Cultural Reflections Volume 5: 2003

Cultural Reflections Volume 5: 2003
R e f l e c t i o n s ______________________________________________________ Journal of the Graduate Students of Anthropology
University of Victoria VOLUME 5 · FALL 2003 FALL 2003 i CULTURAL
Journal of the Graduate Students of Anthropology
University of Victoria FALL 2003 – Volume 5
Journal of the Graduate Students of Anthropology Publisher University of Victoria Department of Anthropology Graduate Students Managing Editors Nicole Smith Michelle Rogers Andrea Gemmill Trudi Smith Advertising, Sponsorship, Design and Production Nicole Smith Michelle Rogers Andrea Gemmill Trudi Smith Cover Photo Sara Perry Publication of this issue of Cultural Reflections would not be possible without the generous financial support of the following University of Victoria sponsors: Office of the Vice­President Research Faculty of Graduate Studies Faculty of Social Science Department of Anthropology Graduate Students' Society
Printer ZAP! Photocopy (UVSS) MISSION: Cultural Reflections is a peer­reviewed journal organized by anthropology graduate students. We accept anthropologically­relevant submissions from all university and college students on Vancouver Island, on a Call for Papers basis. Cultural Reflections strives to be a participatory publication offering an opportunity for students to participate fully in the peer­review, evaluation and publishing process. The Editors seek scholarly contributions including articles, reviews, and field notes, covering diverse topics and issues from all four anthropology sub­disciplines: archaeology and cultural, physical and linguistic anthropology. Every attempt is made to publish Cultural Reflections (ISSN 1492­4293) annually. General enquiries may be forwarded to: Managing Editor, Cultural Reflections, University of Victoria, Department of Anthropology, Cornett Bldg, Room B211, PO Box 3050, Stn CSC, Victoria, B.C. V8W 3P5. Copyright © 2003 by University of Victoria Department of Anthropology Graduate Students. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher. Opinions expressed by individual authors are not necessarily those of Cultural Reflections, the Department of Anthropology, or the University of Victoria. All authors retain the right to republish their material. The Editors assume responsibility for typographical errors. FALL 2003 iii Table of Contents ARTICLES Volume 5 FIELD NOTES Language and Hearts are Important: A Tale of Leishmaniasis Building “Affective Athleticism” in DIESL CAMERON CULHAM p. 1 Inserting the Human into Human History: Experiments with Montage, Experience, and Discontinuous Narrative in Archaeological Reportage SARA ELIZABETH PERRY RENEE BAUER p. 43 As we drive along… ANNE CATHERINE BAJARD p. 47 p. 7 Stories That Map The Way Home: A Metis REVIEWS Process of Self Creation CATHY RICHARDSON p. 21 Seeking Tools to Revision the World: A Review of Jone Salomonsen’s Enchanted Feminism ROBYN A. CRYDERMAN Double Naved Churches of Medieval Lebanon: An Exploration of the Problem, the Evidence and the Theories ANGELA ANDERSEN p. 28 PRELIMINARY REPORTS All we did was ask! : Exploring Health­Related Behaviours and Beliefs in Taiwan CARLY J. MATTES and AMARJIT MANN iv p. 38 CULTURAL REFLECTIONS p. 51
Introduction Welcome to the fifth issue of Cultural
Reflections, a journal put together by the graduate students of the Department of Anthropology at the University of Victoria. Since its inception in the Fall of 1997, Cultural Reflections has remained an overwhelmingly successful project, receiving high praise from students, professors and anthropology departments across the country. For those of you familiar with past issues of our journal, we thank you for your continued interest and support, and we are confident that you will be delighted by this year’s selections. To all of our new readers, we hope you enjoy your first Cultural
Reflections experience, and remember to look for us again next year! At the heart of this journal are the eight individuals who contributed their work to make this publication possible. Their commitment to the editorial process was outstanding, as each participant had to anonymously review three other articles, a process that served to strengthen and polish the pieces that now appear in this volume. We commend this year’s authors for maintaining the high standards that have characterized the previous journals. We would also like to extend a warm thank you to our generous financial sponsors. These are individuals who recognize the importance and value of projects that aim to combine students’ academic and intellectual interests with the practical, professional skills often required in the dissemination of information. stages of planning and soliciting sponsorship, through to the layout and printing stages has been a great challenge but well worth the effort. (We should also mention that we had a lot of fun!) Keeping in line with last year’s issue, we decided to solicit articles not only from anthropology students, but from students in other academic departments who believed their work to be of anthropological interest. This issue is truly a testament to the incredible scope and diversity of contemporary anthropology. Finally, for those of you who are familiar with the layout of Cultural Reflections you will recognize the usual sections (articles, field notes and reviews), but we would like to draw your attention to a new section “preliminary reports” that we feel is an exciting, dynamic addition to this volume. Once again, we hope you enjoy reading this issue of Cultural Reflections as much as we have enjoyed editing and producing it. The Cultural Reflections Team Nicole Smith Michelle Rogers Andrea Gemmill Trudi Smith
Being a part of Cultural Reflections has given us – the Cultural Reflections Team – an amazing opportunity to learn about the production of an academic journal. Bringing this journal together from the initial FALL 2003 v Language and Hearts are Important: Building “Affective Athleticism” in DIESL This article documents the activities of an English as a Second Language class which incorporates drama as a methodology. Theatre in ESL allows for the development of affect tools which, as the experiences in this article illustrate, can enrich connections and interrelating in a second language class, as well as promote language acquisition. Intercultural explorations are made and feelings shared when ESL students are invited to interact in ways that a theatre­ based approach makes possible. This article outlines that process and suggests benefits of the DIESL (drama in ESL) methodology.
Cameron Culham Several years into my career as an ESL teacher, I Cameron is recently completed his graduate studies at the University of Victoria where he has been investigating the possibilities of drama as a conduit for language acquisition and intercultural understanding. He has been working as an ESL (English as a Second Language) teacher at the English Language Centre (University of Victoria, Continuing Studies) for ten years and is often invited to lead workshops in both drama and music at this institution and at other ESL schools around the province. Cameron also works with special needs children and adults and is a houseparent, supervising international students, at St. Michaels University School. He is also a musician and actor, and directs youth theatre locally. He is planning to direct a musical theatre project in China next summer. His chapter, “Coping with Obstacles in Drama­ based ESL Teaching”, has just been published in Body and Language: Intercultural learning through drama. He has also published a chapter in an American publication: Arts and Social Change. His interests in intercultural creative exploration continue and he is currently researching for a contribution in a book on this theme. Acknowledgements Cam is grateful to his supervising professor Juliana Saxton, for so generously guiding and sharing; her expertise and insights helped ensure the success of this DIESL workshop. He also wishes to recognize the many ESL colleagues at UVIC who have invited him into their classrooms over the years to try out new ideas in drama and ESL. Above all he is indebted to the hundreds of students from around the world who have so freely and imaginatively participated in what at times might have became aware of a certain barrier that prevented clear communication in my classes. Not only did I speak a different verbal language from my students, but we related quite differently non­verbally as well. I recall very clearly the incident that first brought this to my attention, and I mention it here because it is certainly by no means a unique incident. In fact, misunderstandings, as you can well imagine, are an ongoing occupational hazard and as such, my story is symbolic of many intercultural misunderstandings that arise in this field of study and illustrates the extent to which non­verbal communication plays a key role in my work. At the start of term a few years ago we gathered as a class at a downtown shopping mall for an activity in which the students would take pictures of local people and buildings. As class members arrived, our group began spreading out to the point where local merchants in our meeting area became visibly concerned. No one else in my group seemed aware of this. I began to feel somewhat anxious and in an effort to diffuse a potentially difficult situation, I began gesturing to the group (a direct pushing motion) to move back and allow a passage way for shoppers. This action on my part seemed to satisfy those in the shops but my students paid little attention to me; they did finally react when a security guard arrived to ask us to move. Somewhat agitated by this time, I tried to apologize to the people around us and found myself frustrated at the seeming rudeness of my students. As many of the students I teach come from Japan, Mexico, Brazil, Korea, Thailand and other populated countries, what I and the other “locals” had perceived to be an overcrowded gathering area was perhaps not so at all to seemed an unconventional approach to second language learning.
FALL 2003 1 most of my students. The gesture I had so fixedly been employing in my efforts to move them back was, I later discovered, being misread by them as saying either “Stay where you are” or “Keep quiet!” What I considered to be a universal gesture was clearly not so, and the emotion I believed to be clearly etched on my face was also not as clear to the students as I had thought. No matter how animated I became with the gesture that I perceived to signify “Move back”, their cultural reading of my sign was telling them a different story. How often, when misunderstood in a foreign country, do we make no other adjustment than to increase our volume? Was this what I was attempting to do with my students in a non­verbal way? To set the context, I invite you into the world of my classroom of students with some abilities in English, a world in which a large part of our interacting is non­verbal and gestural and full of shaping and signing and waving and at times grasping – and even gasping! I ask my students to close their eyes and make a gesture without words. I assure them that this is not a performance. I instruct: “Now, with eyes closed, can you use your face, hands and maybe even your posture if that feels appropriate, to illustrate the sentence, ‘I’m sorry but I can’t hear you’. Try a few ways and settle on one that feels right. Now, with your eyes still closed, I wonder, can you show me, in the same way, ‘No, I would rather not’. And, finally, how about this one? ‘Come here, please’”. Trying not to rush and yet taking care not to make it go on for too long, I then invite students to open their eyes. I comment that I saw a range of expressions and gestures and ask them to talk to the person next to them about the gestures they used and, if they liked, to compare. Drama in ESL is proving to be an effective means of drawing our students out and towards one another. I argue, in this paper, that its activities reach students directly at the level of affect. Affect is that area that covers feelings, emotions, mood and temperament (Chaplin, 1975); affect learning not only involves learning about feelings and exercising feelings, but also discovering how you feel about learning about feelings. Arnold, in Affect in Language Learning, emphasises that “the affective side of learning is not in opposition to the cognitive side” but that “when both are used together, the learning process can be constructed on a firmer foundation” (1999:1). Affect displays "are body expressions which indicate the emotional state of the communicator . . . [they] tend to be less consciously controllable than [body gestures]...consequently, many people carefully watch affect displays as a way of checking up on the veracity of verbal statements" (Eisenberg 1971:27). With regard to affective learning and its important role in second language learning, Stern points out that "language teaching theorists have been rather slow to recognize the important part that affect plays in language learning . . . It was only in the early 1970's, as part of the general reaction against 2 audiolingualism, that humanistic language teaching theory...placed affect and personality at the center of attention" (1992:85). In any actor training program the onus is on the creation of a safe and collaborative setting in which all actors can freely express themselves. There the inevitable anxiety of taking on new roles and projects is mediated; there risks may be taken; there feelings can be explored without constraint. In theatre, there is, and always has been, a deep understanding of the intrinsic value of the affective domain and of the environment that encourages its development. In performance, if an audience is to be reached, the actor, the director, the designers all need to “speak” the language of “affect”. Russian director Meyerhold says that “the essence of human relationships is determined by gestures, poses, glances and silences. Words alone cannot say everything…” (in Braun 1969: 155). Peter Brook’s practice and writings continually explore the threads that connect actors and audiences from diverse backgrounds. Antonin Artaud in The Theatre and its Double, offered the term “affective athleticism” to describe the sort of training that actors, to be effective, must undertake: One must grant the actor a kind of affective musculature which corresponds to the physical localizations of feelings. The actor is like the physical athlete, but with this surprising difference: his affective organism is analogous to the organism of the athlete, is parallel to it, as if it were its double, although not acting upon the same plane. The actor is the athlete of the heart (1958:133, italics mine). When I introduce DIESL activities that allow for a momentary departure from grammar and a peeling away of the often cumbersome language layer, I find there to be a pure relating of emotions amongst my students: inciting laughter, easing tension and embracing chaos. But drama also sets the stage for the development of an ease in language use and provides a purpose for language use. This makes sense because, as Stewig (1979) points out in Drama: the Spontaneous Language Art, you do not speak unless you have a reason to do so. In many of the traditional ESL activities, the purpose for speaking is to demonstrate correct use rather than to convey meaning. It is the expressive language of the everyday that students need to be able to use. It is in expressive language that words are generated by the impulse of feelings (Brook 1968). In my experience teaching ESL, students gain that ease and confidence in language only when they are given opportunities to develop and flex the muscles of the language of the heart. I have held several workshops in which Shannan Calcutt, a Canadian performer trained as a clown, has led my students. Her results with these groups have been
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS significant. Shannan’s teaching of clown techniques, mostly in the non­verbal frame, allowed my students to explore communicating on an affective level. Describing that work, Calcutt (1999) observed, “They said so much without using words at all. In fact, the entire room seemed to shift focus…they were a part of my world and [of] each others’ ”. By building a strong sense of community in the classroom, an objective this workshop fulfilled, a transformation had occurred. The clown, of course, addresses the audience on an affective level. Dörnyei and Malderez (1999) in their study on group dynamics in foreign language learning and teaching, see “the L2 [second language] teacher as a juggler rushing to keep the various plates of ‘skills’, ‘pace’, ‘variety’, ‘activities’, ‘competencies’ etc. all spinning on their sticks”. They warn that “this job is doomed to failure if the affective ground in which the sticks are planted is not firm” (pp.156­157). The adult learners in my classes have not yet mastered their target language, English, nor do they share a common mother tongue with their classmates. Despite these barriers, it has been my experience that by the end of a term, my ESL learners have, in addition to grammar skills and pronunciation skills and all of those “predictable outcomes”, somehow developed a way of communicating with one another and with me that seems to transcend verbal language. When I first began introducing drama to my students I met with only partial success. I discovered I was either imposing scripts or trying to engage students in activities that were artificial and of little meaning to them. More often than not, ESL students are already anxious and when I cast out the invitation to “perform a skit” for their peers, you can imagine the difficulty that caused. The workshop that I have devised and now use involves a considerable amount of physicality, interaction and humour, and it does not isolate any one individual (Culham 2002: 99­101). It taps into their worlds, their experiences. The drama work I do is not theatrical in the sense of producing a play, although there is great linguistic and intercultural merit in that sort of work as well (see Leavitt 1997). In my work the students are rarely called upon to perform, but I use theatre techniques as a way of inviting students to express what verbally is perhaps inaccessible to them or what interculturally might transcend words or verbal expression. One of my greatest challenges in this non­ performance work has been to validate it to the students. In his book Emotions and Adult Learning, More suggests one of the difficulties in classes with adult learners, such as mine, stems from the fact that students perceive their teachers to be “knowledge­disseminators” (1977: 39). This is especially true of students who come to me from formal educational backgrounds. It is only natural that the introduction of drama work challenges and shakes to the very root the students’ paradigms of learning. They initially perceive what they are doing to be “playing” (which it is and I quickly acknowledge that). With some groups there is a feeling that theatre games should be put in at the end of the class, once more substantial work has been done or, perhaps, saved for the class party at the end of term. Current research in the field of DIESL, however, suggests otherwise (Kao and O’Neill 1998). Here is an exercise I have used successfully. In it you will see those elements of play and game that give rise to the students’ hesitation. Using a scarf (or sometimes a pencil), I invite my students to sit in a circle (already a very foreign concept for those who have been through years of “row” learning!) and I simply pull out a scarf, folding it in different ways to generate imagination. I invite them to play asking, “I wonder how many different times we can change this scarf by using it in different ways?” I try to repeat words that encourage originality in the task, such as “different” or “in your experience”. I then demonstrate and, to introduce small elements of theatricality, sometimes add music or dim the lights. At this point­and you can imagine my students: all adult learners with university backgrounds and each holding his/her own pre­conceived ideas about drama­I get some puzzled looks. Puzzled but intrigued. The play begins. I always give students the option of “passing” as the scarf comes their way, but one by one they are drawn in. By the end, that simple scarf has made its way around the circle and been transformed into kites, wedding veils, a baby, Sumo gear, a bullfighter’s cape and so on. The mood has shifted in a tangible way and laughter has been shared. Japanese students, proficient in origami, have dazzled us with their talents and Brazilian soccer players have displayed their skills. It is a familiar theatre exercise and one that we all know and have done, but what is important to me is the energy, vitality and the shared pleasure of discovery! There is the safety in that no language is required of the participants, yet those so wishing can freely share in the reflection. Significant and meaningful dialogue has transpired each time I have introduced this activity because the participants are delighted with themselves and each other and want to know more: their language is driven by a need to know and a desire to share their experiences. A transformation has most clearly taken place through this simple drama game. We have, for that moment in time, transcended language limitations and connected as individuals with stories, emotions and empathy for the other. Furthermore, a simple and accessible activity such as the one I have described, equips the students with tools for improvisation and serves as a springboard to future drama activities. Among the benefits I have observed from using simple drama activities with my students and in teacher­in­ service workshops:
FALL 2003 3 1. Students are able to express themselves in ways other than through words. When words do not come easily, non­verbal opportunities allow students to reveal themselves and learn about others in more direct and intuitive ways. The sign (gesture or facial expression or posture) is often less abstract than the word. 2. Drama activities offer community building opportunities in a classroom where there are students of varying levels of language proficiency (for example: see student comments that follow). 3. Teachers are also able to use non­verbal cues to demonstrate caring and concern for students in a way that more formal language instruction does not allow, bound as it is by the physical constraints and the pressure to understand. 4. Non­verbal activities provide an excellent means of releasing the stress of language learning. The atmosphere of play prevails and yet important learning is going on (Bolton 1984). 5. Students, often hesitant to speak out, can become confident when the language expectation is removed entirely. They will take an initial step (in its most literal sense) more readily than they will utter an initial word (see Maley & Duff 1987). 6. “Total Physical Response” (Asher 1977, see also Krashen & Terrell 1983), an established tool in ESL methodology, is enhanced through drama activities. The body is as much a part of thinking as is the mind, and non­verbal activities force everyone, teacher included, to “listen” in a different way (Cremin 2001). All become more astute readers of sign and readers of the body (Morgan & Saxton 2000). 7. In all drama work, power dynamics shift as the teacher becomes a participant alongside the students. This “shift” enables teachers to be seen in ways that mitigate the sense of authority that can intimidate students. As well, students can reveal expertise previously hidden by verbal (or sometimes cultural) domination of other less inhibited members of the class. 8. Non­verbal drama activities transfer directly to verbal ones, and subsequent verbal interchanges are triggered by these non­verbal activities. ESL teachers need to be reminded that all words begin as impulses that are stimulated by attitudes and 4 feelings that demand to be expressed (Brook, 1968). Artaud raged against the theatre in Europe that did nothing but talk. It was a theatre he discounted as “digestive”, devoid of “physiological sensitivity” (1958: 125). “It is,” he writes, “by cultivating his [sic] emotion in his body that the actor recharges his voltage” (40). Neelands (1995) takes that understanding to the totality of theatre performance. Theatre, he writes, is “the art of actions not of words” (1995: 42). The power of working through the affective domain has, from the beginning, been instrumental in the creation of strong theatre. Its implications in other fields is only now being recognized, researched, qualified and quantified. Theatre transforms. And theatre activities introduced to an ESL classroom also transform. Like actors to their audiences, DIESL learners express through emotions. As in the theatre experience, DIESL students enter inside a particular moment together in a shared space and time. The essence of who these students are as individuals, what their struggles have been, where they have fears and frustrations and, most importantly, what unites them, are all foregrounded through drama, providing the firm basis upon which the language teacher can more effectively keep all the “plates spinning” as she or he “juggles” all the other variables of ESL teaching. “Recognizing oneself as an active participant in [a] culture is the first, essential step for learning to be a self­confident participant in all kinds of cultural practices,” writes Mullen (1995: 32­33). For ESL students, our art form opens the doors to language acquisition by enabling their first participatory steps as novice athletes of affective expression.
