Introduction

The importance Halbwachs gives to demographic facts can be understood in the light of his conception of social life, linked to a theory of the population seen as the body of society. His marked interest in the facts he describes as “morphological,” which appears relatively late as such in his bibliography (mainly the 1930s), enables us to specify the conception of the “social whole” that Halbwachs chooses to study collective life. Indeed, he uses a social ontology, in order to characterize society, which can be described as “organicist” and borrowed from Durkheim (Guillo and Marcel 2010). This topic – not very developed as far as the former studies tends to contrast Durkheim's sociology with organicist theories – allows us to expose a work that, at first glance, appears to be dispersed in several fields of research. It reveals that for Halbwachs societies can be considered as large moving bodies, which possess volume, material form, density, and mass. To define them, he uses the term “organism” or “organization.” In this sense, the “population facts” are not only biological and physical. They are social facts showing how society acts on its “body”: the group influences the actions of its members and contributes to shaping their habits, customs, tendencies, motives, and aspirations. Consequently, social stratification is to be understood in the same way: one of the means by which a society becomes more aware of itself and manages to maintain its integrity by organizing itself through an action of its body. “It is also, perhaps, by this organization of classes, and within it, that society succeeds best, at each epoch, in becoming conscious of itself, of what it is at that moment, and what it tends to be” (Halbwachs 2008, 254).

Thus, to perpetuate itself, any society develops within it an order of social relations, creates values, representations, and social feelings, and calls people to participate. One of the ways it has to do this is to organize division into classes, but also to have an action on births, deaths, nuptiality, and migratory movements.

Our previous chapter discussed the mediating role of children within families and households. In this chapter we go on to explore another area of children's lives which is increasingly becoming a key part of contemporary family relations but also requires specific attention on its own: the Internet and social media. Children and young people's lives have been transformed in the last decades due to the emergence of the Internet. One in three users of the Internet worldwide are children and adolescents under 18 years of age, and children are accessing the Internet at increasingly younger ages (UNICEF, 2017). Children and young people's use of social media sites has increased exponentially in recent years (O’Keeffe et al., 2011), and smartphones in particular have allowed for a more individual, personal and unmonitored access to online material. This has resulted in a variety of adult responses, on the one hand embracing the Internet as a source of educational and social opportunities and benefits, and on the other focusing on the risks involved and the need for better safeguarding against issues such as cyberbullying, online harassment, exposure to inappropriate content and targeted marketing. However, the access of children to the Internet and online devices is also highly unequal, and so is the digital literacy skills of both them and the adults around them. The balance between risk and opportunity is thus highly complex and the responses of adults significantly diverse, leading to many possible scenarios in relation to kid power in the context of the Internet and social media.

The image of ‘digital natives’, which we introduced in Chapter 4, has been used to describe children as having a better and more intuitive understanding of the Internet, a different language and a different skill set than their ‘digital immigrant’ parents (Prensky, 2001). This description often portrays ‘young people as powerful social actors positioned to challenge the status quo’ (boyd, 2014: 178) and, as also discussed in Chapter 4, could suggest that the Internet and social media might result in a reversal of the traditional power relationship between children and adults (Livingstone, 2013). However, the dichotomous and rather simplistic digital native/immigrant discourse is increasingly contested and replaced with a more complex understanding of the relationship of both children and adults to the Internet and social media (Livingstone et al., 2018).

Influenced by thirteenth century relic temples, tämpiṭavihāras eventually developed into simple, distinctive forms of image-houses, commanding the highest ritualistic significance among the monuments of late eighteenth and nineteenth century Kandyan monasteries. With complex architectural and iconographical combinations, they exhibited an unprecedented semiology of Buddhist cosmology and worldview. In addition to being a trove of art and architecture of the Kandyan period, ṭämpiṭavihāra tradition provides the much-needed evidence to explore the missing links, continued practices, and transformations of art and architecture in the spell between the post-Polonnaruva era and the Kandyan period.

