As major pharmaceutical companies worldwide scrambled to develop new vaccines to battle COVID-19, the wealthiest countries have likewise scrambled to secure early access to those vaccines. The result has been a wildly unequal distribution in which some countries will complete vaccinations by mid-2021 and others will still be waiting well into 2023. Although there is a myriad of reasons for this inequality, some scholars have identified strict protection of intellectual property as one part of the problem. In particular, many are concerned that a failure to share knowledge surrounding developing and manufacturing the vaccines has resulted in fewer suppliers and, ultimately, global shortages.

In general, the rules governing intellectual property (IP) aim to balance the encouragement of innovation with the needs and rights of those consuming it. However, this balance has become particularly contentious, when wealthier countries prioritize incentives for knowledge creation in a way that decreases access to necessary medicines, or in this case, vaccines. During 2020 and early 2021, the urgency of finding the right balance of IP protection and access to innovative products and ideas reached its zenith. The COVID-19 pandemic has revealed how the current trade and investment regime can present a major roadblock to access to almost every product and service needed to address this public health crisis.

Many have written about the urgency of making available, through facilitating and liberalizing global trade, the tests, masks, ventilators, medicines and vaccines that are necessary for all countries combating the pandemic. Others have pointed out that we need to temporarily remove or fundamentally change patent protection for certain medicines so that more companies—both innovators and generic manufacturers—can be testing the impacts of potential anti-viral medicines and vaccines. This chapter demonstrates that international cooperation to meet global challenges involves ample policy flexibility in IP, delinking nontrade areas from trade enforcement measures, and, especially, focusing on building long-term capacity building in countries in need of development.

Liberalizing Trade for Public Health

Trade in personal protective equipment, medical devices and treatments and vaccines has been in the spotlight since March 2020 when the United States and Europe began to take real notice of COVID-19.

The expression ‘collective memory’ appears in the sociological literature since the first institutionalisation of the discipline in the late nineteenth century. At that time, the phrases ‘collective memory’ and ‘social memory’ were intertwined. For the French positivist Guillaume De Greef, history was the ‘recording organ of the collective memory’ from which religions drew their social functions (De Greef 1893, ch. 1). In Chicago, a few years later, it was precisely this aggregative function of human experience that drew the attention of the sociologist George Edgar Vincent: ‘At any given moment the traditions of a society, economic, legal, religious, scientific, artistic, and political, may be thought of as social products forming in the aggregate the social memory’ (Vincent 1897, 15). Vincent was aware of Durkheim, but he shaped his idea from De Greef 's ‘social transformism’ (De Greef 1895, 9) and justified it by means of Gabriel Tarde's theory of imitation. It is where we meet the term ‘social memory’: ‘Imitation corresponds exactly to memory; in effect it is in the form of social memory, which is essential to every action, necessary at any given moment of social life, that memory constantly and essentially operates in the mind’ (Tarde 1895, 123). By drawing together strands from De Greef, Durkheim and Tarde, Vincent demonstrated an eclecticism that would have left his continental homologues perplexed. The wide range of analyses on the topic for the last decades troubles today this earlier background of Maurice Halbwachs's systematic work for conceptualisation between the 1920s and 1940s. He was indeed a philosopher who, as one among Bergson's (1896) careful readers, strictly developed the Durkheimian method on the topic, following his sociological master and homologue (Durkheim, 1898, or Mauss and Durkheim, 1903). Of course, the international reception came more recently: with Google Books, in French, Mémoire collective; in English, Collective Memory; and in German, kollektives Gedachtnis, among books of any kind published during the two last centuries and recently digitalised: the phrases are appearing a little more frequently around 1960 and their presences are boosted during the last two decades of the twentieth century.

Since 2000, the world has experienced a large, sudden increase in large-scale transnational land transactions. State-owned and private corporations, as well as private investors of agricultural land have purchased or (where land is not saleable) acquired long-term leases on large swathes of land for food, biofuel and (more recently) clean energy production. At their most extreme, these transactions result in illegal dispossession of land and forcible transfer of the population living there. The majority of these transactions are more nuanced in their design and impacts, however. Governments, seeking foreign investment for development and an infusion of capital, sell or lease government land to large corporations for food or energy plantations. Foreign direct investment (FDI) of this sort, as with all foreign investment, has long been considered a boon to countries seeking economic growth, diversification and development. Consequently, most (but not all) of these transactions take place between investors based in the United States, Europe and wealthy East Asian states, and regions with large amounts of rural land that is relatively less-developed, such as sub-Saharan Africa, Southeast Asia, Central and South America and Eastern Europe.