I think we communicated by our hearts. I understood we communicate with other people not only [with] languages but also hearts. Maybe it is not so much important to communicate by language as by heart. Even if this is true, I must learn English hard! Both languages and hearts are so important (Rie, ESL student). I can, of course, paint you a fine argument for drama in ESL, but the proof lies in student responses. This comment (used with permission) comes from the journal of a young adult Japanese student who participated in a DIESL workshop in the summer of 2002 at the University of Victoria. Student journal entries were recorded halfway through the 6 week ESL course. Other students’ reflections from the same class as Rie (above) are included as an appendix to this article. Their comments speak to the “exercise” of those affective areas, that “language as by
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS heart”, that is so often underutilized in the delivery of ESL course work. Appendix (other ESL student comments) Ayako: I hate scarf. Because I don’t like thinking idea to make thing, so I had no ideas. [for the scarf activity described at the beginning of this article] I was bored. But I had fan [fun]. Because things that other people did is very fan. So I was glad to seeing things that other people did. I enjoyed this class. My ideas about drama was that I can’t do. But now my ideas about drama is that I can do. I became to like drama. Kumi: My idea about drama before was I couldn’t do it. I became frightened when I had to do in front of everyone. I got nervous. After I did it, my idea about drama changed. The drama activity was exciting. It was very interesting. I liked it. I was surprised, because a lot of different ideas appeared…I think drama activity will be helpful to me. When we talk with someone using gesture, the conversation becomes more powerful. I think gesture adds words to a power. Satoko: To show my opinions actively was required the courage. But it helped with me to communication with many friend. I thought that communication, eye contact, and body language appeals to basic to know each other. I couldn’t eye contact with not close friend before. So I was under extreme tension. I realized that is very important for me. Megumi: It was very interesting. I can begin to be aggressive. I was happy to make action and imagine…It needed imagination and communication, body language, watching. I think that learning English also needs those. So when speaking English, I don’t have to strain and be nervous. Sachiko: Before I thought that drama is playing a role and I felt nervous. Because I hate improvisation and impulse. After it was exciting. But I thought that I need more imagination myself…It was good stimulation because I always avoid the risk (improvisation things). Yoko: After that I thought that drama is difficult. The actor has to act and express how he or she feels. But it’s good for us. Because sometimes we have trouble in it. Yuka: When I did the silent communication activities, I thought that language is not the only means of communication. It was interesting that we could gather from friends’ looks or friends’ gestures how they feel. Hitomi: I don’t make eye contact with not friendly people. But today I got some new friends by the game. I said in my heart “Please show me! Please!!”, then I got someone. Next time, we were friends. Besides, I wondered why we started running at the same time. Other things, we had clapped at the same time. I think that I can get my will across for other ones. That’s fantastic! Izumi: I thought conversation plus silent communication activities can express what oneself means. The drama activity I enjoyed the most was “name game”, because I was interested that look everybody’s expression. I had not known someone until then, but I know a little now. Toshie: When I did silent communication activities I felt it is difficult to catch what my partner wants to say, and I thought “Don’t be shy” because one can’t make oneself understood if one is shy, and these games were very useful for making friends with members of the class. They were so funny. I was excited by expecting what the others did. I will never forget Megumi’s posture (physical illustration in name game). References Cited Arnold, J. and H. Brown 1999 “Introduction”. In J. Arnold, ed. Affect in Language Learning. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Pp.1­24. Artaud, A. 1958 The Theater and its Double. (M.C. Richards, Trans.). New York: Grove Press. Asher, J.J. 1977 Learning another Language through Actions: The complete teacher’s guidebook. Los Gatos, CA: Sky Oaks Productions. Braun, E. 1969 Meyerhold on Theatre. London: Methuen. Brook, P. 1968 The Empty Space. London: Penguin Books. Calcutt, S. 1999 October 14, E­mail interview. Chaplin, J.P. 1975 Dictionary of Psychology. (Revised edition). New York: Dell. Cremin, M. 2001 “If you think, you must think with your whole body: How children use their bodies to make imaginative meaning in classroom drama”. In Drama Research: The research journal of national drama 2:27­39. Culham, C.R.
FALL 2003 5 2002 “Coping with Obstacles in Drama­based ESL Teaching”. In G. Brauer, ed. Body and Language: Intercultural learning through drama. Westport, CT: Ablex Publishing. Pp. 95­112. Dörnyei, Z. and A. Malderez 1999 “The Role of Group Dynamics in Foreign Language Learning and Teaching”. In J. Arnold, ed. Affect in Language Learning. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Pp.155­169. Eisenberg, A. M. 1971 Nonverbal Communication. Indianapolis: The Bobbs­Merrill Company, Inc. Kao, S­M. and C. O’Neill 1998 Words into Worlds: Learning a second language through process drama. Westport, CT: Ablex Publishing Corporation. Krashen, S.D. 1981 Second Language Acquisition and Second Language Learning. Oxford: Pergamon Press. Krashen, S.D. and T.D. Terrell 1983 The Natural Approach to Language Acquisition in the Classroom. San Francisco: Pergamon Press. Leavitt, C. J. 1997 Second Language Acquisition In Cultural Understanding through Theatrical Metaphor. Unpublished Masters thesis, University of Victoria. Maley, A. and A. Duff 1982 Drama Techniques in Language Learning: A resource book of communication activities for language teachers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. More, W.S. 1977 Emotions and Adult Learning. Westmead, UK: Saxon House. Morgan, N. and J. Saxton 2000 1998 ODEE Keynote Address: “Influences around the word”. In Drama Matters 4. Columbus, OH: The Ohio Drama Education Exchange. Pp. 7­20. Mullen, C. 1995 “Ordinary Aesthetics: Recognizing cultural values in everyday life”. Canadian Review of Art Education 22 (2):222­234. Neelands, J. 1995 “Playing in the Margins of Meaning”. Journal of National Association of Drama in Education, Australia 19(1):39­56. Oxford, R. L. 1999 “Anxiety and the Language Learner: New Insights”. In. J. Arnold,ed. Affect in Language Learning Cambridge. UK: Cambridge University Press. Pp. 58­68. Stern, H. H. 1992 Issues and Options in Language Teaching. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 6 Stewig, J. 1973 Spontaneous Drama: A language art. Columbus, OH: Merrill. .
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS Inserting the Human into Human History: Experiments with Montage, Experience, and Discontinuous Narrative in Archaeological Reportage Sara Elizabeth Perry In a kingdom of long ago, there was a dervish from a very strict school who was one day strolling along a river bank. As he walked he pondered great problems of morality and scholarship. For years he had studied the word of the Prophet. Through study of Prophet’s sacred language, he reasoned, he would one day be blessed with Mohammed’s divine illumination and acquire the ultimate Truth. The dervish’s ruminations were interrupted by a piercing noise: some person was incanting a dervish prayer. What is this man doing? he wondered to himself. How can he be mispronouncing the syllables? He should be saying ‘Ya Hu’ instead of ‘U Ya Hu’. It was his moral duty, he thought, to correct his brother, to set him straight on the path to piety. Accordingly, he hired a boat and rowed his way to an island, the source of the errant incantation. He found a man sitting in front of a hut, dressed in frayed wool. The man swayed in time to his rhythmic repetitions. So engrossed was he in his sacred incantation that he did not hear the first dervish’s approach. “Forgive me,” the first dervish said. “I was in town and heard your prayer. With all due respect, I believe you have erred in your prayer. You should say ‘Ya Hu’ instead of ‘U Ya Hu’.” “Thank you so much for your kindness,” the second dervish said. “I appreciate what you have done”. Pleased with his good deed, the first dervish boarded his boat. Allah, he reasoned, would take notice of his pious efforts. As it was said, the one who can repeat the sacred incantation without error might one day walk on water. Perhaps one day he’d be capable of such a feat. When the first dervish’s boat reached midstream, he noticed that the second dervish had not learned his lesson well, for the latter continued to repeat the incantation incorrectly. The first dervish shook his head. At least he had made the proper effort. Lost in his Drawing upon critical theory and visual anthropological philosophy, this paper calls for the re­vision and humanisation of archaeological study via experimental engagement with multiperspectival representation techniques. Following from a narrative analysis of archaeological visual productions, it is here reasoned that researchers often repudiate the heterogeneous, human and embodied dimensions of archaeology in their adherence to traditional objectivist scientific paradigms. Such repudiation is challenged in light of emerging anthropological studies of the body, human experience, and sensuous scholarship. Via appeal to Cubist art theory and the cinematic frameworks of montage and collage, this paper thus ventures upon a personalised—contextualised—visual elaboration and demystification of archaeological science. thoughts, the first dervish then witnessed a bizarre sight. The bumbling second dervish walked on the water and approached the first dervish’s boat. Shocked, the first dervish stopped his rowing. The second dervish walked up to him and said: “Brother, I am sorry to trouble you, but I have to come out to ask you again the standard method of making the repetition you were telling me, because I find it difficult to remember”. ~ Shah 1970:84­85 quoted in Stoller 1997:135­136 The Tale of the Dervish, as presented above, is 1 meaningful—pivotal, in fact—not merely as an introductory moralistic anecdote but also as an embodiment of notions of scholarship, enlightenment, truth, sight, self­realisation, and humanity. As a metaphor it holds significance in its intimation that active energy, sensuous experience, creative force, and unorthodox modes of seeing and understanding can bring about revelation and ‘ultimate Truth’(cf. Turner 1986:93). This tale, in its emphasis on slippage of categories and alternative viewpoints, imparts a wisdom that is of genuine utilitarian value. Particularly in a scholarly sphere such as
Sara is a graduate student in the Department of Anthropology at the University of Victoria where she continues to explore her interests in the interface between archaeological science and visual representation. Acknowledgements I express so many thanks to Dr. Andrea Walsh, Dr. Quentin Mackie and Dr. Colin Grier for their advice and insights. Much appreciation is also extended to my archaeology pals who graciously agreed to the dissemination of the accompanying photographs! Thank you as well to Ian Kirkpatrick and Nicole Smith for their extremely helpful comments and revisions ­ I am grateful.
7 archaeology in which the ‘sacred language’ of science appears inflexible and absolute, and ‘divine illumination’ is derived from flat, analytic, disembodied data, this anecdote has relevance. Where archaeology seeks to depersonalise and objectify knowledge, the tale of the dervish encourages exploration and individuality. Where archaeology privileges “self­evident data...described in neutral terms”(Hodder 1989:271), the tale of the dervish underscores engaged rethinking as the foundation for enlightenment. To extrapolate from Frederick Turner (1986:74), the tale of the dervish strives to “speak of how the speakable [is] grounded in the unspeakable”. Archaeology too, I believe, can learn and prosper from such an approach. objectivity”(Stoller 1997:4­5). This is a field which consistently encourages a distanciation of the researcher from the object of research; which everyday constructs narratives premised upon truth as transparent in the data. But, in advancing such narratives and in encouraging such distance, archaeologists prove to be “handcuffed by [their] own false pretences”(Barrett 1984:222). Far from material and mute, archaeology is inherently sensual and contingent. What is lacking, unfortunately, is a tangible means of accessing this sensuality and thus unlocking the disciplinary handcuffs: an archaeology that practically and meaningfully embraces its contingent nature and responds to pleas for change. Figure 1. Admittedly, calls for such a deconstruction and reconceptualisation of the archaeological discipline have become hackneyed. It is routine now to critique the practice of archaeology as a “total hegemony...with its rhetoric of neutrality, scientificity and objectivity”(Tilley 1989:279). Equally as common, however, are the retorts to such critiques which condemn calls for disciplinary reform as deficiencies of reason (Knapp 1996:128) and extremist navel­gazing; as “inane, post­modernist, reflexive, critical, post­structuralist abscesses”( Lamberg­Karlovsky 1989:13). Yet, in spite of these condemnations and counter­condemnations, there is validity to the claims that archaeology is bound to a mythos of nomothetic inquiry and to a cult of detached professionalism (Tilley 1989:279). Indeed, the discipline has grounded itself in a strict study of the material and the mute (Knapp 1996:141) and guides itself by a principle of “less personal, more typical”(cf. Abrahams 1986:55). Returning to the tale of the dervish, archaeology has eschewed all notions of creativity and humanity—factors which might prompt insight and illumination—in favour of a traditional ‘realist’ scientific paradigm. This is a discipline that revels in a disembodied epistemology wherein the archaeologist is prided for being “sensuously far removed from the material [that he/she analyses] with such persuasive 8 Figure 2. The standard map visual (Magne and Klassen 2001:2).
It is thus that I endeavour upon an exploratory effort to literally and figuratively (re)vitalize and (re)vision the ‘ultimate Truth’ of archaeology. This is a paper that perceives contemporary archaeology as a study of past humanity which neglects the actual human; an activity that is organised by humans, practised by humans, about humans and for humans, but which in fact disregards the human (namely the archaeologist) in its final product. Following Stoller (1997:xiii), archaeological truth presents itself as impersonal—as “disembodied observation... transformed into...bloodless prose”; like the ethnographer, the archaeologist seems so innocently to hover “at the edge of the frame—faceless, almost extraterrestrial, a hand that writes”(Clifford 1986:1; see Figure 1). But, indeed, archaeological practice is an intensely personal and experiential process, and its practitioners are active participants in the creation of knowledge, not ‘cultural dopes’ who operate blindly under the rubric of empirical CULTURAL REFLECTIONS science. Accordingly, I believe that archaeologists have the means to inject personality and presence into their practice, and thereby, as in the tale of the dervish, enable a rethinking and opening of the discipline to greater insight. Reflecting a sensuous and corporeal approach, I argue that by disrupting the traditional archaeological narrative—by inserting photographs of the archaeologist (at work and at play) as well as visual metaphorical references to the individual (e.g. field notes) into the storyline—archaeology can achieve a more realistic, contextualised, and evocative science. Figure 4. The standard data table (Fafard and LeBlanc 1999:43).
Figure 3. The standard artefact layout (Black 2000:95). It is not my objective here, however, to perpetuate the back and forth postmodernist versus modernist (‘methodless soul’ versus ‘soulless method’) archaeological debate (see Knapp 1996:140). In fact, this paper is distinctive in advocating for an archaeology that is both analytical and personal—that recognises an interplay between embodied form and disembodied logic (Stoller 1997:xv). It is therefore via a review of archaeological narrative, in conjunction with a preliminary analysis of the conventional use of imagery in archaeological reports, that I seek to highlight the typically detached—“one­damned thing­after­another”(Rosaldo 1986:106)—substance of archaeological ‘truth’, and to point a way towards reform. Appealing to ideas of sensuous scholarship, to the anthropologies of experience and the body, and to Cubist art theory, this paper utilises the cinematic/photographic techniques of montage and collage to venture on a personal visual exploration and demystification of archaeology. Mine is an approach which, following Grimshaw (2001:7), sees vision as both a methodology and a metaphor for knowledge; as a force that can materially situate the human within the archaeological project, and as an means to achieving scientific enlightenment. What follows, then, is an experiment in “looking through, looking at, and looking behind”(Banks 2001:10). Proliferating the Archaeological Narrative through Image (Or, Truth + Truth = Truth) To be sure, theorising on the socially constructed nature of archaeology and on the archaeologist as subjective perpetrator of scientific fiction is well­ recognised and certainly well­worn within the archaeological community. Challenged by an anthropological ‘crisis of representation’ (e.g. Clifford and Marcus 1986)—confronted by a loss of innocence and an intensifying opposition to the belief that “we can make a hole and dig up from it simple collections of secure if the ground itself contained a plain mass of neutral statements”(Chippindale 1989:199)—researchers have zealously committed themselves to a critique of the traditional archaeological paradigm. Within this context, and amidst the relentless disparagement of archaeology’s authoritarian scientism, a discussion of narrative as an implicit feature of archaeological texts has emerged. As Pluciennik (1999:654) contends, “given archaeological preoccupations with chronologies and hence sequences...archaeology and the writing of narratives, understood as sequentially ordered stories, have an obvious affinity”. Extrapolating from Landau (1991:2; also Terrell 1990), archaeologists have been “held captive by a mighty mythic archetypes and narrative patterns”, and, indeed, their writings confirm this disciplinary devotion to FALL 2003 9 established narrative conventions. Replete with characters, events and plots, and governed by clear beginnings, middles, and ends, archaeological publications are discernable as instances of ‘narrative positivism’ wherein ‘logic’ ascribes coherence (e.g. clarity/ completeness) to the storyline (Pluciennik 1999:655, 657). Typically composed in the third­person passive, these tales “present not only a characteristic narrative chronological position and tense—that of hindsight offered as a sequential story of...the past—but also a markedly external or bird’s eye view”(1999:667). The archaeologist, accordingly, stands as a storyteller—one who strives to produce a “well­crafted sequence of events and episodes without extraneous characters, useless detail, unexplained happenings, or loose ends”(Terrell 1990:17). Yet, despite this reflexive meditation on archaeology’s narrative products, it is notable that a consideration of imagery—a prominent component of all archaeological reports—is absent. Although, superficially, images appear irreconcilable with a narrative (and thus a presumably textual and word­centred) analysis of archaeology, it is certain that visual aids (e.g. photographs, diagrams, charts, drawings, etc.) contribute to the ‘logical coherence’ and well­crafted sequencing of archaeological texts (see Molyneaux 1997). As per Pluciennik (1999:656), narratives are “selections from a potentially infinite number of elements, occurrences, and events, which are (re)configured into a whole—a story—usually by demonstrating spatial and temporal proximity and sequence”. Similarly, I would argue, images themselves are selections configured into such a whole. In fact, this paper stems from a presumption that archaeological images—as published in journals, and as analysed independent from text—demonstrate clear narrative structure; that is, third­person passive composition, 10 distinguishable beginnings, middles, and ends, as well as plot and theme. Contra Banks (2001:10), I believe that, in archaeology, it is plausible that there exists a “‘language’ of images or image components that follows some kind of quasi­grammatical rules”. Indeed, it is imaginable that archaeologists have defined a narrow pictorial framework which conforms to a series of ‘institutionalized master storylines’(Ochs and Capps 1996:33). The use of imagery in archaeology is certainly not random—not an afterthought or an innocent ‘wallpapering’ of scholarly reports (see Banks 2001:17). At a minimum, such imagery is regulated according to the “empiricist dream”: a vision of “neutrality objectivity untainted by human purpose”(Tilley 1989:278). I have thus endeavoured upon a preliminary review of archaeological journal articles for affirmation of such visual storytelling practices. This analysis emerges from the postulation that images (considered in isolation from text) function similarly to the written word, conveying a comprehensive story which carries the reader “across large gaps in our knowledge of the world and thereby [lends] an air of completeness to accounts that might otherwise seem fragmentary, uncertain, and disjointed”(Terrell 1990:7). An admittedly ambitious venture which is only cursorily addressed in these pages, this project is grounded in a review of current articles pulled from a purposive sample of academic journals: the American Journal of Archaeology, the Canadian Journal of Archaeology, and the Journal of Field Archaeology. 2 To ensure the topical nature of this analysis, the four most recent and accessible volumes of each journal have been culled, and the first issue of these four volumes (if available) has been arbitrarily selected for examination. While, in total, twelve issues have been scanned for their visual content 3 , my investigation has been further constrained by a choice to intensively review only one
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS Figure 6. Map after map after map (Pyburn et al. 1998. 40, 48, 49
article from each issue (typically the first available report on a particular archaeological site or series of sites which includes visual representation). As such, twelve articles have been critically assessed with regards to image sequencing, temporality, and theme, and parallels to written narrative have thus been noted. In restricting the breadth of my analysis to twelve articles, and in therefore discriminating a sub­set of images for analysis, trends in image content and arrangement become immediately obvious, and, at once, it is possible to classify visual representation into three categories: maps (constituting 27% of article imagery), artefact layouts (constituting 43% of imagery), and other data­driven representations (including tables, diagrams, charts, graphs, and landscape/unit photographs; constituting 30% of imagery). Within this classification scheme, the map visuals tend principally to illustrate computer­generated line drawings of geographic or topographic regions which are punctuated with references to the location of various archaeological sites or features (see Figure 2). The artefact visuals (with an 87% frequency) picture decontextualised assortments of material remains coordinated in fan­ shaped—or otherwise aesthetically­pleasing—patterns across neutral backgrounds (see Figure 3). (Of significance, the legitimacy of these images is forever guaranteed via the placement of rulers/measuring devices adjacent to the depicted artefacts.) And, the data­centred visuals always illustrate archaeological ‘facts’ and other presumed truths positioned in isolated and contained columns or segments distinct from the article text (see Figure 4). As regards sequencing and linearity, in virtually every instance (i.e. 92% of articles) a map or series of maps is presented as an introductory image and is then trailed by a varied array of artefact layouts and/or data­ oriented visuals. Redundancy, indeed, seems to qualify as the key organising principle of archaeological imagery, and it is typical—ritual, in fact—to witness artefact after artefact after artefact following an introductory map (see Figure 5), or even map after map after map (see Figure 6). As Terrell (1990:21) writes, “narrative is a kind of model­ making”, and assuredly the model that is put forth here is premised upon relentless confrontation with standardised, sanitised visuals. Again and again, we see Figure 7. A familiar sequesnce (artifact + chart) (Usman 2000: 49,57) FALL 2003 11 decontextualised artefacts juxtaposed with boxed conglomerates of ‘raw’ data (see Figure 7). Again and again, we observe an introductory map familiarising us with the archaeological environment (‘we started here’; ‘we dug there’) and propelling us into the body of a narrative which is replete with artefact images (‘we found this and that’) and data­based representations (‘now we know such and such’). However, even in those rare cases when only a single map is offered for visual consumption (see Figure 8; note that this image summarises 6 years of research on 1000 years of Egyptian history), narrative is still apparent, for the tale of digging and discovery and ultimate sweeping knowledge is simply condensed into a string of dots on the landscape (‘we were here and we found knowledge’; ‘here is truth pinpointed’). Time and again these maps, artefact layouts, and tables/graphs convey a single dominant narrative—one that is “good to read and good to hear”(Terrell 1990:7); one that is familiar and comprehensible and that comforts us with its crisp, clean lines, its decisive data and its conspicuous theme of precision and veracity. As Read (1991:12 quoted in Grimshaw 2001:8) notes, “[w]e see what we want to see, and what we want to see is the desire to discover or construct a credible world”. As units of power and meaning (cf. Bruner 1986:19)—as recognisable, ordered, and thus inherently satisfying narrative elements—it is exactly such a credible world that these archaeological images aim to define. Figure 9. Through the woods to the site. Figure 10. Searching for artefacts at the screening station.