Our goal in this study was to emphasize that climatic responsiveness or technological limitations were neither the sole nor the primary reason for the emergence of ṭämpiṭavihāras. Other major factors – ritualistic, sociopolitical, cultural, and architectural – were at work. We argue that architectural symbolism has been a vital determinant in the evolution as well as in the form and character of this image-house type. We present several hypotheses: The raised floor construction along with the iconography gave a ‘floating’ effect to the image-house symbolizing a cosmic realm; ṭämpiṭavihāra embodied a complex and composite form of early architectural conceptions of the imagehouse, representing the Enlightenment of the Master as well as his monastic cell. The practice of using image-houses as relic houses and upōsathāghara at a certain time of its evolution led to the emergence of ṭämpiṭavihāras. These postulations are based on our observations and the limited architectural and literary evidence available. Thus, they need further research. We also have not examined the influence of certain ancient śilpa-śastra treatises, such as Mānasāra, Mayamata, Śāriputra, or Vaijayantatantra, on ṭämpiṭavihāra architecture, murals, imagery, symbolism, and construction rites. This is another study to be carried out.

Thorough research on the two-storied ṭämpiṭavihāras of the post-Polonnaruva era should be conducted. Although these paṭimāgharas are no longer extant, archaeological investigations, literary sources, and folklore might provide some information. Certain building components of these image-houses were reused in constructing the existing ṭämpiṭavihāras. This remaining evidence could be identified and used in research. We have argued that the ṭämpiṭavihāras fulfilled the need for a stūpa in a monastery. The examples for this tradition should be identified, as it would validate this postulation and be useful in understanding the evolution of ṭämpiṭavihāra.

Reviewing a series of productions for the New York Times on December 15, 1988, under the title, “In London: Taking Williams Seriously,” Frank Rich makes an insightful comment about America's most influential playwright five years after his freakish, accidental death in 1983:

Rich's observation could be extended to the better part of Europe, of course, where the most serious rediscoveries of Williams's work seem centered. Much of the neglect of Williams in the United States has indeed been fueled by preoccupations with the playwright's biography, his tempestuous life and sensational, even clownish public and media appearances, all of which often overshadowed his art. His Memoirs in particular, published in 1975 and admittedly written for the cash advance, was exceptionally candid about his sexuality and love life and so did little to redeem his falling reputation. On the other side of the Atlantic, Williams's early plays were quickly performed by allies and in newly liberated European countries, including the European premiere of The Glass Menagerie in Stockholm in 1946 (although Sweden was nominally neutral during World War II) then in London in 1948; A Streetcar Named Desire opened in most major European capitals, including Rome, London and Paris, by 1949.1 These were subsequently followed by “the critically controversial yet financially successful Paris production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof a decade later” (Gindt, 2013, 19). In a Britain still struggling to emerge from its Victorian legacy, Williams's more sexually charged work often appeared in heavily censored productions, and early publications tended to follow those sanitized versions of his work.

In this chapter, we analyse ‘child-centredness’ as a concept and address the question: does child-centredness equate with more power for children? We offer an analysis of this question by focusing on social and professional trends, variously referred to as child-focused, child-friendly and child intensive. These are all part of the trend we identify as ‘child-centredness’ – reflecting the emphasis on late twentieth-century ideas around repositioning children more centrally within relations, networks, media, policy and practice. One area where the idea of child-centredness is apparent is within school settings, where it is understood as an ideology, a pedagogy and a powerful form of professional practice (Langford, 2010). Using case studies from primary school contexts in different countries, we analyse some of the different ways in which child-centredness is applied and practised and the implications this has for power and power relations within schools and in the home. In the previous chapter, we argued that the children's rights agenda has led to a trend towards strengthening children's voices. While schools increasingly include children's voice in their daily work, the way this is sought and executed is often based on adult modes of communication and thus works to reinforce existing power relations. Child-centredness generates new ways of regulating children at a distance and as such has little to do with children having more power. As with children's rights in the previous chapter, child-centredness furthermore favours particular groups of children, making child-centredness unequal in its process and potentially also in its outcomes.

Child-Centred Pedagogy

The theoretical and philosophical basis of child-centredness draws on the work of developmental psychologists such as Jean Piaget and the early twentieth-century educational philosopher John Dewey. Piaget emphasised the need to nurture and shape children's capacities as they learn to develop (Piaget, 1932; Burman, 2007). He furthermore focused on play as a way in which teachers are able to apply elaborately constructed measures of a child's development in the classroom (Walkerdine, 1984). In line with this, nursery and early-years teachers in the Global North often focus on children's developmental capacities, by setting them play-based activities.

