venomous snakes as her hair, featured in Clash of the Titans and many other movies, in God of War and numerous more videogames, and in even one of today's most popular tattoos, is a vivid example of the enduring significance of an uneasy symbol that originates in the mists of Greek mythology (discussed in Chapter 4). Contemporary horror movies, as well as cyborgs and aliens in science fiction play similar roles as the strange rites and images of ancient religions. They raise hackles, give goose bumps, and move us to the edges of our seats with images that are ghostly familiar yet strangely out of place.

Why do these images and stories unsettle us? If they are just weird or out of place, why do they repeat throughout history and across cultures? In this chapter, we argue that (1) much of this imagery, particularly from ancient cultures, should be seen as uncanny, not as terrifying and (2) the uncanny is symbolic, so that it may be analyzed using the framework of deep culture. Indeed, just as with any symbol that recurs in ancient or modern popular cultures, the uncanny is irreplaceable and its purpose can only be indicated by that symbol and no other. We point out that one such function of the symbolic uncanny is to move us out of “normal” place and our “ordinary” selves to the extent that we are no longer familiar to ourselves. It is a displacing symbol.

The natural environment has long served as a refuge. Historically, natural areas protected people and other species from physical dangers; they continue to play that role, and people have created specific refuges for species that are in danger of extinction. In modern times, more metaphorically, nature has inspired, comforted and provided an escape from the stresses of society. But in an era in which human activity has degraded the environment, its role as a refuge is more complicated. Many who care about the environment frame addressing environmental problems as a matter of individual responsibility—we must change our attitudes or our behavior (rather than changing the structures and systems that people operate within) in order to protect the environment and maintain it as a resource and a refuge. That is particularly compelling when human activity is the primary source of the threat the environment faces. The personalization of responses to environmental degradation can follow from its role as refuge: we owe nature our own personal care and sacrifice because of its importance to us.

This approach is understandable: perhaps we should be held responsible for protecting something that has served as a refuge and that our actions contribute to threaten. But this focus on individual responsibility may backfire, both because environmental problems are ultimately structural rather than individual and because framing an individual responsibility to protect transforms our relationship to the environment into something that exhausts rather than refreshes us. Instead, we need to work for structural change so that those of us who care about the environment can find refuge in it, safe in the assumption that systems around us are set up so that we can operate in ways to protect it while going about our daily lives. This chapter explores the relationship between the environment as a source of refuge and the responsibility to protect it. Ultimately, it argues that this responsibility is not individual but collective, and not about the behavioral decisions of people or groups, but about changing the structures within which those decisions take place. If we want the environment to be a refuge, it is up to us to act collectively to work to protect it in a systemic way.

What is a Refuge?

The concept of refuge differs across many fields.

From Racial Community to Multi-ethnic Army – Waffen-SS Turns European

As early as in the mid-1930s, SS began admitting non-German citizens into its ranks. These were, primarily, ethnic Germans from adjacent states, but from 1938 the organisation officially welcomed other nationalities of the ‘Nordic-Germanic race.’ Initially, this meant citizens from the northern and western neighbouring countries. The key notion, though, remained that the SS should be an exclusive order into which only racially pure Germans and other Germanic volunteers sharing the Nazi creed would be allowed.

In 1941-2, Waffen-SS began to adjust these conditions. Standarte Nordwest and various national legions introduced men into the military branch of the SS who did not live up to the order's demands for physical height, race and ideological determination. At the same time, an element of compulsion was added to the enrolment methods. This happened for example, in occupied Yugoslavia, where Volksdeutsche men were forced to serve with the Waffen-SS. From there, this trend spread to other countries with large ethnic German minorities that might be coerced or manipulated into joining. As mentioned previously, more or less compulsory methods had already been used to recruit personnel in Germany, but now this began on a massive scale. In the last war-years, tens of thousands of German conscripts were systematically transferred to the Waffen-SS without the slightest trace of voluntariness. Additionally, nationalities that were formerly looked down upon – on account of being of a ‘lower race’ – were now recruited. These included Ukrainians, Russians, Central-Asian Muslims as well as Serbs and Bosnians.

Although a certain mollification characterised the attitude to nationalities, the Waffen-SS, as well as the SS per se, remained an organisation which was controlled from Germany and by Germans. The very top was entirely German, and as a general rule, non-German commanders were to be found at no higher levels than company or, at the most, occasionally battalion. Thus, the history of the non-German citizens in the Waffen-SS must be seen in the context of an ethnically stratified organisationcharacterised by tensions among ethnic groups due to language, culture and gradings in the racial hierarchy.

According to SS propaganda, the Waffen-SS’ many ethnic groups were united in their struggle against the ‘godless bolshevism’ and the equally corrupt ‘American materialism’ and fought to protect European culture and values. This is a story that can be found, even today, in many popular historical works on the military branch of the SS.