Figure 8. A lone image encapsulating 1000 years of history as revealed over 6 years of research (Bagnall 2001:228). 12 Yet, following the perspective of Rosaldo (1986:106), it is apt at this point to wonder “why a sequence of names and activities [or, I would add, maps and artefacts], ordered only by their succession in time and space within a particular...episode, could be considered a good story”. It is necessary to question why a redundant progression of detached imagery has achieved storytelling dominance and why ‘the gaze’, the “disembodied eye of observation”(Grimshaw 2001:67), stands as narrator of the archaeological tale. As per Pearson (1997), archaeology is about “grubbing around in decayed garbage, recovering traces of things and processes which go largely unnoticed today...broken bits of pot...abandoned buildings, rotted fences, microbial action...[a] creeping, mouldering under­ side of things”. But, certainly, the dominant visual archaeological narrative, as analysed above, does not reflect such truths. In fact, never has an archaeological site achieved such sparkly­clean resolution and seemingly self­ evident visual manifestation as when illustrated in the customary introductory map (compare Figure 9 with Figure 2). Never has a group of stone points been pulled from the ground so clean and categorical as when pictured in the standard artefact image (compare Figure 10 with CULTURAL REFLECTIONS Figure 13. Note the human hand in the upper right photograph (Fedje et al. 2001:103).
Figure 11. ‘Raw’ archaeological data Figure 3). And never has archaeological data appeared so obvious and natural as when compartmentalised within the typical table or chart (compare Figure 11 with Figure 4). It is significant that a majority of artefact images (not to mention maps and data­centred visuals) are rooted in an out­of­context, ageless framework which abbreviates different levels, units, sites and dates into a solitary whole. And it is doubly significant that across 158 images in 12 scholarly articles, only two (1%) picture an actual human—albeit either faceless or nameless—at work in the archaeological sphere (see Figures 12 and 13). Drawing from Ochs and Capps (1996:27), narrative structure derives its power and appeal primarily from its overt conventionality which serves to normalise “life’s unsettling events”. Arguably, then, what makes the standard visual sequence a ‘good story’, and what ensures the primacy of the disembodied gaze as archaeological narrator, is the image’s capacity to suppress the human dynamic—the messy, mouldering, aging facets of life—and, hence, the unsettling human realities that inevitably lie beneath. Figure 12. Unidentified (and unidentifiable) human on site (Rehak and Younger 1998:169). Internal/External, Ideal/Actual, Archaeology/Humanity, Mind/Body As Terrell (1990:17) warns, “[t]he danger is that our desire to tell a story well may unintentionally lead us both to exaggerate what we know and to underplay ignorance, uncertainty, confusion, and alternative readings of the actual evidence available”. But indeed it is precisely in its monotonous, sterilised, bird’s eye view account that archaeological imagery intentionally sanctions such ignorance and exaggeration, endorsing a false stability and thus encouraging us to “lock our minds and shut our eyes to other ways of thinking and seeing”(Rudebeck 1999:670; Ochs and Capps 1996:33). Archaeology is an intrinsically engaged and contextualised experience—it is a practice of “blood, guts, and dirt as well as human dignity”(Kus 1992:172). For every clean, identifiable artefact that is flaunted in an archaeological journal, there are twice as many humans extracting those artefacts from the dirt, dusting them off, and consciously selecting which to toss away and which to publish in scholarly reports (see Figures 14 and 15). Figure 14. Working in the dirt. FALL 2003 13 For every ordered and fact­filled table and graph, there are twice as many archaeologists scouring their field notes, deliberating over their findings, and consciously selecting which data are pertinent and thus worthy of publication and which are not (see Figure 16). In unremittingly exploiting only the typical visuals (the map, chart, and artefact), archaeological reports are thus consciously censoring the deliberation, the digging, the decision­ making, the humanity that ground archaeological science, and, in doing so, are approving a one­truth, privilege­ preserving, status quo­ratifying storyline (see Ochs and Capps 1996:33). What we are served, unfortunately, is a tale of archaeological fundamentalism wherein a single, coherent, detached gaze stands as supreme authority (Ochs and Capps 1996:32). captured at an archaeological site (that is, in a contextualised environment, at the nucleus of the research). This is notable because even these few in situ images are synthetic; they do not echo the true nature of the landscape or the practice, nor do they represent the sort of visuals that archaeologists themselves are capturing in the field. Hence, while archaeological reports circulate scenic—but arm’s length—terrain photographs, archaeologists themselves are photographing friendships formed and hardships borne and the scenery in all of its actual glory (compare Figure 17 with 18 and 19). While the standard archaeological narrative disseminates pristine data tables and artefact layouts, archaeologists themselves are capturing close­ups of humans at work and at play, both labouring and relaxing (see Figures 20 and 21). And while Figure 15. The humanity which lies beneath. Figure 17. The ideal(ised) landscape (Van Dyke 1999:60). Figure 16. Decision making in the lab
Importantly, of course, there is more to this story—an undercurrent does demand exposure: “the tale necessarily lies beyond the telling”(Ochs and Capps 1996:21). Regardless of what the standard archaeological image presents, the actual practice of archaeology is emotional, sensual, interactive, dialectical...even chaotic. It is a multilayered, hybrid encounter between students and professionals, the academy and the landscape, vision and text, old and new, found and contrived; it is an experience of scrubbing dirt from your fingernails, of screening artefacts in the rain for hours on end, of lying awake cold at night in a tent reminiscing of stratigraphic layers and hearth features. As referenced above, it is significant that of 158 analysed archaeological visuals only two depict an actual human being and only twenty (13%) have been 14 Figure 18. Archaeological friendships and hardships academic journals dwell on detached, anonymous imagery, archaeologists themselves seize on visuals of the person— of the absurd and the pleasurable, the human body and emotion (see Figure 22). Pertinently, an ongoing debate in anthropology has centred upon the indecipherability of anthropological ‘work’ images from ‘play’ images (Pink 2001; Ruby 1973). The irony in archaeology, however, is that this debate is irrelevant, for neither work imagery nor play imagery (i.e. human imagery) abounds in archaeological reportage. CULTURAL REFLECTIONS Certainly it has long been testified that anthropologists lack self­consciousness in their practices of representation (see Banks 2001:23). Yet surely, as it applies to archaeology, this testimony is severely understated, for beyond a simple lack of consciousness of self, archaeologists entirely deny both consciousness and self—agency and body—in their visuals. Archaeological representation seems to be governed by a philosophy of cultural anaesthesia which repudiates all of life’s ‘unsettling events’, all of the contingencies and sensory experiences of the archaeological self/consciousness, in favour of a clean, sterilised storyline (see Stoller 1997:81). This denial of the body and of the subjective person, of course, is not unique to archaeology, as across the sciences an expulsion of bodily sensibilities—that is, Figure 19. an “essential The contextualised landscape separation from our corporeal selves”—has been encouraged in order to maintain logical, reasoned ‘integrity’(Meskell 1996:5, 2). But, following Meskell (1996:5), such separation and expulsion must be seen as problematic, for knowledge (scientific or otherwise) is so essentially corporeal (Stoller 1997:66; also Barrett 2001:157). Indeed, our bodies mediate “all reflection and action upon the world” (Lock 1993:133); they are the lenses through which we negotiate archaeological practices and construct archaeological truths. In these bodies we dig, trowel, uncover, piece together; we feel and touch, speak, hear and think. For archaeological visual narratives, therefore, to deny the corporeal—the tactile, oral/aural, ocular, emotional essence of the person (i.e. the archaeologist)—suggests an ultimate paradox in a discipline (a social science) devoted to humanity. 4 However, burdened by a suspicion of the everyday and by this “credentialing of logical abstraction” above the body and sensuous experience (Kus 1992:168), archaeologists have managed to veil themselves as “faceless blobs”(Tringham 1991 quoted in Little 2000:10) engaged in a practice of cold, hard science. Correspondingly, they have constructed a tyrannical visual narrative wherein lived experience has been sapped of its vitality, and plurality has been “radically curtailed in a mythology founded on a dream of exact representation”(Tilley 1989:279; also Rosaldo 1986). Most alarmingly, of course, archaeologists have persuaded themselves that their science (and its associated imagery) is legitimately flat, detached, and third­person, and so they lament the fact that anthropologists sensu stricto enter Figure 20. At play “richly contextualized cultural settings” and form “first­ hand...detailed experiences”, whilst archaeologists themselves are impoverished, allowed only to “pick up a few uninhabited fragments of a universe long since discarded”(Barrett 2001:143). Yet, such lamentations are undeniably spurious as visual evidence (as presented above) suggests that archaeology is truly an inhabited, Figure 21. At work in the ‘pit’
contextualized practice, and archaeologists—like all scholars—are “implicated social actors...embroiled, compromised, entangled in an affair”(Stoller 1997:32). No longer, then, should we numbly scan archaeological articles without problematising the constituents of their storylines. No longer should we be comfortable with a one­sided, authoritarian science. A single, standardised scholarly anecdote is no longer tolerable. As archaeologists, we need to (re)vision archaeology as a practice that is “conscious of our self­ consciousness...aware of our awareness; [that reflects] on our reflections” (Bruner 1986:23), that invests in an exploration of the relationship between actual and ideal— self and modeled self (Babcock 1986:317). We need to FALL 2003 15 champion a “fusion of horizons” (see Knapp 1996:142)— an archaeology of human + science, mind + body, experience + expression, ordinary + extraordinary. Indeed, we need to literally and figuratively encourage an archaeological return to the real (cf. Shanks 2001). 2001:156) that sustain and enrich this discipline). Ultimately, our goal should be not to endorse stories whose ends come at the beginning, but whose ends are Figure 23. Figure 22. Celebrating ‘Naked Screening Day’ Advancing Revelatory Discontinuous Visual Narrative via Montage and Multiperspectivism The objective here, thus, is not to regurgitate the usual archaeological narrative, not to perpetuate a story so predictable, so expected that its “end comes at the beginning and [even] before the beginning” (Prince 1982:158 quoted in Terrell 1990:12). Rather, I aim to subvert this storyline—to decentre and defetishize it (cf. Gupta and Ferguson 1997:5) utilising tools and strategies that are already at work in the field. Via a poetics of assemblage (Shanks 2001:298­299), I seek to advance an unorthodox, discontinuous narrative that depends not on an inexorable sequence of archetypal imagery, but upon a ritual of “critical thought experiments” which obliges the archaeologist to explore “alternative possibilities—the roads not taken, repressed possibilities documentable on the margins of cultures studied”(Marcus 1995:43, 46). Archaeology is not a science of finalities or absolute certainties, despite what the standard visual narrative might convey. It is open and malleable; it is derived from friendships and arguments that manifest themselves in practice, and from interpretation that occurs at the trowel’s edge, over the campfire, and again in field notes, lab analyses and article drafts. Archaeology, as with all anthropology, is realised in unlikely ways—in unexpected findings and ‘critical turning points’(see Barrett 1996). Hence, in circulating dictatorial narratives that discount this openness and malleability, archaeologists are indeed stifling thought and impeding understanding. Accordingly, archaeological reports need to give focus to the EXPERIENCE of archaeology (i.e. the humanity, the contingencies, the inhabited conditions (cf. Barrett 16 beginnings: beginnings of dialogue, discovery, and sustained hypothesising. Following, in particular, the approach of Edwards (1997; also Grimshaw 2001; Marcus 1995; Pink 2001; Shanks 1997), I seek to nurture such beginnings by infusing academic articles with images that physically situate the archaeologist at the site of research, ‘doing’ archaeology, immersed in storytelling. Contra Collier (1962, 1995), I reject assertions of the impartiality and self­evidence of visuals, and, alternatively, I engage with the philosophy of Pink (2001:13, 19; also Grimshaw 2001:24) which underscores the promiscuity and ambiguity of imagery—its status as “never definitively just one thing”. This ambiguity is of supreme importance in rupturing the standard archaeological narrative, in fracturing our expectations and in “[attending] to materiality by saying ‘look at what has been omitted’, rather than ‘look, believe this text’”(Shanks 1997:102). As Edwards (1997:55) notes, “the more...ambiguous...the image the more incisive it can become in its revelatory possibilities”. Thus rather than stagnating in the usual storyline—completely devoured by one paradigm (cf. Figure 24.
Stoller 1997:34)—we need to cultivate this ambiguity by CULTURAL REFLECTIONS juxtaposing the typical artefact image with archaeological features exposed in context (compare Figures 23 and 24), by juxtaposing data tables with archaeologists actually collecting that data (see Figures 15 and 16), and by juxtaposing archetypal photographs with humans really composing those images (see Figure 25). In encouraging such practices of montage—such experiments with studium and punctum (see Shanks 1997:103)—we are simultaneously encouraging the formulation of different, ideally novel, perspectives. Figure 25. Photographing the photographer Figure 26. Defining the Truth
This approach, of course, is suggestive of Cubist art theory which disdains singularity (i.e. one­sided, decontextualised points of view) and emphasises instead a multiperspectival stance. Following Cubism, this approach is grounded in visual experimentation, in the recognition and representation of corporeal complexity, and in exploration of “the interplay between the subjective and objective, sensation and thought or judgement, vision and abstraction”(Grimshaw 2001:40). Indeed, like Cubism, this approach aims to foster ‘perpetual doubt’(2001:37)—a feeling of restlessness, uneasiness and multi­headedness that encourages us to look twice, to think longer, to question further. My objective, thus, is to break apart the customary archaeological narrative; to champion a practice of discontinuous storytelling which combines the Cubist appreciation of multiplicity with a lyrical expressiveness that only images (in their ambiguities, invisibilities, subjectivities, etc.) can articulate (Edwards 1997). Importantly, the means to achieve such an objective already exist, as archaeologists everyday capture this expressiveness and multiplicity in their field notes, doodles and personal photos. Accordingly, standard tables and diagrams can be contrasted with these expressive images of archaeologists at work, in situ; artefact layouts can be compared with their contextualised counterparts (i.e. photos of dirty rocks pulled from the earth); introductory maps can be superseded by evocative visuals of diverse and engaged field crews; and final ‘truths’ can be juxtaposed with truths in the making (see Figure 26). The result is an archaeological product that “[keeps] open things which are [typically] passed over in an instant”(Shanks 1997:102), that gives us something to “confront and contest, frames to bend and break”(Rudebeck 1999:670), that revels in a Cubist eye which simultaneously sees and can be seen (Grimshaw 1997:50). Following Shanks (1997:84), it is in exploiting such nervous, nonconformist visual novelty that we might locate new insight and fresh understanding. As Bruner (1986:13) cites, “the passage from disturbance into harmony is that of intensest life”; and, correspondingly, it is exactly this oft­overlooked passage that we (via discontinuous narrative) can seek to highlight. Admittedly, archaeologists do occasionally break from the standard visual storyline to salute the experience, the humanity, and the passages from ground to truth (rock to artefact) that underlie the discipline. Importantly, this salutation is most evident at academic conferences and other educational colloquia at which archaeologists are raucously confronted with the life and animation of their audience, thus obliging them to acknowledge and respect the life that also underlies their own practice (see Figure 27). Granted that the ultimate didactic value of these symposia is dubious (see Barrett 1984:160­161), there can be no doubt that they are premised upon ideals of discussion, edification, discovery, and engaged thought. And, if nothing else, these events expose the fallacy of the ‘bird’s eye view’ conception of archaeology (which prevails in scholarly journals) by centring the practice in a very personal, experiential forum. As Peacock (1997:12) has remarked at one such conference, “[o]ur strength [as anthropologists] is still our oddity, individuality, creative and stubborn eccentricity, our unique insights gained from the field...and the distinctive perspectives we can bring”. Accordingly, we should be concerned that outside the conference room—in articles and reports—these strengths are barely discernable amidst archaeology’s ‘slavish devotion’ to self­evidence and detachment (see Barrett 1996:111). We should be anxious about the “unreflexive dusting off” that has long choked archaeological knowledge and vision (cf. Stoller 1997:87). And we FALL 2003 17 should be highly welcoming of mechanisms (e.g. experiments with imagery and discontinuous narrative) which jolt us out of our imprudent complacency and compel us to rethink our constructions. coherent and break it apart, to play within and between its borders, to look for new patterns via alternative lenses. The key, as Lock (1993:148) has highlighted, is to “resist all produce tidy answers and ‘Just So’ stories, remain eclectic in our approach, and be content with a body that refuses to hold still”. Yet, this approach should neither be conceived as nihilistic nor as concerned purely with vain “self­referential narratives by and about archaeologists working on site”(Pluciennik 1999:667). Mine is a philosophy that invokes contextualised and embodied images (juxtaposed with conventional maps, artefact layouts and graphs) to complement and revitalize reconstructions of the past. It does not seek to abandon hypothesising or interpretation or archaeology as an educative and scholarly science. This is significant because the discipline now stands at a crossroads between standard, sterilised archaeological practice (i.e. archaeology ‘as usual’) and typical postmodern nihilism. It is thus at this crossroads that I suggest a new, multi­ pathed archaeological course typified by a fusion of visions and a non­tolerance for authoritarianism or orthodoxy. Here, I believe, we can promote continued visual experimentation and revelatory dialogue. Here we can call upon such diverse sources as personal photos and the Tale of the Dervish to illuminate our surroundings. And here we can finally acknowledge archaeology for what it is and for what it truly should be—a science of both storytelling and ‘raw data’, of work, play and theorising; one which honours beginnings above finalities, and multiplicities above singularities, and which compels us to see things in places where previously we saw nothing. Notes 1 Figure 27. Showing the human face in human venues.