Throughout this chapter the focus is, in the first instance, upon State crime and corporate crime as well as the breaches of humanitarian and international laws. Initially, arms deals and the companies selling them are integral to the investigation into UK-built weapons being used by Saudi Arabia in the Yemeni Civil War. Indeed, the way in which these sales, and their subsequent use, should criminally implicate the British government, BAE Systems and Raytheon as contributing parties who have exacerbated war crimes. In particular, though, the use of these UK-supplied munitions by Saudi Arabia in the Yemeni Civil War demonstrates the gravity of such dealings. In turn, this use in the Yemen is not only integral to the study as a whole but also representative of a particularly distressing and destructive feature of the case study. Further, it is also depressing in that criminal investigations – of the States and the corporations involved – have not, effectively, offered a means to reprimand or prosecute the perpetrators. Nevertheless, this study does, at least, promote a greater understanding of the circumstances surrounding the Yemini Civil War and, in so doing, provides the means to counter and legislate against further heinous activities of this kind.

In the second instance, the study of organised crime in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) explores the ‘supply chain’ of crime that is occurring within the country. Beginning with the criminal activity that was happening within the DRCs government, State crime is explored alongside revelations of how and in what way this corruption is allowing for internal public sector organisations – that is, the army and the police – to also be corrupt and involved in criminal activity. Moreover, the case study progresses further down the chain into exploring organised crime. In this case, it relates to the armed rebel groups who could be viewed as organised criminal groups within the DRC.

Finally, it is important to note that both studies look at the consequences of State deliberation or chaos in terms of the social harm that has been inflicted upon citizens to devastating effect. Indeed, there are a number of contemporary similarities between the unfolding events portrayed.

Koṭasara Piyaṅgala Ṭӓmpiṭavihāra, Monarāgala District

Located in Diyakobala village, 6 km west of the town of Bibila and off Bibila-Badullagammana road, the history of this temple goes back to the third century BCE. Archaeological ruins that date to the Anurādhapura and Polonnaruva periods could be seen across a 5-ha (12 acres) area. The ṭämpiṭavihāra was built in the mid-eighteenth century. It has two distinct design features: The first is a series of chambers a devotee must go through to reach the inner sanctum of the image-house. This spatial sequence includes an entry portico, a maṇḍapa, stairs that lead to the upper level ambulatory, an antechamber, and the ätulgäba. Except the entry portico, all other areas are sheltered with a single hip-roof. The second distinct feature is that, except for the entry portico, all other spaces are completely enclosed with wattle-and-daub walls. The entry portico is enclosed with a parapet wall that runs just outside of columns of the portico that support its roof, and thus have no structural purpose other than simply forming a barrier around the portico. Floors and roofs of the rest of the chambers and ambulatories are supported by wooden columns and stone pillars, as in typical ṭämpiṭavihāra design, and thus not by the perimeter wall around the entire ṭämpiṭavihāra. This perimeter wall is, therefore, likely a later addition to weather-proof the imagehouse. Openings placed on this wall bring light into the ambulatory. The full surface of the front wall of the antechamber is adorned with an elaborated makara-toraṇa. The wall murals show a variation of the Kandyan Sittara style unique to the Ūva province (Gunasinghe 1963: 3).

The third chapter in this collection deals with two different forms of genocide. In the first study, attention is centred upon the genocide inflicted upon Rohingya Muslims by the Myanmar State. The Rohingya, a Stateless ethnic group, have been subject to a plethora of State-endorsed rapes, torture, murders/killings, confiscation and destruction of property, physical abuse, religious persecution and forced labour. Because of these continuing atrocities conducted by the State, the case study here demonstrates how the country has managed to continue its conduct without facing any significant repercussions. Indeed, Myanmar has failed to conform to many of its international human rights law obligations and has chosen not to sign up for treaties it does not support. Significantly, many claimed that Myanmar and its security forces have committed ethnic cleansing, genocide and crimes against humanity, which means it has broken the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide that it is party to. However, it is revealed that Myanmar is yet to be criminally punished for such atrocities.