Despite its promises, however, large-scale land investment deals have resulted in increased inequality, widespread displacement of people and the destruction of natural resources. In many of these rural areas, indigenous communities and small agricultural villages have been living and subsisting on that land for centuries. Most of these traditional farmers do not have formal titles, even if they are available, and so the government can easily (and even inadvertently) sell the land, making them de facto trespassers on their own property. Even efforts at land reform through title and registration schemes have left local communities with increasingly tenuous and uncertain claims to their land.

The presence of these land “grabs,” so named for their negative impacts on local populations, as a source of investment is hardly new, and arguably is simply part of the economic and social transformation in many developing countries. In recent years, though, a sudden, large demand for rural land has been driven in part by the commodity boom of the mid-2000s, as well as by an ideological shift to promote foreign investment of all kinds, and global crises in finance and climate.

This chapter deals with the question of how the Durkheimians, and especially Maurice Halbwachs, react to the ascendant discipline of “scientific history.” Lacking the weapons to wage a pitched battle on the institutional front, the new-born sociology seized upon methodological arguments to counter the historians of the day. The challenge was a daunting one, for in France at the close of the nineteenth-century history was widely revered as preeminent among the social sciences (Prost 1996). From the 1880s on, problems relating to the definition of historical method sparked ongoing debates and mobilized a large portion of the French intelligentsia. Divergent interpretations faced off against each other. Not only did historical discourse undergo profound changes, but this mutation of historical science awakened interest in the social sciences as a whole. Philosophers became historians, literary critics turned into historians of literature, and the sociologists constructed their theories from historical materials.

Durkheim and his followers, grouped around the Année sociologique, shared fully in the vast heritage of historical thought. From the beginning, the effort to trace historical origins and developments brought a new depth to sociological research, which was eager to move beyond simple “journalistic” recording (Besnard 1986). We might say, in fact, that Durkheim and his disciples were attempting to apply a precise method, one that was experimental and comparative, to the concrete facts of history.

At first glance, that assertion might seem paradoxical, given the many issues on which the Durkheimians diverged from the historians. We must point out immediately that it was not the notion of history as positive knowledge that the Durkheimians were contesting, but rather the individualistic determinism of certain historians. Most of the Durkheimians seem to have recognized the importance of history, and indeed they made it one of sociology's principal “auxiliary sciences.”

Marcel Mauss frequently argued in favor of close collaboration between sociology and historical science. “A better historical description of the relationships of civilization between various societies will necessarily have an impact on our studies from many viewpoints,” he writes (Mauss 1927, 34).

Having discussed the historical development of the Buddha image-houses in Sri Lanka, we now turn to the ṭämpiṭavihāras. We mentioned that ṭämpiṭavihāras are a distinctive image-house type in many respects with some characteristics of paṭimāgharas of the earlier periods that influenced the emergence of the ṭämpiṭavihāra tradition. In this chapter, we discuss these in greater detail.

Distinctive Characteristics of Ṭämpiṭavihāras in the Kandyan Period

Compared to earlier versions of paṭimāgharas, the ṭämpiṭavihāra is a simple, compact, and unique image-house, distinguished mainly by constructional techniques. The key feature, as the name ṭämpiṭa suggests, is that short stone pillars support the elevated timber floor of the main structure. As a rule, paṭimāgharas are erected on a raised plane mainly to indicate the separation of the sacred from the profane areas. As mentioned above, throughout history, the image-house construction used a platform or plinth to achieve this spatial and ritualistic separation. In contrast, the method followed in ṭämpiṭavihāras is unique as it avoids direct contact between the ground and the building. On the other hand, the stone pillars used to raise the main floor are typically short (about a meter or three feet high, with a few exceptions) and create a narrow gap between the ground and the elevated superstructure. This makes a strong visual expression: the structure of a ṭämpiṭavihāra appears to float above the ground compared to other types of paṭimāgharas, which seem to grow out of the ground or firmly stand on it. This distinctive attribute, in terms of both architectural expression and constructional method, clearly singles out ṭämpiṭavihāra as a separate category from all the other paṭimāgharas in the country.