It is again, therefore, that I appeal to the Tale of the Dervish and the potential for different perspectives to enrich our interpretations, for unexpected visions to provoke illumination. As Stoller (1997:23) has so aptly observed, “we...are consumed by the sensual world...ethnographic [and, I would add, archaeological] things capture us through our bodies...profound lessons are learned when sharp pains streak up our legs in the middle of the night”. However, only in appealing to our creativity and bodily engagement, and only in submitting our sight (and, more pertinently, our archaeological site) to interrogation, can we reap from these profound lessons. Imagery, I believe, in its ambiguities and inherent subjectivities, can contribute evocatively to this project, allowing us to rupture the traditional narrative, to make it 18 The Tale of the Dervish ~ Shah 1970:84­85 quoted in Stoller 1997:135­136. 2 For reasons of logistics (e.g. time limitations and the necessity of acquiring a representative sample of materials), a visual review of archaeological books has not been feasible. Likewise, my sample of archaeological journals reflects a deliberate decision to avoid those publications (e.g. Cambridge Archaeological Journal, Oxford Journal of Archaeology) which are dominated by visually­sparse theoretical papers rather than visually­rich field reports. 3 American Journal of Archaeology (1998­2002): Volume 102, No. 1; Volume 103, No. 1; Volume 105, No. 2; Volume 106, No. 1. Canadian Journal of Archaeology (1999­2002): Volume 23, No. 1/2; Volume 24, No. 1/2; Volume 25, No. 1/2; Volume 26, No. 1. Journal of Field Archaeology (1997­2000): Volume 24, No. 1; Volume 25, No. 1; Volume 26, No. 1; Volume 27, No. 1. 4 And, yet again, another irony is here exposed in that narrative composition—so prevalent, yet unproblematised, CULTURAL REFLECTIONS in archaeology—is a fundamentally human endeavour. As Landau (1991:175) writes, “[i]t is storytelling that makes us human”. References Cited Abrahams, Roger D. 1986 “Ordinary and extraordinary experience.” In Victor Turner and Edward Bruner, eds. The Anthropology of Experience. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Pp. 45­72. Babcock, Barbara A. 1986 “Modeled selves: Helen Cordero’s ‘Little People’.” In Victor Turner and Edward Bruner, eds. The Anthropology of Experience. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Pp. 316­343. Bagnall, Roger S. 2001 “Archaeological work on Hellenistic and Roman Egypt, 1995­2000”. American Journal of Archaeology 105:227­243 Banks, Marcus 2001 Visual Methods in Social Research. London: Sage Publications. 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FALL 2003 19 Landau, Misia 1991 Narratives of Human Evolution: The Hero Story. New Haven: Yale University Press. Little, Barbara J. 2000 “Compelling images through storytelling: Comment on ‘Imaginary, but by no means unimaginable: Storytelling, science, and historical archaeology’.” Historical Archaeology 34(2):10­ 13. Lock, Margaret 1993 “Cultivating the body: Anthropology and epistemologies of bodily practice and knowledge.” Annual Review of Anthropology 22:133­155. Magne, Martin P.R. and Michael A. Klassen 2002 “A possible fluteplayer pictograph site near Exshaw, Alberta.” Canadian Journal of Archaeology 26:1­24. Marcus, George E. 1995 “The modernist sensibility in recent ethnographic writing and the cinematic metaphor of montage.” In Leslie Devereaux and Roger Hillman, eds. Fields of Vision: Essays in Film Studies, Visual Anthropology, and Photography. Berkeley: University of California Press. Pp. 35­55. Meskell, Lynn 1996 “The somatization of archaeology: Institutions, Discourses, Corporeality.” Norwegian Archaeological Review 29(1):1­16. Molyneaux, Brian Leigh, ed. 1997 The Cultural Life of Images: Visual Representation in Archaeology. London: Routledge. Ochs, Elinor and Lisa Capps 1996 “Narrating the self.” Annual Review of Anthropology 25:19­43. Peacock, James L. 1997 “The future of anthropology.” American Anthropologist 99(1):9­17. Pearson, Mike 1997 “The past was not silent: Archaeology of the voice.” Online. Internet. Accessed: Dec. 2002. Available <<­>>. Pink, Sarah 2001 Doing Visual Ethnography: Images, Media and Representation in Research. London: Sage. Pluciennik, Mark 1999 “Archaeological narratives and other ways of telling.” Current Anthropology 40(5):653­678. Pyburn, K. Anne, Boyd Dixon, Patricia Cook and Anna McNair 1998 “The Albion Island settlement pattern project: Domination and Resistance in Early Classic 20 Northern Belize.” Journal of Field Archaeology 25:37­59. Rehak, Paul and John G. Younger 1998 “Review of Aegean prehistory VII: Neopalatial, Final Palatial, and Postpalatial Crete.” American Journal of Archaeology 102:91­173. Rosaldo, Renato 1986 “Ilongot hunting as story and experience.” In Victor Turner and Edward Bruner, eds. The Anthropology of Experience. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Pp. 97­138. Ruby, Jay 1973 “Up the Zambezi with notebook and camera, or being an anthropologist without doing anthropology...with pictures.” Program in Ethnographic Film Newsletter 4(3):12­14. Rudebeck, Elisabeth 1999 “Comment on Mark Pluciennik, Archaeological narratives and other ways of telling.” Current Anthropology 40(5):670­671. Shanks, Michael 1997 “Photography and archaeology.” In Brian Leigh Molyneaux, ed. The Cultural Life of Images: Visual Representation in Archaeology. London: Routledge. Pp. 73­107. 2001 “Culture/archaeology: The dispersion of a discipline and its objects.” In Ian Hodder, ed. Archaeological Theory Today. Cambridge: Polity Press. Pp. 284­305. Stoller, Paul 1997 Sensuous Scholarship. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Terrell, John 1990 “Storytelling and prehistory.” Archaeological Method and Theory 2:1­29. Tilley, Christopher 1989 “Excavation as theatre.” Antiquity 63(239):275­ 280. Turner, Frederick 1986 “Reflexivity as evolution in Thoreau’s Walden.” In Victor Turner and Edward Bruner, eds. The Anthropology of Experience. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Pp. 73­94. Usman, Aribidesi A. 2000 “A view from the periphery: Northern Yoruba villages during the Old Oyo Empire, Nigeria.” Journal of Field Archaeology 27:43­61. Van Dyke, Ruth M. 1999 “The Andrews community: A Chacoan outlier in the Red Mesa Valley, New Mexico.” Journal of Field Archaeology 26:55­67.
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS Stories That Map The Way Home: A Metis Process of Self Creation Cathy Richardson Metis Stories When I was young my mother told me a story from her childhood. She lived with her family on an isolated northern trapline where the dogsled was the main method of transportation. When my mom was two years old, her mother (my grandma Evelyn) placed her new baby (my Aunt Pat) onto the sled and then turned her back to load other items. In the next second, the dogs broke into a run and the sled departed, leaving my grandma in the lurch. Grandma then, in a state of adrenaline­fuelled desperation, pushed my mother out of the way, into a snowbank and chased after the dogteam. Grandma eventually recovered Cathy Richardson is a counsellor and family therapist who has worked for Metis Community Services in Victoria since 1997. She is Metis, with family connections in Fort Chipewyan Alberta and historical ties to Red River. Cathy is currently involved in a number of Aboriginal community wellness initiatives. In addition, Cathy is currently working on a PhD at the University of Victoria, studying issues of Metis identity. She is an instructor in the School of Child and Youth Care at Uvic, and for the Master’s of Counselling Program at City University. In the past, Cathy has been a teacher and school counsellor in the Victoria First Nations Education Division. Acknowledgements I would like to thank my peer reviewers for their helpful comments and reminders to keep my own voice strong and to share my stories. I am thankful to the following people for teaching me about research: Alan Pence, Jessica Ball, Antoinette Oberg, Jane Milliken, & David DeRosenroll. I would also like to thank Richard Mackie for helping me make room to write and providing me with an entourage of academic role models. Finally, I would like to thank my grandmothers for provoking me to explore my roots. In this article the author describes an ongoing research study which explores the relationships between Metis identity and Metis cultural stories. This article provides an explanation of the sense of “Metis self” and various theories of self­ formation, including narrative theories of the self. The “sense of Metis self” (SMS) refers to the Metis individual’s identification with their “Metisness” and the larger Metis culture. The author is interested in the differences in the stories received and told by Metis people with varying degrees of participation in Metis culture. This interest was generated by a personal experience of Metis identity development through the perspective of an adult reflecting on the significance of childhood stories.
her baby and the runaway huskies, comforted my crying mother, and continued on her journey through the white winter. There were many such stories that depicted the resilience and hardiness of my trapper grandparents who raised three children on traplines in the bush, and who faced the trials of losing their home in spring floods and skidoos crashing through ice into chilly winter lakes. Grandma had met her Swedish trapper husband at a dance in Fort Chipewyan. He had immigrated to Canada in hopes of becoming a fur trader and living a wilderness existence. My grandmother was born into a family of Hudson’s Bay Company workers: her mother was an interpreter and spoke six languages, while her father was a blacksmith and helped build the steamship The Graham that travelled on Lake Athabasca. Grandma’s parents warned her that if she married the Swedish trapper she would be destined for a life in the bush, which was what she ended up choosing to do. Their life together took on mythic proportions as the Swedish relatives told stories amongst themselves of my grandpa wrestling bears, becoming wealthy as a prospector and marrying a mink­ clad “Indian bride”. Little did they know that grandma had trapped, gutted, designed and sewed the minks herself. These stories provided me with both a sense of the maternal family I joined at my birth and a lifestyle I would not experience living in the south. Storytelling has always been a significant activity in the lives of Metis people. The Metis are often raised with stories of Wasagichuk, the trickster spirit man who teaches us how to behave by demonstrating how not to behave. As a child, I heard stories of my Metis family, the descendants of Orkney Islander men and Cree/Dene women, who lived both in the north of Alberta and in the Northwest Territories. These stories involved courage, the struggle against hardship, hidden identities, and of superhuman strength and cunning in harsh wilderness conditions, often woven together with an acerbic commentary on the Canadian political establishment and often contained a sense of justice, a sense of humour, and a distrust of the white socio­political system. The Metis are
FALL 2003 21 a "mixed­race" people who have European and First Nations ancestry and who self identify as "mixed­race". Many Metis people are the progeny of the cultural mixing and blending that took place in the fur trade era and have ancestral roots at Red River. Many Metis people are connected through their families and are not aware of it. Many people who have lived in Canada for over four generations may be Metis and do not yet know it. At a young age, before having any real awareness about my Metisness, 1 I developed a sense of what Metis people were like through the stories my mother told. They seemed strong and feisty, opinionated, fun­loving, extremely capable and they were in some way different from other people. I even got to meet many of them on two childhood visits to Fort Chipewyan. I knew that I was connected to these people through the stories, but the nature of the connection was vague and elusive. I saw these people as my mom’s family, not mine. I was living in the English Canadian world of my father. These early stories are important for me now as I am constantly learning what it means to be Metis. My ‘sense of Metis self’ is a rather recent phenomenon and it is these cultural stories that provide me with a context that weaves my story into a larger story of historical events in Canada. Placing myself in the context of a larger Metis community has shaped my curiosity around the relationship between stories and the self. Developing a relationship to my ‘self’ as a Metis person has lead me to experience an important sense of cultural belonging and has lead me to the work that I do. Since 1997 I have worked as a counsellor in the Victoria urban Aboriginal community, both with First Nations and Metis families. In conversations with Metis people, a prominent theme emerged from the stories that I was hearing. Virtually all the Metis I met were trying to find their way back home in some way. Their cultural connections had been broken and yet their stories provided evidence that these individuals were members of some lost ‘tribe’ (both metaphorically and literally) and were looking for a place to belong. In fact, many of these people were related to each other and would later find this out through the genealogy provided at Metis community gatherings. It was like these people were gradually recovering from an epidemic of mass cultural amnesia. I sensed that their stories were critical for the process of remembering and constructing a sense of Metis self. I am now shaping my curiosity about Metis self­ construction into a research study. I am curious about the differences in stories between Metis people who have had varied degrees of exposure to Metis culture/stories through the course of their life. I am interested in exploring the differences between the stories they were told and the stories they now tell about themselves, and how these stories influence and relate to their sense of Metis self. In order to develop connections between the Metis sense of self and the broader theoretical knowledge about self and 22 stories, I write, in this article, about what stories do, both culturally and individually. I write about the interaction of various cultural stories and how the Metis negotiate the different (storied) worlds in which they live. A Metis Social Context The Metis are very aware of cultural boundaries and their importance in relation to conditions such as safety, social power and exclusion. A sense of belonging is not experienced in all cultural spaces. For example, the Euro­Canadian worldview is different from what might be called an Aboriginal worldview. Some of these cultural differences were apparent in my family. In my mom’s family food is gathered or hunted and shared with extended family and community, while in my dad’s family it is purchased and prepared for immediate family or eaten in restaurants. For example, on a recent visit my Metis cousins wanted to try some local seafood so they bought a crab trap and caught their dinner. In my Metis family, work is seen as activity that meets immediate survival needs (e.g. building ice roads, hunting, fixing things, raising kids, making clothes and household objects from animals and trees), whereas for my paternal family, work is a more abstract and well­paid professional activity. For the Metis, a sense of timing is more relevant than the time on the clock. Children are often cared for by grandparents or family members while my English­Canadian family sees children as largely the sole responsibility of those who produce them. My first and second cousins on my maternal side could not fit into one room while I don’t have any cousins on my paternal side. My maternal family members are generally involved in some active spiritual life while my paternal family does not overtly embrace a spiritual practice. Culturally, the Metis celebrate their mixed­race ancestry and recognize that their heritage involves both Aboriginal and European parentage. The cultural stories shared by each side of my family reflect the worldview and lifestyle of that particular perspective. The stories shared in the dominant, Euro­ Canadian culture are not the cultural stories that the Metis people tell about themselves. Metis people are strategic about existing in various cultural worlds and adopt multiple selves that help them to “fit in” in many locations. Narrative therapist Michael White (2000) recognizes that a people experience a phenomenon of multiple authenticies as an outcome of the fact that people live out their lives in various contexts or zones, and that certain hegemonic forces validate certain cultural claims and influence identity in very powerful ways. The Metis often see themselves as existing in­ between a number of cultural spaces. I have included a visual depiction explaining how the Metis live in a number of cultural spaces (see diagram Metis Identity Spaces). Historically, Metis people hid their Metis identity as a response to racism and oppression. Today, even though some racial climates have become more moderate, many
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS Metis feel like visitors or guest labourers in the non­Metis worlds. The space occupied by the dominant culture is what postcolonial writer Edward Said has described as the “immigrant settler society superimposed … on the ruins of considerable native presence” (Said 1993:xxv). The space occupied by the dominant culture The space occupied by the First Nations The “Nomansland” of identity confusion “in exile” the “road allowance” Third Space – Metis Identity and Self are often experienced by Metis as “occupied territory” in a non­Metis space Self is formed through ongoing negotiation with others and the environment
Figure 1. Metis Identity Spaces This cross­boundary interaction and negotiation process demonstrated in this diagram illustrates the psychological geography with which the Metis engage on a daily basis. Throughout and between the various cultural spaces, the Metis individual is in ongoing dialogue with the internalized voices of others. Many Metis counselling clients have described internal struggles to balance the “voices” representing different social forces and their opinions of the client’s “Metisness” (e.g. voices that often say “You are an imposter”, “You have no right to claim Aboriginal heritage”, “You don’t belong!”). I have shared some of my personal examples in a published article entitled “Embodying Both Oppressor and Oppressed: My Perspective As A Metis Woman” (Richardson 2001). Metis writer Dumont addresses this phenomenon poetically, in terms of being seen as “naughahyde as opposed to real leather” (Dumont 1996:58). Multiple stories Metis have told about themselves since their beginnings: learning the oppressor’s stories, and stories from between worlds Stories are particularly important for a sense of self among the Metis who are caught between cultures. Since the Metis defeat to the invading Canadian troops at Batoche, Saskatchewan in 1885, the Metis no longer possess a geographical homeland. Thus, possessing a sense of Metis self is all­the­more difficult yet remains important for the Metis as one’s sense of Metis self serves as a psychological homeland. European cultural stories (e.g. dominant historical interpretations of colonization, the inferiority of Aboriginal peoples, views of “progress” and the destruction of the natural world) have successfully dominated the Canadian narrative landscape, resulting in few opportunities for Metis people to feel a part of the dominant Canadian narrative. Today in Canada, colonizers are celebrated and the Metis presence is minimized or erased from historical narratives. For example, the urban geography of former Hudson’s Bay Company Fort cities like Victoria, British Columbia is ripe with street names of Metis families (e.g. Dallas, Helmcken, Ross Bay, Douglas). Victoria’s Ross Bay cemetery is the resting place to many Metis who are not culturally identified. The University of Victoria sits on a former Hudson’s Bay farm worked by Metis labourers. The red woven sash, la ceinture fleiche, is worn by the Metis as a symbol of honour and accomplishment, but is generally associated with le bonhomme de neige – the walking snowball of the Quebec winter carnaval. The Metis stories have been erased to make way for dominant Euro­Canadian stories. Metis writer Joanne Arnott identifies this cultural erasure: I am a person of mixed Native and European heritages. Fundamentally what I have inherited is a good deal of information about the various European traditions from which I come, and racistdenial of the existence of my Native ancestry (Arnott 1995:1). One of the explanations for the lack of cultural information is that Metis people often choose to “pass” as members of the dominant culture as a strategy of self protection and survival “in a virulently racist society” (Arnott 1995:59). Not all Metis people look distinctly different from Europeans. In a climate of racial intolerance, Euro­centric practices and racism, passing is one of the strategies for surviving or thriving in the mainstream. “Passing”, or taking on the identity congruent with that of the dominant culture, speaks to the hegemonic power of the dominant culture/class ­ a power that shapes the negotiation and self­fragmentation process of multiple FALL 2003 23 identities (White 2000:8). However, once accepted into the mainstream, Metis people often do not feel at home, due to the incongruence with their sense of being Metis. As Said observed, "emulation and mimicry do not get one very far" (Said 1993:317). The forces and politics of colonization and racism tend to diminish the collective Metis sense of cultural identity, while the persistence of Metis stories serves to enhance it. In spite of the relative dirth of Metis cultural stories, it is these stories that give the Metis self its validation. When Metis people come together in Metis settings, stories are told, and the sense of Metis self is reinforced. I have witnessed this phenomenon repeatedly in my work at a Metis Child and Family Services Agency. How Stories Give Coherence To Individual Lives and To Entire Cultures and How These Two Levels of Storying are Connected In order to document the significance of stories in relation to self construction, I am attempting to draw from Metis, Western­European and First Nations while trying to create an academic product. Needless to say, Canada’s colonial intellectual and academic traditions are over­ represented by non­Native contributions and many formal narrative theories come from European and Euro­Canadian scholars. Narrative theorists see stories as functional at both the sociocultural and the individual level (Barthes 1974). At the sociocultural level, stories are embedded with norms, values and instructions about life. Stories serve to unify common cultural beliefs and values (Barthes, 1974). In Metis society, stories impart important cultural values such as wisdom, love, respect, bravery, honesty, and truth – values which promote cultural continuity and survival. They also warn of possible punishment for the breaking of communally­established rules. For example, those breaking the social codes around the buffalo hunt would have their saddle cut up in public. Stories provide people with a cultural blueprint of what they can be, who they can become, and how they may contribute to the collective good. They help people understand the cultural dictates of the relationship between the “I” and the “we” – between the individual and the ‘tribe’. I use the word tribe loosely in reference to extended family and kinship relations, with the understanding that we all come from a tribe, not just Indigenous people. Stories “are embedded with instructions which guide us about the complexities of life” (Pinkola­Estes 1992:16). Cultural stories are the ones that we share, the ones that reflect our shared history, and the ones that promote the continuity of the community. Narrative psychologist George Howard believes that people of a particular cultural group share the same stories (Howard 1991: 187). 24 At the individual level, stories help to explain one’s life in the past, present and future. Stories serve an organizing function to help us make sense and connections between life events (Richardson 1992). Cultural stories play a significant role in helping Metis people to understand who they are and give coherence to their sense of self. The sense of Metis self is created and supported by cultural stories because culture is largely imparted through language and through shared historical experience passed down from generation to generation in the form of stories. Even if the cultural awareness is not nurtured through stories, this cultural memory may exist somewhere inside ­ in the bones, in the DNA and/or in the cellular memory. In Hans Christian Andersen’s well­known children’s tale, the swan knew it was not a (ugly) duck just as Burrough’s Tarzan knew, at some level, that he was not an ape. Living in another tribe’s creation story of another tribe may account for much of the emotional disruption and difficulty many displaced Aboriginal people face. An early socialization into another tribe’s cultural stories may precede and later necessitate a search for one’s tribe, in a belated effort to find and become infused in our own stories. Foundations of belonging can be strengthened by adding the missing stories and linking them with the appropriate cultural glue may allow Metis people to strengthen the self in life sustaining ways. I am not saying that we cannot be sustained by the teachings of other cultures, but rather we must be fluent in our own stories first to avoid feeling like a misplaced character in someone else’s novel. Metis poet Marilyn Dumont playfully documents this feeling of being misplaced in someone else’s story, where the moral is that they are the real leather and I am naughahyde (1996: 58). UBC psychologist Michael Chandler suggests that a narrative understanding is a now popular explanation of that which turns the mere chronology of a life into a “coherent and diachronically unified self” (Chandler 1993:194). The results of his study showed that, overall, culturally mainstream youth (i.e. Euro­Canadians) believed themselves to be “committed essentialists”, while First Nations youth believed that “there is always some story (often multiply authored) that succeeds in gluing together the distinctive time­slices of their lives” (Chandler 1993:198). Chandler and Lalonde have suggested that “the degree to which individual youth succeed or fail in working out some acceptable means of resolving questions about their own and others’ personal persistence is heavily influenced by the degree of ‘cultural continuity’ to be found within their own communities” (Chandler and Lalonde 2001:198). Although Metis people are not culturally synonymous with First Nations people, there are marked similarities in the area of worldview and important epistemological (what is knowledge, truth, self?) and