By contrast, the study looks at a form of genocide which is not as obvious but genocide all the same. With this in mind, the second half of the chapter explores the intersection of health and State crimes in the United States. Consequently, this project looks at sterilisation abuses from the American State (via individual State policies) that were inflicted upon the lives of women of colour from low socio-economic backgrounds. The case study then moves on to expose criminology for its failure to distance itself from the criminal justice discourse. Therefore, a social harm-based approach is provided to give a discursive space that seeks to outline preventable gendered and racialised harms as experienced by marginalised women. As will become apparent, the concept of social harm thus allows the piece to promote an understanding of the motives (i.e. the perpetuation of ‘whiteness’) behind multiple perpetrators within a neoliberal State.

For the discerning, the obvious connection between these two cases is the presence of genocidal racism. Despite being in different times and places (internationally and temporally), they both share similarities in terms of deception and lies relating to the events that were/are about to happen to the targeted victims.

Buddhism has been a source of inspiration in creating unique architectural traditions and a range of illustrious monuments over its 2,600 years of history. One such architectural tradition – erecting shrines to preserve the statuaries of the Buddha – is an excellent representation of the worldview of Buddhists, their respect for the Master, and how the teachings of the Buddha have evolved into different traditions in different contexts, times, locales, and societies. Besides being manifestations of the intellectual and spiritual life of Buddhist societies, these Buddha image-houses are also a rich source for understanding other cultural dimensions, such as the socio-economic conditions of Buddhist societies and people's interaction with the environment.

This book primarily focuses on one distinctive Buddhist architectural practice from late-medieval Sri Lanka – the construction of Buddha image-houses on elevated wooden platforms supported by stone pillars, popularly called ṭämpiṭavihāras. As a centre of Buddhism, Sri Lanka has a rich tradition of erecting Buddha image-houses, the origin of which dates to the fifth century. Yet, the ṭämpiṭavihāra tradition existed only from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries in Sri Lankan history, which is generally termed the Kandyan Period. In the course of its historical development, the Buddha image-house has shown a multitude of design forms, and out of this design variety, the ṭämpiṭavihāra is unique mainly due to its constructional techniques and specific architectural characteristics. The term ṭämpiṭa means ‘elevated on pillars’ (ṭäm usually mean stone pillars) and vihāragē or vihāra denotes the image-house. While an image-house is generally called paṭimāghara, bimbālaya, piḷimagē, vihārage, or budugē, the term ṭämpiṭavihāra is particularly used to distinguish it from all other image-house forms, referring to its distinctive constructional features. A synonym occasionally used for ṭämpiṭavihāra – däva-mata vihāra or däva-piṭa vihāra (temple on a wooden platform) – also emphasizes its characteristic elevated construction.

The ṭämpiṭavihāra is a unique type of imagehouse – unique, not only for its specific time frame and distinctive construction technology, but also for its complex architectural conception of the Buddhist worldview and soteriology. Although its architectural symbolism might be a continuation of the imagehouse tradition of the early classical era of Sri Lankan history, the ṭämpiṭavihāra is remarkable in two ways.

The evidence for climate change is strong. We are concerned for animal and plant extinction, as well as, in some of the worst case scenario modeling, the disappearance of entire landmasses and sources of arable land for our children and grandchildren. Worse, it is the people in vulnerable geographical areas, already suffering from natural disasters, lack of infrastructure, and weak governance who will be most at risk. There remains some uncertainty about the short- and long-term impacts of climate change, as well as how much of the natural and human disasters we are facing is attributable to climate change as opposed to other factors. Nevertheless, countries facing those challenges need a toolkit to address them, a toolkit that has been disappearing, along with the broader toolkit for industrial policy and development, since the middle of the 1990s.

Facing climate change, whether through increased regulation or coalition building with the private sector requires public buy-in for democratic countries. In the United States, for example, proponents of the Green New Deal rely heavily on their understanding of the priorities of the “average” American to attempt to garner public support. Research has shown that people of all ages and income groups identify themselves more strongly with their nation (at a federal level) than they do with humanity more broadly, their region of the world, their language group or even their local community or subnational unit. Moreover, survey after survey shows that, while climate change is of concern for some, it is far outweighed by economic issues like jobs and gas prices, not to mention global challenge of the COVID-19 pandemic. This much is obvious. Constituents of countries around the world expect their governments to prioritize them over the needs of people elsewhere.