The second difference between ṭämpiṭavihāras and the earlier paṭimāgharas is in the architectural form: tämpiṭavihāras do not follow the classic gandhakuṭi plan. Referring to ṭämpiṭavihāras, Bandaranayake (1974, 213) mentions that the gandhakuṭi plan ‘seems to have been replaced by a more domestic, rectangular or square shape between the 16th and the 19th century’. The classic gandhakuṭi plan has a smaller vestibule attached to a larger, square-shaped cella with a circumambulatory, all enclosed within walls. In contrast to this arrangement, in ṭämpiṭavihāras, the entire building has only two spatial components: a small cella that houses the Buddha image/s and an open colonnaded ambulatory encircling the sanctum.

The first case study of this chapter analyses the main differences between the Māori Te Tiriti o Waitangi and the English Treaty of Waitangi. The differences in definitions, nuances and terminology are analysed in terms of how they allowed British colonists to insidiously confiscate Māori land and thus expose the impacts this has had on Māori communities to this day. The attempts by Māori people to regain ownership over their lands and the government's response to these attempts are also addressed. Towards the end of this evaluation, however, an analysis of the United Nations report on New Zealand's treatment of the Māori communities is embarked upon to help emphasise the deceptive differences in the nature and intent of the two documents signed. By doing so, the immoral role of the State in the events that followed is thoroughly revealed, evaluated and dissected to expose the illegal and elusive misappropriation of Māori lands. All in all, a convincing argument for restoration to the Māori population is made as opposed to making surface-level, empty attempts that mask an apathetic, callous State.

The second study in this chapter turns the focus on Canada and the creation of residential schools where the indigenous people were subjected to a compulsory education of white values, thought, practices and history. Moreover, many children were exposed to physical and sexual abuse under this regimen, whereas indigenous children were malnourished and exposed to diseases resulting in thousands of children dying while attending these schools. As the case study reveals, this was a form of unregulated cultural genocide, which caused countless generations of indigenous people to suffer pointlessly and maliciously. Family and community bonds were shattered by this enforced separation yet, unfortunately, the victims had to rely on similar international cases and the United Nations to receive any corroboration of the atrocities committed against them. In the end, though, the study advocates the eradication of the negative views towards the indigenous population and, on a more hopeful front, postulates that time and education will promote an international recognition of the State criminality behind the implementation and operation of the Canadian residential schools.

Ambuḷugala Ṭӓmpiṭavihāra, Kǟgalle District

The ṭämpiṭavihāra was constructed for the safe keeping of the sacred tooth relic of the Buddha during the reign of Parākramabāhu VII (1478– 1484) of the Kōṭṭē period. The construction of this two-storey image-house was carried out under the guidance of Vǟkoladeṇiyē Nallaperumāl āchāri (master architect), presumably the architect of the royal court, thus indicating the direct patronage of the king. In the original design, the upper storey functioned as the relic chamber and the lower storey as an imagehouse. In the early 1800s, the ṭämpiṭavihāra was renovated under the patronage of Vattēgama Thērō (Abeywardana 2002). The lower-level chamber was removed and converted into an open pavilion, while the upper level was converted into an image-house. The elaborately carved stone door frame of the lower storey of the original structure has been left in place. The stone columns of the lower level and the wooden columns of the upper level are all richly carved. These represent the design motifs in use during the Kōṭṭē period. The material, width, and the number of columns in the ambulatories of the two floors differ: a higher number of slender wooden columns are placed on the upper floor, with thicker stone columns on the lower floor. This accentuates the elevated ‘floating’ expression of the upper floor with a heavier look for the lower floor. The ambulatories of the two floors are connected via a staircase placed in the rear of the structure. The Ambuḷugala Raja Mahā Vihāra is situated 13 km east of Kǟgalla and 3 km south on Ambuḷugala-Dehimaḍuva road from Utuvankanda junction on Colombo-Kandy road.