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS ontological questions (why are we here and what is the nature of the universe?). Until recently, European theorists considered the ‘self’ to be a unitary core and cohesive entity (Kohut 1977). Recent studies have shown that First Nations people largely see the self as held together by stories (Chandler 2001). Postmodern writers (Hermans et al 1993; Peavy 1993) believe the self to be multi­facted, fluid and narrative in nature. The Theoretical Creation of the Storied Self The way that Metis people form a sense of cultural self is similar to a process described by the non­ Native philosophy of symbolic interactionism. While Aboriginal people have generally perceived the self as ‘a whole’ composed of mind, body, spirit, and emotions, Europeans have grappled with their own theoretical understandings of the self. At the turn of the nineteenth century, William James took issue with the Cartesian mind/body division and articulated a self with two distinct parts: he identified the “I” as the interpreter of experience and the “Me” as the self know by the “I”. These two inseparable parts of the self create an early framework for symbolic interactionism. Symbolic interactionists see the self as negotiated both internally and within the external world (Blumer 1969; Mead 1934/67). SI is “a theoretical perspective that illuminates the relationship between individual and society, as mediated by symbolic communication (Milliken & Schreiber 2001:178). Symbolic communication refers to interactions having meaning beyond the literal level; this meaning serves a function of self creation. The self is viewed as a ‘process’, in which two intergral parts ­ the I (the spontaneous or uncensored self) and the Me (the internalized other) are in constant dialogue and continually re­forming the evolving self (Schreiber 2001: 88). The ‘internalized other’ refers to the voices/opinions/judgements of other people that we have digested and hear long after the interaction has ended. Narrative psychologist Sarbin (1986) brings James’ conception of the self into the realm of narrative by presenting the “I” as the author of the story while the “Me” is one of the characters. This explanation is particularly appropriate for describing the Metis self­construction process, because Metis individuals move between cultural worlds engaged in ongoing inner conversation about how to ‘be’ and how to experience acceptance and belonging. It is a conversation about conformity and resistance with the mainstream Euro­Canadian society held on non­Metis ground. Due to the past and present oppression of Metis people in Canada 2 , Metis individuals commonly hear the inner voice of ‘the internalized other’ ­­ a voice which reminds them of their status and safety across cultural boundaries. The Metis have many cultural storytellers. They transmit their stories through oral storytelling, through music and song (e.g. Seaborn; Lakusta, Ste Marie) through fiction (e.g. Campbell 1973; Arnott 1995), through history (i.e. Adams 1995, MacEwan, 1975; McLean, 1987), through painting (Robertson 2002), through research (i.e. Barkwell, Dorion, Prefontaine 1991, Logan, 2001; Resoute, 2000), through political oration (Riel, Chartier, Pierce, Donahue), and written treatises (e.g. Riel, Adams), through websites (Dunn) and through poetry (e.g. Arnott; Scofield; Dumont). These storytellers have much in common and transmit well­known cultural stories through their various forms of media. I have surveyed the Metis stories found in personal accounts, literature and investigative research. An emergent theme is the sense of existing “between worlds”. Metis people tend to experience themselves as existing "between worlds” (Dunn 1999:2). Metis writer and poet Joanne Arnott identifies the common Metis identity experience of knowing a lot about one's European heritage together with racist denial in one’s family of the existence of Native ancestry (Arnott 1995:17). Metis poet Marilyn Dumont writes a poem about "The Red and White" (employing a pun about an early western Canadian grocery store) and not being seen as authentically red or white in the eyes of others from both the Euro­Canadian and Native worlds (Dumont 1992:13). Metis researcher Trish Logan has documented the Metis paradoxical experience of being excluded from both the First Nations and non­Aboriginal community while being used as “filler” for residential schools needing more students to make them profitable (Logan 2001:16). Aboriginal theorist Resoute (2000) observes that the Metis are an interesting example of how colonial definitions are played out and how they shape self­ definition. The racial realities of race and skin colour make it impossible for those who are identifiably non­ white to make choices about how they will identify. Other story themes include stories of origin, documenting the Metis cultural ‘gelling’ over a 150 year period in the Red River Colony. Some of the stories are in, or about, the Michif (Metis) language. There are stories of character formation through hardiness, bravery, and service to community. There are stories of supernatural encounters with spirit people that transformed lives and belief systems beyond the material world. There are numerous stories of environmental knowledge, of how to use natural medicines, how to create ceremonies, of how to make and process food, and of how to survive in harsh winters without electricity. These stories describe a cultural experience that is typical of rural and northern Metis life. Chandler and Lalonde have strongly suggested that “the degree to which individual youth succeed or fail in working out some acceptable means of resolving questions about their own and others’ personal persistence
FALL 2003 25 is heavily influenced by the degree of ‘cultural continuity’ to be found within their own communities” (Chandler and Lalonde 2001:198). They have drawn this conclusion from “dramatic results demonstrating that the rate of youth suicide is some 200 to 400 times higher in those First Nations communities that have been least successful in providing their members with a strong sense of connectedness to their own cultural past. The importance of telling stories is connected to the importance of staying alive. as well as provide fuel for the ongoing revisionist interpretation of historical events in Canada. The creation of the Metis self through the sharing (hearing, telling, retelling, and living) of Metis stories will help the Metis write themselves back into existence, both individually and as part of the Canadian historical narrative. If this study becomes part of a larger conversation about Metis­specific issues, both in the realm of academia and within the Aboriginal multicultural context, I will be happy. How Geography And Social Discrimination Threaten Identity Historically in Canada, there have been problematic conditions that threaten the Metis sense of self. The Metis people live in a space where their mixedness is celebrated. However, discovering and coming to terms with one's Metis self is often a challenging process given the social climate of Euro­centric values and limited tolerance of difference. Identity building can be problematic at the best of times; it can be all the more complex when historical, sociological and cultural dynamics interweave to create uncertain and non­static identities on the mainstream Canadian landscape. The Metis are one of Canada's three founding Aboriginal peoples next to the Inuit and the First Nations. Of the 976,305 people who identified themselves as Aboriginal in the 2001 national Census, about 30% or 292,310 reported that they were Metis. More than two thirds (68%) of Metis live in Urban areas, and Metis children in urban areas are less likely to live in two parent families than are European Canadians. The Metis figure negatively in the statistics of ill health, poverty, incarceration and undereducation (Logan 2000, South Island Metis Nation 1995). However these are not the stories that Metis people tell about themselves. The Metis prefer to tell stories of their contribution to Canada, which is largely unrecognized in the mainstream. As descendents of three hundred years of fur trade commerce, their collective skills in mediation, linguistics, commerce, and thriving in the natural world contributed largely to the development of the Canadian economic landscape. The Metis prefer to tell stories of resistance and recognize their plight as part of a global injustice of colonialism and white supremacy, often identified as a struggle for liberation (Adams 1989). Much of the Metis history has been a story of fighting for rights against a government who wanted their land and was willing to shed Metis blood in order to get it. Part of this history has involved oppression against the Metis by a largely Euro­Canadian settler population and resistance to this oppression. Conclusion My main hope for this research is that it will contribute to a greater sense of well­being for Metis people 26 Notes 1 When my mother left the north to attend university she married my father, an English immigrant, in Vancouver. She left her family and Metis culture behind and never spoke about being Metis. Although she continued to express her “Metisness” in many unspoken ways, she never overtly taught my sister and I about Metis culture or traditions. The social climate of the 1960s involved a lot of racism against Aboriginal people, and my mother assimilated and lived the life of a young middle­class housewife on Vancouver Island. 2 Oppression refers to lack of federal restitution for Metis lands taken by military force in 1869/70 and 1885 in Saskatchewan, as well as ongoing racial prejudice that Metis people commonly experience as being “not this/not that” and having the privilege of being hated by both the whites and the First Nations people (Donahue 2002; Adams 1995). Authors found in the bibliography such as Logan, Dunn, Campbell, Scofield write about the devastating history of the Metis, including wide­spread forced adoption, lack of education due to the Metis experience of being non­taxpayers – the ‘Road Allowance People’ in prairie towns, or being placed in Residential Schools as ‘filler’ when seats were not filled by First Nations children. Today the Metis continue to experience higher rates of poverty, illness, unemployment, illiteracy and early death in relation to other Canadian populations. References Cited Adams, Howard 1995 A Tortured People: The Politics of Colonization. Penticton, BC: Theytus Books. Arnott, Joanne 1995 Breasting the Waves: On Writing and Healing. Vancouver: Press Gang Publishers. Barkwell, L.J., J.L. Dorion, and D.R. Prefontaine 1991 Resources for Metis Researchers. Winnipeg: Louis Riel and Gabriel Dumont Institute. Barthes, R.
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS Introduction to the Structural Analysis of the Narrative (R. Mille, trans). New York: Hill and Wang. Baumrind, Diana 1998 “From Ought to Is: A Neo­Marxist Perspective on the Use of the Cultural Construct”. Human Development 41:145­164. Blumer, H. 1969 Symbolic Interactionism: Perspective and Method. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall. Bopp, J, M. Bopp, L. Brown and P. Lane 1984 The Sacred Tree. Lethbridge: Four Worlds Development Press. Brooke Medicine Eagle 1991 Buffalo Woman Comes Singing. New York:Ballentine Books. Bruner, Jerome 1987 “Life as Narrative”. Social Research 5 (1):11­32. Campbell, Maria 1973 Halfbreed. Toronto: McLelland & Stewart. Chandler, Michael 2001 Cultural Continuity as a Protective Factor Against Suicide in First Nations Youth. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. 2000 “Surviving Time: The Persistence of Identity in This Culture and That”. Culture & Psychology 6(2). Chartier, Clem 1998 In the Best Interests of the Metis Child. Saskatoon: University of Saskatoon Native Law Centre. Deloria, Vine 1991 God is Red: A Native View of Religion. Golden, Colorado: Fulcrum Publishing. Donahue, Robert 2002 Personal communication: Staff Training Workshop at Metis Community services. Victoria, BC. Dunn, M. 1999 “Metis 101: Understanding Metis in Canada Today”. Website http:^mfdunn/metis/Papers/Dun/Meti s101/Metis101.html Ens, G. 1996 From Homeland to Hinterland: The Changing Worlds of the Red River Metis in the Nineteenth Century. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Ermine, W. 1995 “Aboriginal Epistemology”. In Barmen & Battiste, eds. First Nations Education in Canada: The Circle Unfolds. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. Howard, George 1974 “A Narrative Approach to Thinking: Cross­ Cultural Psychology and Psychotherapy”. American Psychologist 46(3):187­197. Logan, Trish 2001 The Lost Generations: The silent Metis of the Residential School System. Winnipeg: Southwest Region Manitoba Metis Federation. Jackson, J. 1996 Children of the Fur Trade: Forgotten Metis of the Pacific Northwest. Missoula: Mountain Press Publishing Company. Madigan, Steve and Ian, Law 1998 Praxis: Situating Discourse, Feminist Politics in Narrative Therapies. Vancouver: Yaletown Family Therapy. McGoldrick, Monica 1998 Re­Visioning Family Therapy: Race, Culture and Gender in Clinical Practice. New York: The Guilford Press. Nsemanang, A. Bame 1992 Human Development in Cultural Context: A Third World Perspective. London: Sage Publications. Peterson, J. and J. Brown 1985 The New Peoples: Being and Becoming Metis in North America. Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press. Pinkola­Estes, Clarissa 1992 Women Who Run with the Wolves. New York: Doubleday. Polkinghorne, D. E. 1988 Narrative Knowing and the Human Sciences. New York: State University of New York Press. Resoute, J.P. 2000 “Aboriginal Identity: The Need for Historical and Contextual Perspectives”. The Canadian Journal of Native Education 24(2). Richardson, Cathy 2001 “Embodying the Oppressor and Oppressed: My Perspective as a Metis Woman”. The International Journal of Narrative Therapy and Community Work 1: 84­85. Richardson, L. 1992 “The Consequences of poetic representation: Writing the other, rewriting the self”. In C. Ellis and M.G. Flaherty, eds. Investigating subjectivity: Research on lived experience Newbury Park: Sage. Pp.125­140. Riessman, C. 1993 Narrative Analysis. Newbury Park: Sage Publications. Roy­Sole, Monique 1995 “Keeping the Metis Faith Alive”. Canadian Geographic. Mar/April: 36­48. Said, Edward
1991 FALL 2003 27 Culture and Imperialism. New York: Alfred A. Knopf Inc. Schreiber, Rita 2001 “Wandering in the Dark: Women’s Experiences with Depression”. In Schreiber,ed. Health Care for Women International 22:85­98. Schreiber, R. and P. Stern 2001 Using Grounded Theory in Nursing. New York: Springer Publishing Company. Scofield, Gregory 1999 Thunder Through My Veins: Memoires of a Metis Childhood. Winnipeg: Pemmican Press. White, Michael 2000 Reflections on Narrative Practice: Essays and Interviews. Adelaide: Dulwich Centre Publications. 1997 Reflections of Therapists’ Lives. Adelaide: Dulwich Centre Publications.
1993 28 CULTURAL REFLECTIONS Double Naved Churches of Medieval Lebanon: An Exploration of the Problem, the Evidence and the Theories Angela Andersen Introduction: The Problem of the Double Naved Church In the Lebanon, a series of churches exist with a configuration of two naves, side­by­side. These double naved churches, a design that appears to be particularly Angela Andersen is a graduate student in the department in History in Art. She has worked and studied in Canada and Turkey in the field of architecture and architectural history in practical and academic capacities, with an emphasis on the social role of buildings. Currently a fellow at the Centre for Studies in Religion and Society, she is writing her thesis on intercultural interactions at the site of the Great Mosque of Diyarbakir, Turkey. Acknowledgements I would like to thank Dr. Erica Cruikshank Dodd, as the work that was the basis of this paper was done under her tutelage. In addition to being a wise and critical instructor, she was exceedingly generous with her time, her comments, her images and her own research, published and unpublished. I was inspired by her encouragement to take material she had been collecting for 30 years, and to use it to branch off from her scholarship on my own path. My abilities have yet to reach the standard set by Dr. Dodd’s years in the field, and any failings in this piece are fully my own. It was a rare opportunity to utilize rare gems of information that so many others would have hoarded away, but that she chose to share.
Extant religious architecture and its archaeological remains are repositories of information about cultural and religious practice, but design 'anomalies' present questions about intercultural and interreligious interaction, regional traditions and visual culture. A series of churches exist in the mountains and valleys of the Lebanon, with a configuration of not one but two naves, side­by­side, divided by piers, columns or arches, but never a fully formed wall between the distinct yet adjacent liturgical spaces. The majority of these double­ naved churches are dated to the crusader period of the 12 th and 13 th centuries, but the reason for their existence is unclear. Rock­cut and stone built, many of these churches survived centuries of regional upheaval due to their location and diminutive size, in comparison to larger churches in urban centres which are no longer extant. Archaeologists, art and architectural historians have suggested that this seemingly regional floor plan derives from linguistic and liturgical dichotomies in practice in local Christian communities. Fragments of frescoes and wall paintings simultaneously suggest answers and add complexity to the questions of intended use. This paper explores the question of these churches, the extant evidence and the theories regarding their use.
popular in this region, are mainly dated to the crusader period of the 12 th and 13 th centuries. Architectural structures revealing their histories often present us with many questions about function for which there are no clear answers. In the case of these double naved places of worship in Medieval Lebanon, we are left to inquire about the purpose of churches with two distinct yet joined liturgical spaces. A number of suggestions have been made as to the use and ultimate reason for the double naved church. It is not the intention of this paper to resolve the question of the usage of these Lebanese double naved churches, but rather to narrow the scope of viable responses in order to focus research on the areas that show most promise, and to make subsequent suggestions based on other forms of evidence not yet considered in the literature. I will outline these ideas and dispute some of the assumptions that have been made through an application of the liturgy, an examination of the architectural form, a look at contextual information such as the role of women in Lebanese Christianity and a study of the painting and fresco fragments within these structures and the iconographies they present. There is a long tradition of church architecture in Palestine, Syria and Lebanon, reaching back to the 3 rd 1 century. The construction of churches with predominantly basilical 2 programmes continued into the medieval period. Fluctuating leadership, interaction with other communities and the construction of cruciform
FALL 2003 29 cathedral churches in the cities of the Latin crusader territories appear to have influenced few major variations on the longitudinal plan of the comparatively simple order of village churches, with the exception of the growing popularity of the double naved church form. This configuration of two naves 3 joined by a wall or arcade is found in great numbers relative to the total number of churches in Lebanon, yet determining their specific purpose has posed problems. The wall paintings are fragmentary, at best, in most of the catalogued double naved churches, the contemporary textual evidence is scant and the understanding of an era of Christian religious synthesis and division between Latin, Orthodox and other liturgical practices is not fully understood. The issue of the double naved design has the potential to reveal regional characteristics of construction, intercultural relations between religious and cultural groups, and the trail of artistic transmission throughout the Mediterranean. If the double naved churches of Lebanon can be inserted into a wider inventory of this church type, there is the possibility to clarify its use elsewhere. If it remains a regional phenomenon, it is indicative of the particular approach to Christian practice by a diverse population. Historical Background The Lebanon is the site of a fascinating and complex interaction between numerous branches of Christian practice and Islamic traditions. Much of the Christian population of the coastal nation now known as Lebanon was under the control of the Greek Orthodox Patriarchate and maintained contact with the Byzantine Empire as the Muslims of the Umayyad (Damascus, 661­ 750), ‘Abbasid (Baghdad, 750­1258) and Fatimid (Fustat, 969­1171) Empires took control of the region. Christians continued their traditions in the Lebanese mountain ranges and nurtured communities in the Qadisha Valley, but restrictions were placed upon the construction of new churches. The Lebanese people were introduced to the Syrian Orthodox Church in the 5 th century, when Syriac and Greek speaking Syrian monks arrived in Lebanon to participate in the new Christian communities. Monasteries, churches and grotto hermitages developed by the 6 th century (Sader 1997:16). Syriac practice existed alongside Greek Orthodoxy, until the Latin Conquest of 1204, when contact with the Patriarchate in Constantinople was severed. The Frankish crusaders were supporters of the local Christians and sought their assistance in campaigns against and communications with the Muslims of the region. The crusaders, followers of the Latin Church, encouraged and often funded the construction of new churches, and provided a safe environment under their leadership in which to undertake this expansion of Christian places of worship. In 1261, contact between the Byzantine capital and the Orthodox community in Lebanon and Syria was re­ 30 established, and the arts of Lebanon were subsequently influenced once again by Byzantine practices (Dodd 1997­ 4 98:270­71) . Chaldeans, formerly known as Nestorians, Melkites, Copts, Georgians, Abyssinians, Maronites and Armenians practicing as part of the Christian community lent both the richness of diversity and the challenges of doctrinal differences. With the defeat and departure of the crusaders, who lost their last stronghold of Acre in 1291, the Maronites were left with power and autonomy under the Muslim Mamluk Sultanate (Cairo, mid 13 th c.­1517). Christians were constantly introduced to new forms of thought and practice, including liturgical activities, very important to the production of art and architecture. A Brief Inventory of the Examples and Their Architectural Form Lévon Nordiguian’s examination of Medieval Christian places of worship in the Lebanon (Nordiguian and Voisin 1999) surveys some 35 churches, ten chapels, three cathedrals and, collectively, 21 monasteries, grottos, hermitages and abbeys, many of which hold their own churches, some of which are already counted as chapels. Of these Christian structures, 12 are churches with two naves, meaning that approximately one in every five Lebanese churches, in the form of extant structures and archaeological evidence, embodies the twin nave format. With the exception of Mar Girgius, Rashkida, where the second nave is a later addition to the pre­existing small chapel, these double naved places of worship were each built as a single construction project with two naves and two apses, attached but separated with an arcade or a wall perforated with openings. The evidence clearly points to a proliferation of this church type in Lebanon, a favouritism of architectural design that must indicate a need and desire to embrace the double naved format in the region. The Christian architecture of the towns and villages of Lebanon is dominated by small churches constructed of ashlar stone blocks and spolia 5 from Roman and Byzantine works found in the region. Many of these village churches appear plain on the exterior, with the apse or apses often expressed as curved protrusions breaching the flat exterior walls. The rock­cut churches are chapels of small size with low ceilings. The interiors exhibit curvaceous articulation, following the natural lines created by organic and human erosion of the stone into a chamber. The decoration of the interiors of both the stone construction and rock­cut church types is based on the linear form of the progression of the walls towards the apse; the liturgy also relies on this longitudinal, and therefore processional, arrangement of space. The churches are both painted and unpainted, fresco being the less expensive variation of the popular use of mosaic in larger, wealthier communities.