In response to this, many countries have adopted new laws and policies to kick-start the renewable energy sector to mitigate climate change and encourage energy transitions, while at the same time contributing to economic growth and the protection of their citizens. These new laws, often called green industrial policy, are also relevant for foreign investors, prompting them to put their money in green energy while also contributing to the diversification of the local economy.

Something of a dandy drawn to the tuxedo life, the glitz of luxury hotels and room service, Tennessee Williams unleashed a more slovenly, gritty, workingclass modernity in his theatrical revolution in which undergarments grew emblematic. Williams's images of postwar masculinity would develop through the work of his protégé, William Inge, continue on the stage and extend into the iconography of film at least through James Dean, Paul Newman, Al Pacino and Sam Shepard as the distinctions between stage and celluloid blurred into performing arts. Such images became dominant in a mode casually called Southern Gothic, generally emblematized by the working man's depressionera uniform, rivetted overalls or “waist overalls.” Such anti- fashion began to emerge as high fashion in an evolution from cheap, durable emblems of labor to unisexual, shabby- chic fashion statements by century's end (even as fashion and durability are often at cross purposes), and runways, too, became performative spaces as street style merged with, overlapped and became indistinguishable (price tags excepted) from high style. Once foundational, the mere “under- shirt,” the form- fitting, stretch T- shirt, an “unmentionable” at one point, became an emblem, often in tandem with “overalls,” or “blue jeans,” not only of working- class vitality if not virility but also of rugged, middle- class, heightened (mostly white) masculinity as well. These postwar images extended through the youth rebellion of the 1950s and 1960s, into the subsequent tie dye era of the 1960s and 1970s, the grunge of the 1980s and 1990s, to the general shift in American public appearance from suits to sweats, from neckties to tie dyes, to their eventual co- option by corporate America; that is, the emergence, in what is here called T- Shirt Modernism, of athletic wear and training gear as acceptable, even fashionable, public dress and as emblems of masculine virility.

The Emergence of the Ṭämpiṭavihāra

The lack of archaeological evidence for image-houses belonging to the post-Polonnaruva era up to the late Kandyan period has led to speculations that the ṭämpiṭavihāra is a unique type of image-house and a deviation from the earlier paṭimāghara tradition. Although most ṭämpiṭavihāras now in use were originally built in the second half of the eighteenth century, supplementary architectural and literary evidence indicate that the ṭämpiṭavihāra tradition dates from the thirteenth century (the post-Polonnaruva era). Furthermore, it seems that the tradition of constructing timber image-houses on stone columns – the key characteristic of ṭämpiṭavihāras – was the popular norm after the thirteenth century, while those of brick construction, such as those in the earlier Polonnaruva, were the exception.

As cited above, in the days of the earliest paṭimāgharas between the fifth and ninth centuries, a tiled-andtimber-framed roof on stone pillars with brick walls encasing the framed structure was the construction method in vogue. The stone columns supported the roof and braced the brick walls that subdivided the interior of the shrine; thus, the brick walls did not necessarily support the roof. No specific evidence has been found of multi-storey image-houses in the Anurādhapura period, although ecclesiastical buildings, upōsathāghara such as the Lōhapāsāda of the third century with timber floors supported on stone columns, existed (Silva 1988, 193– 95). This tradition continued even during the Polonnaruva period, amidst high popularity of brick construction. The most significant examples are the two tooth-relic temples – Aṭadāgē and Häṭadāgē – two-storied monuments that housed relics on the upper floor and were built with timber decks on stone pillars, while the lower level functioned as an image-house. The same method was used to construct the timber galleries in the brickvaulted geḍigēs of Polonnaruva. Furthermore, in and around the metropolis of Polonnaruva were many multi-storied image-houses (Basnayake 1986, 5), which might have used the same construction method. This was revived later in the wake of the much-celebrated brick geḍigē style of the Polonnaruva era. Although the ṭämpiṭavihāras of the eighteenth century varies from these pre-thirteenth century image-houses in many respects, the tradition of erecting storied paṭimāgharas with timber floors supported on stone columns was widely in practice before the Kandyan period.