Kaḍigamuva Ṭӓmpiṭavihāra (Lower Terrace), Kǟgalle District

The Kaḍigamuva Nāgavanārāma Purāṇa Raja Mahā Vihāra is perhaps the only temple with two ṭämpiṭavihāras and one ṭämpiṭa-dēvāla. The temple is located 7.4 km from Rambukkana, on Rambukkana-Māvanälla road. Its recorded history dates to the reign of Gajabāhu I (112– 134 CE), and the temple has received royal patronage from all the rulers of the Kandyan period. Kaḍigamuvē Dhammajoti Thērō, the then chief incumbent of the temple, received higher ordination from Upāli of Siam at the re-establishment of higher ordination during the reign of Kīrti Śrī Rājasiṅghe (1747– 1780 CE) (Abeyawardana 2002).

Preamble

I wrote this article fifty years ago. The root of the argument stemmed from Halbwachs, but the data, the narrative, and the analysis of the functioning of the different markets are now bygone; at most they provide historical value. At that time, my research program focused on the various influences and the slim power that the Planning Commission had over public policies in several sectors, including that of construction and housing. Several senior civil servants whom I interviewed did not agree with the “burning obligation to think about the future” (which was the— widely diffused— official line), but all of them were convinced that the stock market and financiers were of little concern. General de Gaulle had said it, loud and clear: “France's politics are not developed ‘à la corbeille’ “ (La ‘corbeille’ at the Palais Brongniart, the headquarters of the Stock Exchange, included a circle surrounded by a barrier in the middle of the immense hall, accessible only to stockbrokers for the daily listing of government securities). France's politics are not based on the stock exchange. Looking further into Maurice Halbwachs, I came across his book, Les expropriations et le prix des terrains à Paris. Being in contact with some finance experts, I decided to investigate whether this same definition of speculation could be applied to securities, land, and buildings. I guessed that it would be conclusive, subject, of course, to local specificities and social images of zones. I thus concluded that, in a democratic country, and a capitalist regime, such as France, speculation contributed more to creating a predominantly positive movement than to disrupting the natural order of things.

Today I would no longer stick to that conclusion. The rationale behind the stock exchange's functioning completely changed between 1971 and 1980 due to the very rapid expansion of finance-based capitalism. After the United States abandoned the idea of the fixed value dollar, and following the creation of the market for hedging and other derivatives in 1975. To explain it roughly, several layers are superimposed and combined.

According to folklore mentioned in Mātalē Vihāra Vaṃsaya (The Chronicle of Temples in Mātalē), this ṭämpiṭavihāra was constructed in 1730 under the patronage of Piḷimatalavvē and Nugapola families with the guidance of the Buddhist monk Varāvala Thērō. It is located on Dämbāva-Mädabädda road, about 3 km west from Wahakōṭṭē junction, that is, 8 km south on Galēwela-Paḷāpatwala road. Placed on the highest terrace of the temple grounds, the ṭämpiṭavihāra faces north and used to have a maṇḍapa that functioned as a chapter-house. Comparatively smaller in size, the ṭämpiṭavihāra does not have an ambulatory. It is believed that Varāvala Therō was from the lineage of Hēratgama Ratanapāla, who belonged to the well-known Nīlagama guild of artists, who were also responsible for murals of the temples at Dambulla and Degaldōruva. The indelible stamp of this Sittara tradition of Kandyan paintings is clearly visible in the murals of this ṭämpiṭavihāra. The free and expressive style of the figures drawn and the use of light greyish blue in depicting ponds and trees are considered specific characteristics of the murals of this ṭämpiṭavihāra. Following tradition, only the life incidents of the Buddha are represented in the murals; yet the life incidents selected are uncommon. The horizontal narrative strips of wall paintings at the Dämbāva Ṭämpiṭavihāra are the narrowest panels found in the murals of the Kandyan period.