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS Figure 1 Mart Shmuni The dating of these structures is notably focused on the 12 th and 13 th centuries, a time of relative prosperity for Lebanese Christians corresponding to the crusades and Latin support for new architectural programmes in the towns. In addition, as the crusades progressed and the Latins lost Jerusalem to Muslim forces in 1187, Christians were pushed north into the County of Tripoli, concentrating in the prosperous valley region to settle and 6 build . The following list of fifteen double nave structures, organized by region, is comprised of all the examples 7 known to myself through the work of other scholars ; it is not exclusive, and should expand as further information about this building type is revealed: ­Bahdeidat: The church of Mar Nqoula exists as stone ruins. At one time, a door in the apse connected to the chapel of Saydet­Bzez. Mar Stéphane is also found in this town. ­Bziza: Sayidet Awamid, also in ruins, is comprised of two naves, with the northern apse larger than the southern. The church was constructed within the confines of a Roman Ionic temple, and parts of the porch are extant. ­Chamat: At the church of Mar Taqla, the naves are divided by a triple arcade. The church is comprised of stone, with the disc­like forms of spolial columnar segments interspersed through the walls. There is a clear articulation of the curvature of the twin apses on the exterior. ­Dedde: The masonry church of Mar Mtanios displays projecting apses and an oculus window. The monumental north doorway is recessed and set under voussoirs 8 . ­Dmalsa: The stone church of Mar Nohra & Mar Sophia is groin vaulted 9 , twice in each nave. FALL 2003 ­Hadchit: Sayyidat Darr is an isolated grotto carved into mountain rock following an organic development of spaces and niches, and is entered through a small opening in the rock face. The hermitage of Deir Salib incorporates the original rock­cut chapel, part of the northern nave, into masonry comprising the southern apse’s outer wall. Mart Shmuni (Figure1), which is entered laterally, also uses masonry to build a two apsed church. The northern nave converges with a third area created by the grotto in the rock face, which is incorporated into the northern boundary of the structure. ­Hasroun: The grotto church of Mar Asia is linked to an Ethiopian decorative programme (Nordiguian 1999:390). ­Kousba: The church of Mar Mitri (Figure 2) is part of the Monastery of St. Demetrius and incorporates the grotto chapel. A wall with openings separates the two naves. Kanissat Es­ Sayyida and Deir Hamatura are grotto churches. ­Rashkida: Mar Girgius is an ancient masonry church, and the only example of a Lebanese double plan church to exhibit two phases of construction. A basilical addition was made to the small existing chapel during the 12 th century, and later a groin vaulted porch. ­Tannourine Fawqa: The village church of Mar Challita uses polychrome stonework in the apses and the niche that divides the two naves at the east end. Stone lintels 10 frame the west­facing wooden doors. Figure 2. Mar Mitri
31 Survey of Double Naved Churches Outside Lebanon Although the double naved format could be approached as a sort of regional phenomenon, it is important to consider these churches within the larger catalogue of places of Christian worship in Medieval traditions of the eastern and western churches. Outside of the Lebanon, numerous examples of two churches arranged one behind the other, rather than side by side, and also of groupings of churches, where two or three distinct buildings are part of a complex, usually monastic, have been catalogued and discussed in Corfu and the Cyclades (Dodd forthcoming) Germany, Dalmatia, Hungary and Italy (Ovadiah 1970), and Cappadocia and Yugoslavia 11 (Jerphanion 1925­34:57­58). Guillaume de Jerphanion lists a number of churches in Soganli, Goreme and Suvec with the double nave configuration, including Karabach Kilise and St. Eustace in Goreme from the 10 th century, St. Barbara and Gok Kilise from the 11 th century, the Holy Apostles, Mustafa Pasha­Sinasos of contested dating, and The Church of the Forty Martyrs of Sebaste from the 13 th century. The archaeologist J.P. Sodini compiled a survey of double naved basilicas to facilitate comparison and study with an archaeological perspective as part of his excavation reports at the Greek site of Aliki (Sodini 1980). Sodini and his team created an inventory of basilicas in Gaul, Italy, the Dalmatian coast, Illyricium, Asia Minor, Syria, Egypt and North Africa. Not only are the small Lebanese double nave church examples not included, but the type is absent as well. Sodini examines complexes with a number of church structures and examples where one nave significantly pre­dates the other, as at Aliki, a Greek double basilican site dated to the 5 th and 6 th centuries, and St. Peter’s in Geneva. He includes church groupings, where the basilicas share a site or are attached to a compound, but do not share an architectural frame, such as the triad of 6 th century churches at Ir Ruhaiyeh in Syria. Chronological and spatial divisions between the Cathedrals at Sbeitla, Africa, are pronounced by the placement of a baptistery between the eastern 5 th century structure and the western 6 th century project. The lateral placement of the churches at Heraclea Lyncestis is also included. Only at Zenica, Dalmatia, are two naves and apses structurally dependent. However, unlike Lebanese forms, a solid wall divides the liturgical spaces; they are entered through two doorways in a mutual narthex 12 . Other examples of a two­nave configuration exist in Lebanon and Syria. The Double Church of Ummidj­ Djimal in Syria is dated to the 6 th century (Butler 1929 :plan 204) and the arcade paintings at Deir Salib indicate a 6 th century date (Dodd forthcoming). Stephan Westphalen, who has been studying the wall paintings at the church of the Syrian monastery of Mar Yakub at Qara, has been investigating the lower level of a church, possibly built 32 under the Patriarchate of Antioch in a region untouched by crusader forces and Latin patronage (Westphalen 2002). This double­naved church is characterized by the verticality of its twin naves, as opposed to a horizontal configuration. The apparent distinct regional characteristic of the Lebanese double naved churches and their construction places them simultaneously in the role of anomaly and of 13 an influential link. They pre­date the late Byzantine propensity for complex, additive forms of architectural design, yet significantly post­date the basilicas inventoried by Sodini. They have obvious counterparts in other regions, particularly in the reaches of the Mediterranean, yet their ultimate plans and programmes do not fall in line with a liturgical pattern seen among other Christian buildings. Theories About the Double Naved Church: Issues for Consideration The study of double naved churches in Lebanon requires the consideration of sacred space in a particular geographical setting. Although the churches of Lebanon adhered to the overarching specifications of Greek and Syrian Orthodoxy and the Latin Crusader Church, the synthesis of traditions required adaptation of previously utilized architectural designs. It must also be kept in mind that the very survival of these churches is the result of their small size and relative remoteness. These second naves may have implemented regional solutions to regional concerns over general typology for medieval building practice in Lebanon that fulfilled the multiple requirements of community life and avoided redundant space, in contrast 14 to the architecture of larger centres such as Beirut. At times of year when attendance was higher for liturgical services, there was space for all the worshippers. The additional naves may have served as baptisteries on some occasions, funerary chapels on others; they may have provided space for lessons and study. The churches at Sayyidat Darr, Deir Salib and Mart Shmuni are isolated cave churches with grottoes associated with monastic establishments. In the hermitage and monastic settings, it seems even more likely that there should be a number of suitable functions for a second nave, including a 15 refectory, services and study. As the iconographic programmes of Byzantine churches became more complex, the architectural framework was expanded to accommodate further imagery. Otto Demus’s famous treatment of the hierarchy of Byzantine frescos and mosaics emphasized that the church architecture was developed to hold the icons within a complex hierarchy of walls, vaults, semi­domes and domes. He wrote that “[t]he architectonic conception of a building developing downwards is in complete accord with the hierarchical way of thought manifested in every sphere of Byzantine life, from the political to the religious …
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS indeed the ideal receptacle for a hierarchical system of icons” (Demus 1964:12). Lebanese churches utilized a longitudinal plan in order to facilitate the processional aspects of the liturgy, and were therefore lacking in this particular architectural framework for iconography. The addition of a second nave would have provided the opportunity to embellish the increased space and the additional apse with important didactic and liturgical imagery. There is evidence to suggest that buildings of different forms but similar construction techniques were the product of travelling workshops in the Byzantine world. Robert Ousterhout suggests that the perekklesion or funerary chapel of the Constantinopolitan Pammakaristos monastery and the 14th century addition to the Chora monastery exhibit similar construction techniques and detailing (1995:168­9). If this workshop concept is applied to the archaeological remains and extant examples of double naved churches in Lebanon, contained within a triangular geographical region bound by the coast to the west and with points roughly in Tripoli, Hadchit and Dmalsa, the structures may be seen as more than the product of a linear and formulaic development of architecture. It is possible that a workshop or a group of masons and builders trained in the same pattern could have spread this particular configuration of space throughout the area, contributing to a particular interpretation of sacred space in Lebanese church construction at that time. Theories About the Double Naved Church: Gendered Space Nordiguian puts forward the concept that the double nave system was created to provide males and females with their own space during worship, making the added observation that it is difficult to imagine the use of single­naved chapels with singular entrances while maintaining the division of space for the sexes (Nordiguan 1999:179). It was common to situate women behind men, and they were certainly not mixed during the liturgy. There are some contemporary texts which comment on the role of women in the early Syriac eucharist. The 5 th century Syriac Testamentum Domini assigns “the widows who sit in front” a place at the eucharist with the clergy, within the altar veil (Taft and Robert 1998:32), perhaps indications of a greater role for the participation of women in Syrian Orthodox worship and liturgical practice than is to be expected. Although the burgeoning interest in the Virgin gave greater roles to female saints, and female patrons did much to advance the place of women in the context of worship practice, it is nonetheless difficult to conceive of so many small communities supporting extensions to their churches to accommodate women. Greek Orthodox liturgical practice was very specific about the placement of women. Byzantine texts locate them in the galleries 16 , “called either catechumena or … rarely gynaecium” (Taft and Robert 1998:31). These areas were not exclusively female, however, and in the Hagia Sophia and other churches of Constantinople, the Emperor and his retinue were placed in the second story galleries (Mathews 1971:132). The sources do not exclude women from any area save the sanctuary, but rather comment on their placement in the ground floor aisles and second storey galleries. In the 12 th century, the pronaos or inner narthex of certain churches was the designated place for women permitted to attend services (Taft and Robert 1998:54). Studies of De Cerimoniis, the account of the Russian pilgrim Anthony of Novgorod, who visited Hagia Sophia in 1200, reveal that the Deaconesses utilized the north aisle, as well as a location on the exterior of the church. Holy Apostles, Hagia Eirene and the Chalkopetria did likewise (Taft and Robert:69). This segregation of male and female worshippers could be used to argue for the potential expansion of the women’s galleries or the aisles into a full nave space, or even that the role of female elders and deaconesses required that they be given their own liturgical space. However, the ebb and flow of the position of women within both the Syrian and Greek Orthodox traditions makes it difficult to support the theory that an entire, equivalent nave structure would be incorporated into Medieval Lebanese church design. Theories About the Double Naved Church: Secondary Nave as Expanded Baptistry for Episcopal Communities J.P. Sodini has concluded that the second nave is a sort of expanded baptistery for the Episcopal 17 communities, stating, “58% des groupes considérés présentent en effet un baptistère. Dans certains cas l’utilisation des deux basiliques dans la liturgie baptismale paraît probable.” He adds, “Ceci est particulièrement vrai quand le baptistère est situè entre les deux édifices.” (Sodini 1980:310). There is no space between or alongside the Lebanese churches to facilitate the baptismal liturgy in 18 this manner, and they represent a single building project as opposed to additive architectural programmes. In addition, many of the Lebanese double churches were part of monastic establishments, and would not have required the Episcopal emphasis on conversion and baptism Sodini suggests. Although Saydet Darr contains a baptismal font in the southern section of the church and displays baptismal iconography in its southern apse, it is the only example of a Lebanese double nave structure that would support this specific explanation of usage. Palestinian churches were extended through chapels built along the north and south walls during the 7 th century. The standard baptistery plan was that of an elongated rectangle, often with side doors directly
FALL 2003 33 accessing the church. The font was positioned at the east end, and was equipped to accommodate full immersion in a quatrefoil or similarly configured basin. This is clearly seen at the church complex of Ras Siagha, which includes a baptismal chapel affixed to the basilica’s south (Crowfoot 1971:55­56). The Lebanese double plan churches devote equal emphasis to each of the two naves and they do not reveal the facilities for full immersion baptism required for this episcopal purpose. Theories About the Double Naved Church: Funerary Space Sodini believes some of his baptistery examples had the added function of serving a martyrial cult through reliquary placement (Sodini 1980:310), and in his work on Cappadocian churches in the 1920s and 30s, Jerphanion proposed that there were funerary associations with the second nave, citing burial remains as a potential indicator of funerary usage of secondary nave spaces in Cappadocia. This is supported by the discovery of bones at the 19 Lebanese site of Mart Shmuni at Hadchit (Dodd 1982). However, the bones were not revealed in either of the two adjacent apses, but rather in a third space, part of a further lateral extension of the longitudinal dimensions of the nave formed by a cave recess in the natural rock adjacent to the church, sitting behind two stone arches and constructed after the rest of the church was painted (Dodd 1982). It is likely that this third area was a further annexation of the church space, functioning as a perekklesion with a purpose separate from that of the remaining twin apses. The scant amount of painting recorded at Mart Shmuni also supports a martyrial explanation for this third lateral 20 space formed by the natural rock: Anastasis iconography is present in the apse. This scene emerged in the later Byzantine period as an iconographic theme for the increasingly popular perekklesion, exemplified in the Anastasis situated in the conch of the apse of the perekklesion of St. Saviour in Chora in Constantinople, now the Kariye Camii, decorated by the early 14 th century. It was not the Anastasis, but rather the Dormition, a scene with Christ and a host of mourners accompanying the Virgin’s body and her small, swaddled soul, which was favoured for the iconography of crusader funerary monuments (Dodd 1997­98: 267). This is not seen in the apses of the Lebanese double churches, as would be 21 expected if they were indeed funerary in nature. Rather, Mar Mitri in Kousba contains the Maesta combined with the Deesis in the conch of the south apse, and the cave church of Deir el Salib in Hadshit holds a cross with a floral motif in its main apse, the Annunciation in the southern second apse. Ayvali Kilise in Cappadocia, dated to 913­920, holds two naves joined by a passage at the east end before the two apses. Although this church has apparently 34 22 received little study in recent years due to its continued use as a dovecote, there are some suggestions that its double nave configuration relates to funerary usage. Annabel Jane Wharton, in her discussion of the Ayvali Kilise’s decoration, writes that the “eschatological and ascetic emphasis of the decoration, which includes not only a dense Christological narrative but also a Last Judgement, the Maiestas Domini, and prominently placed holy monks … intimates that the program was determined by its funerary function and its monastic audience” (Wharton 1988:26). A tomb niche in the north wall of the north chapel and the invocations painted to the orant saints St. Theodore the military martyr and St. Macarius the monk asking for the remission of sins also imply funerary associations. There is a narrative emphasis and an iconographic complexity that is not found in the Lebanese programmes. If the Lebanese patrons and builders of the double naved churches are looking to the antecedent of the early 10 th century Ayvali Kilise school, or had direct contact with the monastic establishment that occupied the chapel, they have not included the narrative elements and the specifically designed tomb niches that would indicate this. Nor are the funerary invocations to important monastic figures to be found. The fragments of iconography that remain in Lebanese double naved churches are problematically inconsistent with the perekklesion system of decoration from Byzantine and Latin antecedents. Theories About the Double Naved Church: Separate Naves for Village rites of Syrian Orthodox and Latin Communities Denys Pringle suggests that the double naved church derived from the need to provide both the village rites of Syrian Orthodoxy and the Latin practices of the crusaders with a setting for worship. In his corpus on the churches of the crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem (Pringle 1993, 1998), he addresses the parish church of Fahma. This village church was given a trapezoidal annex, likely during the 12 th century. Pringle mentions that this may represent an extension to accommodate the expanding Christian population during that time. He also comments that, due to the presence of an eastern recess suitable for an altar in the annex, the “existence of a main and a subsidiary altar in the church may perhaps reflect the provision made for the Latin and Syrian Orthodox communities of the village to worship in the same building according to their 23 own rite.” It seems that the local and crusader rites in Lebanon were very similar, although there were linguistic differences. In fact, the Byzantines, in their criticisms of the refusal of the Roman and Syrian churches to join with
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS 24 Greek Orthodoxy, often commented on their similarities. Texts derived from liturgical practice reveal that the Syrian Liturgy of St. James, in use since the inception of the Syrian Orthodox Church, is very close to the Latin liturgy, with the exception of the reverence shown for particular saints and patriarchs. The Syrian Orthodox consecration of the sacraments invokes the Apostles and the Disciples in a slightly different manner than the Romans (Il Rahmani 1929:137), and more spoken responses are required from the Orthodox congregation (139). Yet, it would seem that the simultaneous enactment of two liturgies in one place of worship would pose difficulties. However, the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem was the site of Frankish, Syrian Orthodox, Greek Orthodox, Abyssinian and Nestorian 25 worship; thus, an influential precedent exists. Latin and Orthodox clerical communities existed “side by side” in Bethlehem, at the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem and at St. George’s Cathedral in Lydda during the 12 th century (Pringle 1995:163). At Mar Tadros in Bahdeidat, the cross painted at the entrance, indicating where the worshipper is to make the sign of the cross, takes the Latin rather than the Syrian form (Dodd 1997­98:266). The wall paintings of Mar Tadros reveal depictions of saints with their hands raised in alternating Greek Orthodox and Latin blessings, while at Mar Charbel at Ma’ad, they have painted one wall in figures giving Greek signs and the other wall, Latin (Dodd 2002). Although it is certain that the Latin and Orthodox communities were able to exist in a closely linked physical and doctrinal relationship, if this is indeed the explanation for double 26 nave construction, it is neither clear at Fahma, nor in the Lebanese churches, which nave was used by which 27 Christian community. Evidence of the double­nave form in use in 28 Lebanon and in Syria during the 6 th century, and the use of the form in Cappadocia is seen as early as the early 10 th 29 century, pre­dates the Latin incursions. The crusaders did not import this floor plan, yet it would seem that the villages adopting Latin rites would incorporate essential liturgical aspects of church design into their sites. More specifically, none of the Lebanese double naved churches includes a sacristy 30 for Latin rites. Although there are a number of strong reasons to suggest that the double nave churches of Lebanon were designed and constructed in response to a growing division amongst the population split between Orthodoxy and Latin liturgical practice, a division that would eventually result in Orthodox and Catholic branches of all of the Eastern churches, the final issue that needs to be addressed is the presence of a similar pattern in other regions. The Latin rites were eventually adopted by Georgian, Cappadocian, Armenian and Coptic congregations, who also maintained ties to Orthodoxy, yet the double nave form is not in evidence in these other Christian contexts. Theories About the Double Naved Church: The Maronite­Syrian Orthodox Conflict and Linguistic Requirements Erica Dodd notes that the Maronites and the Syrian Orthodox members of the Lebanese Christian community were in conflict, yet wished to honour the same saint in their respective traditions, at the same site. Thus, they would require an architecturally singular church with two functioning naves and apses (Dodd 2003). The Maronites were pushed out of Syria and into Lebanon by the Byzantine Emperor Heraclius, to dwell in the mountains. As Syrian Orthodox followers moved into the Lebanese mountains, their differences with the Maronites were accentuated. Dodd proposes that both Orthodox and Maronite followers would both wish to honour the saints of their village, stating that “in a region where the congregation slipped easily from one rite to another, the idea of a double nave where both services could honour the same saint … would be more practical than building a new church when communities were divided” (Dodd forthcoming). Dodd also discusses the simultaneous presentation of the liturgy in two languages as a factor in the requirement for two naves. The liturgical language shifted from the use of Greek to the adoption of Syriac. The Patriarchate in Antioch continued to look to Constantinople, which operated in Greek, but the vernacular Syriac began to emerge as a liturgical language, exemplified by Codex Syriac Vatican No. 20, written in Syriac at Antioch (Il Rahmani 1929:112, cited in Dodd forthcoming). The use of Syriac in the Greek Orthodox liturgy may have begun during the 12 th century, with the addition of non­Chalcedonian priests who were permitted to use Syriac, as they did not speak Greek or Arabic (Slim 1995:21­22, referenced in Dodd forthcoming). Syriac became the primary language of the liturgy and the New Testament was read in Greek and translated into Syriac by the deacons, creating the potential for naves for each linguistic group. The division of a church edifice into distinct but symmetrical sections for the purposes of facilitating the liturgy in different tongues adresses both local activities within the Lebanese Christian community and the wider developments within the Christian world during the Medieval period. Yet, if these linguistic variations are the cause of architectural developments, why are the double naved churches not seen in Antioch, the nexus of this vernacular and liturgical linguistic juxtaposition? And, if Syriac had almost entirely replaced Greek by the 12 th century, why would the proliferation of the double nave form newly emerge at this time to facilitate these differences?
FALL 2003 35 Conclusion The double nave churches of Medieval Lebanon leave much to the imagination – too much, in fact. Perhaps it is this uncertainty that has prevented a thorough exploration of their form and function for so long. The suggestions for their raison d’etre presented in the literature are diverse and often regional in flavour. The relative demureness of spatial volume and the sheer number of examples in Lebanon makes the double nave church of specific interest to scholars of Medieval Lebanese Christianity, yet these places of worship have potential connections to liturgical, linguistic, architectural, archaeological, technological, monastic and intercultural studies. By presenting the problem, the evidence and the theories regarding the double naved churches of Medieval Lebanon here, I endeavour to inspire further discussion and examination of these issues. Notes 1 As in the example of the house­church at Dura Europos, dated by the plaster coating on the walls to 232. 2 A basilica is a building with an oblong plan and longitudinal aisles. Its origins are in the colonnaded halls of ancient Rome, but the form became popular for Early Christian churches. 3 Here, the term nave refers to the main body of the church, the length of the building on axis with the apse. The apse or sanctuary, the area around the main altar, is generally at the east end of church architecture, and often takes a rounded form. 4 Dodd cites the Byzantine style of the Dormition panel in the Church of Mar Saba, Edde, as evidence of this resumed contact and artistic influence between Byzantium and Lebanon. 5 Spolia includes building materials and architectural decorations taken from an existing or ruined piece of architecture to be re­used in a new construction project. 6 Church painting programmes have been used to date places of worship, based on stylistic grounds. Mar Saba, Édde, Lebanon, is inscribed with a calendar year corresponding to 1261 (Dodd 1997­98:270). Mar Musa al­ Habashi, a Syrian monastic establishment with close ties to the Qadisha Valley, is painted with two layers, the second inscribed with the year 1192, which has been used as a stylistic comparison for the dating of Lebanese works (Dodd 2001). 7 Nordiguian has published 10 examples (Nordiguian 1999) and two more in (Nordiguian 1996) Dodd has noted 9 painted examples. A number of these are also discussed in (Sader 1997). 8 A voussoir is a stone or brick, formed to fit together with other stones or bricks to make an arch. 9 A groin vault is created when two vaults, the arched 36 ceilings or tunnel­shaped roofs of a building, intersect at right angles. 10 A lintel is a flat piece of stone or wood used to bridge an opening, such as that of a door or window. 11 de Jerphanion, Guillaume. 1925­1934 Les églises rupestres de Cappadoce 5 vols., Paris. was not available for consultation. I am relying on the intermediary source of unpublished work by E. Dodd for relevant references to Jerphanion’s published material. 12 The vestibule outside a church or preceding the aisles of a church is known as a narthex. 13 The issue of double naves is a functional rather than a structural concern. The suggestion that the second nave spans space too wide for a single row of vaulting (Nordiguian:179) is not viable. Apses are correspondingly doubled in all examples, and a second altar is often present. Side aisles and timber trusses, which would alleviate any structural problems in spanning the width of the church or chapel, were in use in Lebanese and Syrian designs since the early church designs of the 4 th century, based on the basilicas of Roman occupation. The church of Namara (Nimreh) measures 12.7m across including two aisles, and relies on slender supports for the heavy roof, many of which are still standing. See: (Butler 1929). For approaches to spanning the nave in 5 th ,6 th and 7 th century basilicas in Palestine, for example the Cathedral at Gerasa, 22 m wide, see (Crowfoot 1971). 14 The Beruit Cathedral, constructed during the 12 th century, is today the al­‘Umari Mosque. 15 The Byzantine monastic refectories at Mt. Athos included iconography related to scenes chosen for perekklesion settings, such as the Last Judgement at Lavra, Dionysiou and Xenophon; certain scenes were adopted for buildings with essentially different functions, due to the similarities of certain services (Der Nersessian:307). In most cases, the refectory was a separate structure not far from the church itself, but at Patmos the refectory adjoined the church, although it maintained a separate entrance and no passage connecting it to the church. 16 A gallery is an open area on an upper storey overlooking the nave of a church. 17 Here Sodini lists some 41 churches and church groups from his inventory, (Sodini 1980: footnote 178). 18 With the exception of Mar Girgius in Rashkida 19 Bones were also discovered in an indentation in the cave church of Deir Salib, but no painting remains from that space. (Dodd forthcoming). 20 Anastasis scenes depict Christ, often holding a cross, pulling Adam, Eve and the other righteous souls from their graves. 21 There is a Dormition scene in the top layer of painting in the prothesis at the Church of Mar Charbel at Ma’ad, dated to c. 1266, and a Dormition panel at Mar Saba, Édde, dated to 1261 by Erica Dodd. These two examples are
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS documented Lebanese iconography, but they are single nave plans. 22 Marcell Restle (Restle 1969 v.1:140­41) briefly discusses the church as Gülü Dere. He does not succeed in entering the chapel before publication of his series. I was alerted to the church by a detailed iconographic plan in (Rodley 1994:158). 23 I was directed to the discussion in Pringle (Dodd, forthcoming). 24 Conversely, the Pope hoped that the Nestorian Christians would join the Latin Church, having been excommunicated from the Greek Orthodoxy and engaged in antagonism of the Byzantines. For further discussion, see (Adeney 1965). 25 Theodoricus, Libellus de Locis Sanctis, M. and W. Bulst, eds., Heidelburg, (1976) and translation from Latin by J. Wilkinson, ed., Jerusalem Pilgrimage, 1099­1185, London, (1988), 274­314. citation from (Dodd, forthcoming). 26 Pringle writes: “which altar was for which community, however, remains an open question” (Pringle 1993 and 1998:206). 27 In discussion following presentation of an early version of this paper, Gillian Mackie noted that the differences in the altars of the Orthodox and Latin communities might yield some information regarding their presence in the naves. The altars are still extant in the Lebanese double naved churches, largely as stone slabs. After some preliminary research into this issue (Bishop, Edmund. 1918 Liturgica Historica, Oxford. See Chapter II “On the History of the Christian Altar”, 20­38. Lesage, Robert. 1960 Vestments and Church Furniture. New York.) it became clear that, without the accompaniment of objects used on the altars, their presence in the naves was not an indicator of specific liturgical practice. 28 Double Church of Ummidj­Djimal 29 Ayvali Kilise of 913­20. 30 The sacristy is a special room built into a church for keeping sacred vessels and items of clothing. References Cited Adeney, Walter F. 1965 The Greek and Eastern Churches. New Jersey: Reference Book Publishers. Butler, H.C. 1929 Early Churches in Syria: Fourth to Seventh Centuries. Princeton: Princeton University. Crowfoot, J.W. 1971 Early Churches in Palestine. Maryland: McGrath Publishing Co. Demus, Otto. 1964 Byzantine Mosaic Decoration: Aspects of Monumental Art in Byzantium. London: Routledge & K. Paul. Der Nersessian, Sirarpie. 1975 “Programme and Iconography of the Frescoes of the Parecclesion”. In Paul Underwood, ed. The Kariye Djami, Vol. 4 London: Routledge & K. Paul. Dodd, Erica Cruikshank. Forthcoming Medieval Painting in the Lebanon. Wiesbaden: Ludvig Reichert Verlag. 2002 “Medieval Wall Painting in the Lebanon”. Lecture. February 19, Victoria, BC, Canada. 2001 The Frescoes of Mar Musa al­Habashi: A Study in Medieval Painting in Syria. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies. 1997­98 “Christian Arab Painters Under the Mamluks”. ARAM 9/10:257­288. 1982 “Notes on the Wall Paintings of Mart Shmuni”. Archéologie au Levant, Recueil à la mémoire de Roger Saidah. Lyon: Maison de l'Orient.Pp. 451­462. Il Rahmani, Ignace Ephrem. 1929 Les Liturgies Orientales & Occidentales. Beruit: Patriarcale Syrienne. de Jerphanion, Guillaume. 1925­1934 Les églises rupestres de Cappadoce. 5 vols., Paris: P. Geuthner. Mathews, Thomas. 1971 The Early Churches of Constantinople: Architecture and Liturgy. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Nordiguian, Lévon. 1996 “Les églises Mar Nqoula et Mar Stéphane à Bahdeidat”. Annales d’histoire et d’archéologie, Université Saint­Joseph. VII:69­82. Nordiguian, Lévon and Voisin, Jean­Claude. 1998 Châteaux et Eglises du Moyen Age au Liban. Lebanon: Editions Terre du Liban. Ousterhout, Robert. 1995 “Beyond Hagia Sophia: Originality in Byzantine Architecture”. Originality in Byzantine Literature, Art and Music. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Pp. 167­ 185. Ovadiah, Asher. 1970 Corpus of Byzantine Churches in the Holy Land. Bonn: P. Hanstein. Pringle, Denys. 1993, 1998 The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem, A Corpus, I and II. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1995 “Architecture in the Latin East: 1098­1571”. Oxford Illustrated History of the Crusades. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 160­183. Restle, Marcell. 1969 Byzantine Wall Painting in Asia Minor. Vols. I, II, and III. (English translation) Ireland: Irish University Press.
FALL 2003 37 Rodley, Lyn. 1994 Byzantine Art and Architecture: An Introduction. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sader, Youhanna. 1997 Painted Churches and Rock Cut Chapels of Lebanon. Beirut: Dar Sader. Sodini, J.P. 1980 Aliki, II: La Basilique Double. Athens: École Française D’Athènes. Slim, Souad A. 1995 Balamand: Histoire et Patrimoine. Beirut: Les Editions Dar An­Nahar. 38 Taft, S.J., Robert F. 1998 “Women at Church in Byzantium: Where, When – and Why?” Dumbarton Oaks Papers. 52: 27­87. Wharton, Annabel Jane. 1988 Art of Empire: Painting and Architecture of the Byzantine Periphery, A Comparative Study of Four Provinces. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Westphalen S. 2002 Guest lecture. February 28, Victoria, BC, Canada.
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS Preliminary Reports All we did was ask! : Exploring health­related behaviours and beliefs in Taiwan Carly J. Mattes and Amarjit Mann This paper reflects the perspective of two English teachers in Taiwan who are trying to gain greater insight into the health­related behaviours and beliefs of the local population, comprised of both native Taiwanese and foreigners alike. Not only are preventative measures discussed with regards to health, disease and illness, but also the causes and remedies. Definitions of both health and well­being are also key components of the interviews. The purpose of this investigation is to illuminate the cultural differences and similarities that exist between the Eastern and the Western health paradigms.
Living in the island nation of Taiwan as a teacher of the English language provides a myriad of opportunities to learn about cross­cultural similarities and differences in many arenas. If one makes the effort, there are plenty of interesting and exotic things to discover. However, due to the language barriers as well as the confounding effects of culture shock, it is very easy for Western foreigners to congregate together and form a Western micro­culture within the area they are living. This in itself does not have to be considered negative, but it can potentially lead to conflicts and/or feelings of animosity between Taiwanese nationals and the Western crowd (who have been collectively self­labelled as “Foreigners”). This group The authors currently reside in Tainan City, Taiwan, ROC. Carly and Amarjit graduated from the University of Victoria and met in the Environmental Studies program. Carly earned a double major in Anthropology and Environmental Studies (BA ’02) and Amarjit earned a double major in Biology and Environmental Studies (BSc ’02). Acknowledgements Many thanks to Suzanne Robidoux and Jamie Su for their time and contributions in the making of this paper. segregation leads to assumptions that are made by both parties as to why cultural differences exist between the two, and often results in increased misunderstanding and further isolation. This article demonstrates one such instance. Based on their own initial assumptions and biases on diet and health in this country, the authors decided to investigate the perceptions and actual health habits of the Taiwanese people. Two interviews, one with a Western foreigner who has fully sought to immerse herself in Taiwanese culture and is actively seeking knowledge on the health beliefs and practices of the Taiwanese, and the other with a Taiwanese national attending the local university, rapidly shattered stereotypes biases held by the authors and some of their foreign colleagues. Background Taiwan is situated in Southeast Asia and is part of officially known as the Republic of China. As an island approximately the same size as Vancouver Island, the population of 22,548,009 places it second only to Bangladesh in population density (CIA – The World Fact book, 2002). Approximately the same size as Vancouver Island, British Columbia, the island of Taiwan maintains a population of 22,548,009 which places it second only to Bangladesh in population density (CIA – The World Fact Book, 2002). The majority of the population is originally of Chinese descent, and the remaining minority is composed of mainland Chinese and aborigines. The most common religion practiced is a mixture of Buddhism, Taoism and/or Confucianism. Taiwan, as a heavily industrialized nation, is known worldwide as one of the “Asian tigers” of the global economy. The modern economy has forced, and continues to push, older traditions to the fringes and even overseas. Taiwan is outsourcing most of its low­tech industries in order to make room for development and factories which produce hi­tech electronic goods at low cost. This economic policy has had many impacts on the global markets – for instance, when an earthquake (as Taiwan is prone to such disasters) hit the island in the ‘90s, global prices on computer circuitry and microchips spiked as supplies were disrupted abroad. Taiwan is definitely a global force economically. However, in recent times, the local economy has suffered is suffering a recession for the first time since the Second World War. Despite Taiwan’s active role in the global market, Western culture has not made many inroads into Taiwanese society. The Eastern, or traditional way of life,
FALL 2003 39 still predominates local attitudes, beliefs, values and ways of thinking, especially in the Southern region of the island. Some examples of this traditional way of life include: (i) night markets and solo vendors who peddle a plethora of Chinese medicines and foodstuffs such as snake’s blood, animal viscera, and numerous herbal remedies and concoctions, alongside contemporary goods such as cell phones, digital video discs (DVD’s), and trendy blue jeans; (ii) colourful and cacophonous ear­splitting religious parades outside ubiquitous temples and shrines occur with great frequency; iii) regular offerings of food are set out and specially printed papers known as ghost and god money are burned as a means of interacting with the spirit world; iv) the national government’s funding of Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM) is on par with its funding of Western biomedicine in its National Health Program. 1 As a result of this conservative culture, traditional health behaviours and attitudes still run strong. The assumptions and biases that many outsiders easily arrive at upon their first impression of Taiwan, are that it appears there are few or no commonalities between Eastern and Western attitudes towards health. Differing views regarding the need for clean air, exercise, organic and nutritional foods, as well as the consumption of sugar, food additives and preservatives, are a few examples which highlight these contrary viewpoints. These ethnocentric assumptions are usually based on observed variations between the behaviours carried out in one’s own home culture and those in Taiwan. Some examples of these behaviours as cited by Western colleagues and friends living in Taiwan (authors included) are as follows: ­ high amounts of sugar and extra flavouring (such as MSG) in foods and beverages – especially in Taiwanese versions of Western food products. ­ high presence and intake of greasy foods. ­ apparently low environmental standards regarding air, land, and water quality. ­ common nose­picking behaviours without immediate hand­washing. ­ lack of outdoor exercise carried out/observed by Taiwanese (for example, many people will find it astonishing if a Westerner mentions that they walked four blocks to a restaurant or to go to a store). ­ many Taiwanese do not use seatbelts in cars or wear helmets when driving their scooters (this is especially frustrating for foreigners when they see two or three helmet­less young children riding on a scooter) ­ the amount of people who smoke cigarettes and chew the teeth­staining binlang (beetlenut), a palm seed which is loaded with additives and chewed as a stimulant. From a Western viewpoint, a healthy lifestyle does not seem to be a high priority for Taiwanese nationals. 40 Methods Initially, the authors had already spent several months in Taiwan, informally observing and talking with locals about their pursuit of health. These observations and dialogue came about from the authors’ own needs to obtain access to the local health systems. Those initial ventures into the health care system encouraged a slightly deeper inquisition into the Taiwanese health system, the results of which form the basis of this report. This paper is the result of a slightly deeper and subsequent inquisition into the Taiwanese health system. In order to gain further insight into Taiwanese health behaviours, two open­ended interviews were conducted – one with a local Taiwanese informant who is completing her Master’s degree in English literature, and one with a Western informant who has a Master’s degree in Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM) who is furthering her education by studying with TCM practitioners in Taiwan. The two informants were purposely selected due to their interests in one another’s culture. The authors believed that these particular informants would serve as excellent cultural intermediaries by shedding light on the similarities and differences that exist, while at the same time minimizing the amount of errors introduced into the study via statements that are ill­informed or of a prejudicial nature. The authors fully concur that this study is small and incomplete; another set of interviews should be carried out as a control using a Taiwanese national and a Westerner who have no knowledge of the other’s medical system and/or culture and who fully endorse their own system. The interviews were carried out separately; each lasted approximately one hour in length and followed a general health questionnaire prepared by the authors as a guide. Informed consent and permission to publish results was granted by both informants. Additional research was conducted outside of the two informants interviewed, via informal participant observation. The results of the study are shown in dialogue form, with verbatim notes cited as often as possible. The questions posed to the informants were not given as compound questions, but rather, were given independently and were used primarily as guide in order to gain information. In some cases, answers to questions were given without the specific question being asked. In such instances the questions as displayed below have been combined. Thus, questions that were answered without being asked had no need to be asked. Results of the Study The following is a general layout of the questions asked in the interview and the answers given by the informants.
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS I1 is the Western informant with a strong interest in the Taiwanese health system. I2 is the Taiwanese national. Definitions 1. What is health? Well­being? How can one determine if he/she is healthy or not? I1: “A healthy person is a balanced person. No separation between mind and body. The body, or physical health, is there to help us. It is a messenger that says that something is right or wrong. Most people get upset when they are out of balance, but ignore the problems that their bodies manifest until that point.” I2: “Happy, no mind troubles. You feel your body is right and you can do everything.” 2. How does one achieve and maintain health and/or well­ being? What components are necessary exactly to achieve this state? I1: “Don’t do anything in excess. For example, some people do colonics every 10 days. Extremes are bad. Sugar, for example, eats up your bones; it’s very bad for your health, it affects your blood hormones.” I2: “Don’t stay up late, drink lots of water, eat plenty of fruits and vegetables, don’t eat too much fast food, get plenty of exercise, etc…” Behaviors 3. What causes one to become unhealthy? What does one do to minimize health problems (or in other words, to maintain good health)? 4. Can you give some examples of behaviors that cause health imbalances? I1: “People in Taiwan say that chocolate is good for you. They will give chocolate to menstruating females. Pregnant women will eat a ‘special’ soup that they drink until 3­6 months after giving birth. This soup keeps spirits high, energy high, the blood pure among other things. Children eat candies filled with herbs. A prestigious gift to give someone while visiting is Chinese herbs. All the teas that they drink, they drink many teas, are anti­cancerous. Oolong [Taiwan] tea burns fat.” I2: “Smoking, drinking a lot, eating too much meat. I have a friend who always eats meat and no vegetables. That is very bad. Also staying up too late, not eating breakfast because breakfast gives you your energy for the day.” 5. Do people in Taiwan treat health as a priority? Are people in Taiwan healthy? What specific behaviors are performed to achieve/maintain good health? I1: “Taiwanese people treat health as a priority. Taiwanese people are healthy.” I2: “Now, people treat health as a priority, but before they did not. When they get older, they begin to pay more attention to their health. Older people will begin buying herbs to get them healthy. Younger people buy stuff for cosmetic or vanity reasons. People in Taiwan are not healthy. There are a lot of little problems like stomachache and headaches, but people ignore it. Younger people subject themselves to a lot of stress, but they think they can handle it. Qi Gong, Yoga and Aerobics are practiced to stay healthy. People go outside of the city on weekends and go to beautiful nature places, and many young ladies and older people go to spas – this is a new trend.” Variation ­ Integration of perceptions due to age gaps, western influence, individual belief systems etc. 6. What role does the mind play in health/well­being? What role does the environment play? What role does the body play? Are all of these separate/integrated? Can you explain? I1: “The mind is not separated from the body. The mind controls the body. Huge mental preoccupations will eventually manifest in the body. I’ve seen it in the TCM clinics I’ve worked at in the US and Canada. The exterior environment plays a role in health – especially how you choose to deal with it – it can affect you both positively and negatively.” I2: “Mind plays an important role in health. Healthy body, healthy mind. My friend’s parent’s in­laws take a lot of medicine all the time because they are afraid of death. No healthy mind equals a twisted life. Yes, the environment plays a role. Bad air quality and water pollution in Taiwan influences health. Many trees in the city would help our health, less cars and motos (motorcycles) would help our health, an MRT (Metropolitan Rapid Transport) would help our health; fewer buildings and more sky to see would also help our health. There’s no mind/body/environment separation. It is like a circle, all affect each other – connectedness. For example, when I feel a lot of pressure from tests, I don’t feel well in mind or body. It is totally different between my grandparents and me.” 7. Do the older generations view health (and the way to achieve it) in the same way as younger generations? If not, how are they different?