Dūnkumbura Ṭӓmpiṭavihāra, Kandy District

Surrounded by a picturesque mountainous setting, the ṭämpiṭavihāra is in the Dūnkumbura Raja Mahā Vihāra in Hataraliyädda on Galagedara-Rambukkana road about 8 km south from Galagedara. Initiated by the monk Dūnkumbure Ratanapāla, it was built in 1830. Constructed on 24 stone pillars, the ṭämpiṭavihāra has a maṇḍapa in the front that is used as a drumming hall. Originally there had been an outer wall along the ambulatory. This wall was removed to reduce the excessive loading on the structure and a new set of timber columns was introduced to support the roof during the preservation activities conducted by the Archaeological Department of Sri Lanka in 1994.

Kaloṭuvāva Ṭämpiṭavihāra, Kandy District

During the reign of Śrī Vickrama Rājasiṅghe (1798– 1815), two village headmen, Kaloṭuvāvē Gamarāla and Goḍagalē Gamarāla, led the construction of this ṭämpiṭavihāra within the premise of Kaloṭuvāva Purāna Raja Mahā Vihāra.

Beginning in the mid-2000s, a wave of new thinking overtook the economics profession on the question of the flow of capital across borders. According to what has been called the new welfare economics of capital controls, unstable capital flows to emerging markets can be viewed as a negative externality on recipient countries. Therefore, regulations on cross-border capital flows are seen as a tool to correct for market failures that can make markets work better and enhance growth, rather than worsen it. This is a marked departure from the accepted view during the 1990s, when the IMF (and others) put pressure on borrowing countries to liberalize their capital accounts with the same vigor that they liberalized trade.

According to the new research, externalities are generated by capital flows because individual investors and borrowers do not know what the impacts of their financial decisions will be on the financial stability of any particular nation. A common analogy for this effect is the case of an individual firm not taking into consideration its contribution to (and the costs of) urban air pollution when pricing its products. Just as, in the case of pollution, the polluting firm can accentuate the environmental harm done by its activity, in the case of capital flows, a foreign investor might tip a nation into financial difficulties and even a financial crisis. This is a prime example of a market failure, which calls for policy interventions to correct it and make markets work more efficiently.

This idea is not entirely new, of course. Even during the formation of the World Bank and the IMF, Keynes and his colleagues acknowledged that capital flows must be regulated in order to prevent crises and “maintain an independent monetary policy.” Exercising control over capital flows allows for more policy space to increase employment and financial stability. The new research, however, brings those mid-twentieth-century calculations up to date and models global capital flows and controls in a broader context. As a result, it has gained credence with international financial institutions who view it as offering a more rigorous justification for policy action on capital flows.

The first study in this chapter discusses why county lines constitute a form of ‘organised crime’. Accordingly, the study explores the hierarchy, flexible nature and the use of technology within these new drug-dealing operations. While some elements of county lines and associated networks may seem disorganized and decentralised, this is purposeful as it deliberately obfuscates their tactics, planning and organisation. As a consequence, county lines can be considered to be examples of organised crime despite any appearance to the contrary. Critically, the case study also examines the way in which organised crime has been constructed, in particular, how organised crime has often been portrayed by the media as counterproductive if policing efforts concentrated upon this type of timeconsuming crime as opposed to providing a proactive reduction in street-based crime.

As a consequence, policing tends to be focused upon conventional street crime while State crime and State responsibility is, by implication, conveniently neglected by the powers that be. To underscore this disturbing aspect, the study thus shifts attention to understanding county lines through a social harm perspective. From the social harm perspective, those involved in the operation of county lines are both victims and offenders. Hence the case study explores issues of vulnerability, child exploitation and grooming. Ultimately, though, social harm theory is used to focus on the harm caused by the UK government's actions (i.e. austerity agendas) and non-actions (neglecting poverty) which have perpetuated the vulnerability and marginalisation of young people – people who are, as a result, more susceptible to gang recruitment than they otherwise would be.

Drawing on different scholars’ definitions of the peacekeeping role of the UN forces in Bosnia, the ensuing case study discusses the extent to which the ‘peacekeeping’ personnel were involved in human trafficking, sexual exploitation and abuse during their time in war-torn Bosnia. By looking at the nature of the crimes – and the study of structural elements that allowed for continual crimes of harm to be committed on an organised basis – this case study uncovers examples of devastating and unpunished crimes of the powerful. By considering the complexity, as well as the difficulties encountered when researching such crimes, the study concludes that the peacekeepers (as UN agents) committed crimes from above (Tombs and Whyte 2003).