FALL 2003 41 I1: “With the older generations health was handed down and not explained. So the elderly just accepted it, they had no options. Nowadays, the older generations are attached to their traditions. Whereas recent generations, with the introduction of modern Western views, they like the options as it facilitates more creativity and they like feeling a part of the rest of the world.” I2: “Older people believe any medicine is the way to achieve health. I think that younger people are more influenced by progressive Western society. They will try to prevent bad health by natural methods – exercise, spas, etc… I see an emergence of Western and Chinese medical beliefs. Western medicine gives immediate ratification of physical symptoms but depletes energy whereas Chinese is taken over the long­term and improves health, but it takes a long time and tastes bitter.” Consumption 8. Are certain consumed products considered deleterious for one's health? What are they? Why are they bad? 9. Are certain consumed products beneficial for one's health? What are they? 10. Are their certain methods for food/drink preparation and consumption that aid in bringing about good health or contrarily that are detrimental to good health? 11. Are there any other factors that affect the health of an individual? What are they? I1: “Bad things – alcohol, drugs, sugar, fried foods, processed foods, MSG, beetlenut, and Carbon Dioxide levels pretty high. Steamed is better than fried. Too spicy is not good for your health. Taiwanese believe in soups. Emotions have a big effect on physical health.” I2: “Organic vegetables are good for health. Oxygen bars are good for health. The special drink concoctions like fresh tomato juice are thought to be very healthy. Second hand smoke and fast­ food are not healthy. In Taiwan, we eat a lot of buffets. This is not very healthy because they stuff themselves. More and more people pay attention to health nowadays than before. MSG – if you use less, it is ok. Don’t use too much animal fat ­ use vegetable oil, use organic vegetables and eat more fruit. All of us know our bodies, but we cannot resist things like fast food. We know it is bad, but it tastes sooo good! Another thing that affects health is the thin is better than fat concept – societal perception affects health behaviour of women. Women are very concerned about their figures – it always hangs over their heads. In Taiwan, we have many medications available to reduce weight and maintain your figure.” Summary Analysis 42 In summary, points brought up in these interviews, as well as during informal participant observation at later dates are included below: 1) Health Soups (called Hot Pots) – are a dietary basis for many meals. These soups are eaten daily and are full of herbs and other nourishing foods. There are also special soups which are given to people with special conditions (i.e. pregnant women). 2) Many candies are filled with herbs. Many of the teas and beverages are considered anti­cancerous and very healthy, and they are given to children and people of all ages. 3) Chocolate, among other things, is considered healthy for menstruating women. 4) Many Taiwanese people hold a belief about foods of likeness having beneficial effects on ones’ body; for example, if one eats bones in soup, the soup is beneficial for one’s skeletal structure. 5) Many Taiwanese may fry a lot of foods, but there are cultural sanctions against eating too much of this; for example being overweight is really looked down upon, especially by younger generations. 6) There is a strong belief in hot/cold theory in health care/prevention. For online information on the subject of hot/cold theory see: or 7) The Taiwanese perception of the mind/body/physical/ realm is that of being fully integrated. The body is happy when the mind is happy and vice versa. 8) Many Taiwanese also take part in physical activities such as Tai Chi, Qi Gong, and various other martial arts. Furthermore, contrary to the opinion of many foreigners, the need for outdoor exercise and fresh air is not overlooked either; the problem is that due to the highly industrialized nature and heavy population density of the country, access to these activities and environments is not always easy to obtain. Thus, despite initial impressions, it appears that Taiwanese are concerned about their health. Both food and physical activity­related matters figure prominently into their health seeking behaviours. Conclusion Many of the results came as a surprise to both authors. The initial assumptions made by many Westerners are just that, assumptions. There are several possible sources of these assumptions. The symptoms of culture shock often result in Westerners congregating together, maintaining their ethnocentric assumptions and never really attempting to learn about Taiwanese culture. Due to a lack of knowledge of institutions such as Traditional Chinese Medicine as well as on the daily diets of the Taiwanese, negative assumptions are further reinforced. Many foods that are noticed by Westerners are simply Taiwanese versions of Western products and their
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS assumptions are biased because such products are a novel treat for most Taiwanese. As well, the only labels that most Westerners are able to read happen to be in English and not Mandarin, and thus the emphasis by Westerners on the local varieties of Western products. Furthermore, the fondness of strong flavours (i.e. MSG) may be countered by a daily diet of herbal soups with plenty of fresh herbs, veggies, tofu, and other nutritional food items not seen, used, or even heard of in the West. Thus, local cultural adaptations to the supposed negative behaviours of the Taiwanese may counter the purported negative side­effects of their supposedly “poor diets.” On the other hand, On the flip side of the coin, statistics show Taiwanese do not have as long a life­ expectancy as enjoyed by many in more developed nations. In fact, according to the Taiwan Department of Health (DOH) website, in 1999 the average life expectancy for Taiwanese was 72.28 years for males and 77.97 years for females (Taiwan DOH website), whereas the values for Canadian males and females were 76.10 and 89.80 years respectively. According to their own DOH, Taiwan placed 10 th out of 10 OECD (Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development) countries being compared in both men’s and women’s life expectancy. However, in the same 10 country comparison, death rates from cancer scored the lowest for men and the second lowest for women. All in all, the results of this preliminary investigation suggest that the Taiwanese do, in fact, take their daily health into consideration and that Westerners need to look harder and separate themselves from their own cultural biases. All an outsider needs to do is ask; that’s all we did! Available.< ia_pacific/2000/taiwan_election/665322.stm> CVI college 1997­2003 “Vancouver Island Facts” Online. Internet. Accessed: 12 Feb. 2003 < CIA 2002 “The World Fact Book: Taiwan”. Online. Internet. Accessed: 18 Dec. 2002. < os/tw.html> The Republic of China Yearbook 2002 Taiwan, Public Health page. Online. Internet. Accessed: 10 Jan 2003. <­website/5­ gp/yearbook/chpt15­5.htm#23> Taiwan Department of Health webpage 2003 Online. Internet. Accessed: 30 May 2003. < VI/VI­1.doc>
Notes 1 According to the DOH, the number of Western Medicine Physicians is 1.28 Doctors per 1000 population. In 1999 in the Taiwan Area, there were in total 40,002 physicians in practice. Of them, 28,216 were western medicine physicians, accounting for 70.5% of all physicians; 8,240 dentists, accounting for 20.6%; and 3,546 Chinese medicine doctors, accounting for 18.2% (­ 3.doc). References cited BBC World News Website March 7, 2002 Online. Internet. Accessed: 6 Feb. 2003. FALL 2003 43 Field Notes A Tale of Leishmaniasis Renee Bauer
To many people, leishmaniasis may simply be thought of as another tropical disease; something that we, living in affluent nations, do not have to reckon with. To an estimated twelve million people worldwide 1 , the majority of whom are living in developing nations, leishmaniasis is a disease of poverty that poses a real threat to their subsistence and survival. For myself, leishmaniasis was the last thing to cross my mind upon accepting a position to work as a research assistant in Yasuní National Park, in the Amazonian rainforest of Ecuador. It was a dream job for me. A chance to explore the jungle while utilizing the extraordinary opportunity to study the behaviour of neotropical primates. The research station where I worked was remote and quaint, tucked away in the Amazonian rainforest among numerous dwellings of the indigenous Huaorani peoples. The Huaorani, who reside in the Ecuadorian headwaters of the Amazon, still maintained their traditional hunter and gather lifestyle until as recently as a few decades ago, and many of the elders continue to use blow guns for hunting. Despite the remoteness of the lush greenery, controversy surrounded us as the presence of oil companies was starkly Renee is an interdisciplinary graduate student in the departments of Anthropology and Biology. She is currently
studying ring­tailed lemurs in Madagascar. Acknowledgements I would like to thank two anonymous reviewers for their helpful comments on an earlier draft of this manuscript. In addition, I wish to thank the medical staff at the Hospital Voz Andes for their kindness and compassion while providing excellent medical care through every step of my treatment. I would also like to express my sincere gratitude to Paola and her family for opening their home to me while in Quito, as well as Viveca and Jamille for their emotional support, and finally, to my family for putting up with my lengthy long­distance phone calls while trying to seek the correct diagnosis…I can always count on you. 44 evident by the seemingly endless miles of pipeline and the legacy of contaminated streams. My job, which entailed collecting behavioural data on the fast­moving, frugivorous white­bellied spider monkeys (Ateles belzebuth belzebuth), took me on an unforgettable journey adventure through the rainforest. During my daily dawn­to­dusk follows of these animals, I was confronted with the challenges typical of fieldwork in the tropics ­ torrential downpours, annoying insects, poisonous snakes, plants that trigger burning skin welts on contact, palms with six­inch razor sharp thorns on their trunks, and “bullet” ants whose bite is known to inflict pain at the threshold of a piercing bullet. This incredible biodiversity created a plethora of hazards that I, being a prairie born Canadian, was totally unfamiliar with. Naturally, with such harsh conditions at hand, I was not concerned when an open sore appeared on my lower left leg. I simply attributed it to one of the numerous adversities of the rainforest, covered it with antibiotic ointment and a bandage, and continued on nonchalantly with my fieldwork. Weeks had passed and I grew concerned as the fingertip­sized sore turned into a festering, toonie­sized lesion with a peculiar raised border. The moistness of the tropics frequently nurtures bacterial infections, even in the most benign of scrapes. I was fortunate that despite the remoteness of our research camp, an Ecuadorian doctor was on staff at the neighboring oil camp a few kilometers away. Upon inspecting my malady, the doctor looked in dismay as he discovered that I had allowed the infection to linger for so long. He administered a thorough cleansing regimen, which involved applying a sequence of alcohol and iodine and hydrogen peroxide into the open wound. Then, he skillfully removed the necrotic tissue with a surgical scissors and applied sterile gauze. Finally, he sent me back to the research station armed with a course of antibiotics and the strict instructions to refrain from working in the forest for at least a week in order to prevent dirt and bacteria from entering the wound and hindering the healing process. Ten days, three different doctors, and several misdiagnosis later, not only had my wound grown larger and deeper, but a new lesion had developed on my heel. Both wounds had erupted to create distinct, volcano­like borders. Although I was not physically ill, the location of the wounds on my heel and lower shin made it virtually impossible to put boots on and continue with my fieldwork. By this time, a fourth doctor, who was exceedingly knowledgeable with the afflictions of the
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS FIELD NOTES jungle, arrived to assess my situation. He examined the skin on my shin with a pensive look on his face and announced that it was not a skin infection ­ as previously thought ­ but rather, leishmaniasis. My heart sank. Although my knowledge of this particular disease was limited, I had been told that the treatment was horrendous. For any readers with a familiarity of tropical diseases or parasites, believe me, bot flies are a walk in the park compared to this! According to the World Health Organization 1 , an estimated 1.5 – 2.0 million new cases of leishmaniasis occur annually worldwide, and individuals with the disease are at risk of scarring, disfigurement or even death (see Box 1). After the disheartening diagnosis, another week passed before I could make the arrangements to return to the capital city to seek treatment. I passed the time at camp by catching up on my laboratory duties ­ transcribing data, pressing plant specimens, processing fruit samples ­ or simply visiting with fellow researchers and Huaorani villagers. I was especially inspired by the energy of the Huaorani children who frequently visited the research station, and I was thrilled when the school teachers encouraged me to give a lecture on primates at the local school. During the lecture students enthusiastically participated in the assigned exercises as we discussed the role of primates as agents of seed dispersal in tropical ecosystems. They were especially amused as I extended my arms in a semi­brachiating motion to imitate a spider monkey in the process of dispersing the seeds that nurture seedling growth. After the presentation, one young student approached me and announced “hueceros” as she motioned at the sore on my leg. [Hueceros, which literally translates as “holes”, is one of the local terms for leishmaniasis] See Figure 1. I was very surprised to discover that her father also suffered from hueceros, especially since leishmaniasis had not been reported in this particular region of Ecuador for several years. The young student invited me to her house to discuss the treatment that her father was currently using to counteract the disease. Upon arrival, she emerged carrying a vile of thick, brick­red paste derived from local medicinal plants. The appropriate course of treatment, according to her father, is a two­step process. First, the afflicted person is required to drink herbal tea made from the paste. Secondly, a generous dose of the medicinal paste is smeared into the wound. This step, according to the local people, creates a burning sensation that aids in the healing process. Having been raised in a culture where the Western biomedical paradigm predominates our healthcare system, my newly discovered knowledge of this local cure derived purely from medicinal plants lead me to question my own perspective regarding the treatment of tropical diseases. Could such a disease really be cured through a mixture of forest herbs? I pondered. In spite of my limited knowledge of this disease, I was aware that although the disease manifests itself as open lesions, the underlying cause is the leishmania protozoon which infects mammalian blood. Moreover, I understood that particular strains of this disease were lethal, as they readily attack the internal organs of the infected individual. Motivated by fear and the distrust of a treatment that was not founded on the results of rigorous pharmaceutical testing, I opted for the “magic bullet” cure, and made immediate arrangements to return to the capital city, Quito, to seek treatment. Figure 1: Hueceros – the effects of Leishmaniasis Upon arrival at the Hospital Voz Andes in Quito, I met with a wonderful doctor who specialized in tropical medicine. She was trained in Ecuador and had extensive experience treating different strains of leishmania while traveling to remote villages to provide care for those unable to access treatment. Upon examining my lesions, she immediately confirmed my diagnosis and wrote out a prescription for the drug with the trade­name, Glucantime ® , for which I was required to take the maximum dosage for the longest recommended duration. This drug, composed primarily of meglumine antimoniate (i.e. toxic heavy metals), was developed in the early 1950's, and is still one of the most widely recognized treatments for leishmaniasis. Although my doctor discussed the overwhelming list of ill­side effects associated with this drug, she also pointed out that I was very fortunate to have access to such treatment – as thousands of other Ecuadorians infected with this disease do not. She continued to share her experiences of treating people with leishmaniasis, including the heart­breaking cases of poor and malnourished children who are most susceptible to the most virulent strains. 5 The cruel reality of leishmaniasis struck home as she showed slides of untreated individuals with advanced stages of the disease. If cutaneous leishmaniasis proceeds untreated, the not only do the wounds continue to fester, but in some cases the protozoa proceeds to attack the mucosal membranes of the
FALL 2003 45 FIELD NOTES body ­ such as the mouth, ears, and nose ­ causing breathing difficulties and severe facial disfigurement. I was instructed to have my prescription filled and return the next day to begin treatment. Feeling uneasy with my current situation, I examined the notation on my prescription: 20 milligrams of pentavalent antimony per kilogram of body weight per day via intramuscular injections. At this time I decided to seek additional information on this dreaded disease and its prescribed treatment regimen, by visiting an internet café to research the World Health Organization (WHO) 1 and Center for Disease Control (CDC) 2 websites. I became reasonably alarmed by the facts that I had uncovered about this particular drug… Glucantime…pentavalent antimony…not FDA approved, associated with substantial toxicity, non­ specific wave ST­T­Wave changes on electrocardiograms, and sudden death have been reported in those persons who receive more than the recommended dose. With this information weighing in the back of my mind, I returned to the hospital the next day and asked my doctor to demonstrate the specific molar calculations used to determine the appropriate dosage of Glucantime adjusted for my body weight. She assured me that I was strong, healthy and young; and ideal candidate for the prescribed treatment. I stood dumbfounded as she effortlessly demonstrated the calculations, yet I trusted her. With my heart racing and sweat forming on my brow, I braced myself for the injection as the doctor connected the leads of the electrocardiogram to monitor my heartbeat. As she administered the injection, I was oblivious to the pain, distracted by the thought that my heart would soon stop beating. Five seconds later, it was all over and I was fine. For the next 28 days I visited the hospital everyday, armed with the vile of Glucantime which I amicably referred to as ‘rat poison.’ The nurses, who knew me by name, were compassionate towards my situation, especially on the days when the injection was administered in the painful border of the lesion. Near the end of the treatment, my physical health – and my outlook on the progress of the treatment – was deteriorating. I was exhausted, plagued by constant headaches and dizzy spells, aching muscles, and a tender liver and spleen enlarged from their endless efforts of detoxifying my system from heavy metals that were administered daily. Day 29 brought with it great despair. I was too ill to go to the hospital for my final shot, and as I examined the lesions on my leg and heel, I saw only marginal improvements. I was unable to get out of bed all day, nor the next. On day 31 of 46 my treatment something incredible happened …I call it the ‘toxic sweat.’ For several hours my pores opened and I sweat profusely, yet I did not have a fever. Throughout the night, I changed out of three sets of sweat­drenched clothing and sheets. By the next day, the sweaty­spells had vanished and I was feeling well­enough go to the hospital. Although the doctor was impressed with the improvement in my condition, she put forth that an additional course of treatment may be required due to the presence of antimony­resistance in particular regions of Ecuador. In the following weeks my lesions diminished, leaving behind distinctive scars as a reminder of my experiences in the jungle of Ecuador. Today, I am back in Canada and effectively ‘cured’ of this disease. Despite my doctor’s warnings of a potential relapse, my body has failed to show any outward signs of its reappearance. As for Iteca, the Huaorani who also contracted leishmaniasis in the jungle of Ecuador, fellow researchers report that he is well and his wounds have also healed. As for the millions of others across the globe who suffer from leishmaniasis, I can only hope that current efforts by doctors and researchers to find a vaccine and/or more effective cure are successful and accessible * *For more information about a Canadian researcher and his team who have undergone WHO supported human clinical trial in Peru to test potential chemotherapeutic compounds against Leishmaniasis, follow the web­link below References Cited Cerf BJ, Jones TC, Badaro R, Sampaio D, Carvalho EM, Rocha H, Texeira R, Johnson Jr WD. 1987 Malnutrition as a risk factor for severe visceral leishmaniasis. Journal of Infectous Diseases 156:1030­2. Center for Disease Control, Parasitic Disease Information. 2000 Accessed June 2003 nia/factsht_leishmania.htm World Health Organization 2002. WHO Information Fact Sheets.
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS FIELD NOTES Box 1: Facts on Leishmaniasis 1, 2 What is Leishmaniasis and how is it transmitted? Leishmaniasis is a globally widespread parasitic disease transmitted by the bite of phlebotomine sandfly that is infected with a species of flagellate protozoa belonging to the genus Leishmania. These sandflies become infected by taking a blood meal from a reservoir host, such as rodents, domestic dogs, or infected humans. Geographic distribution and prevalence: Leishmaniasis is found in approximately 90 tropical and subtropical countries around the world, ranging from rain forests in Central and South America to deserts in West Asia. It is estimated that 12 million people worldwide are affected by leishmaniasis, with an additional 1.5­2 million new cases occurring annually. Since 1993, Leishmania­ endemic regions have expanded significantly, and this geographic spread parallels increases in development. For example, massive rural­urban migration and agro­industrial projects bring non­immune urban dwellers into endemic rural areas. Infrastructure, such as dams and irrigation systems, as well as deforestation, all contribute to the spread of leishmaniasis. Different forms of Leishmaniasis: In humans, leishmaniasis presents itself in three different forms, all with a broad range of clinical manifestations and potentially devastating consequences. The most common form is cutaneous leishmaniasis, which represents 50­75 percent of all new cases. Cutaneous leishmaniasis manifests itself with one to several skin ulcers on the exposed parts of the body, such as the face, arms and legs. These sores, which can cause slight to excruciating pain, frequently take on the appearance of a volcano with a raised edges and central crater. Often it takes weeks or even months after a person is bitten for the skin lesions to appear, and such lesions can lead to serious disability and permanent scarring. If left untreated, the cutaneous form of the disease can spread to the nose or mouth giving rise to mucocutaneous leishmaniasis. This form is even more devastating as it causes extensive disfiguring and destruction of mucous membranes in the nose, mouth and throat cavities. Moreover, mucocutaneous leishmaniasis, which is most common in Central and South America, may appear years after the original skin sores healed. The best way to prevent mucosal leishmaniasis is to treat the cutaneous infection before it spreads. The final form of leishmaniasis, visceral leishmaniasis, or kala azar, is the most severe form of the disease. If left untreated it has a mortality rate of almost 100 percent. The severity of this form is due to the fact that it affects internal organs of the body, such as the spleen, liver, and bone marrow. The symptoms of this disease, including fever, anemia, substantial weight loss, and enlargement of the spleen and liver, develop within a matter of months or even years after a person becomes infected. More than 90 percent of the world's cases of visceral leishmaniasis occur in India, Bangladesh, Nepal, Sudan, and Brazil. Decrease your risk of contracting leishmaniasis: Currently, there are no vaccines or drugs to prevent leishmaniasis infection, and the treatment, which requires large doses of toxic antimonial compounds, is certainly not a preferred option. I strongly urge travelers intending to visit a region endemic to leishmaniasis to take measures to decrease risk of infection For detailed preventative measures see the CDC leishmania fact sheet at: ctsht_leishmania.htm. Phlebotomine sand flies are most active in twilight, evening, and night­time hours. Moreover, because they are very small (about one­third the size of a typical mosquito), and are silent when they fly, many people do not realize that they are present. Take the time to protect yourself.
FALL 2003 47 FIELD NOTES As We Drive Along… Anne Catherine Bajard
I worked with development issues in Bolivia from 1987 to 2002, gradually moving from naïve idealism to a heart­felt commitment to supporting indigenous peoples´ rights, including the satisfaction of basic needs at a local level, the rights to participation in the construction of the State, and the peoples´ rights to influence and shape the international and globalizing processes of the world. I recognize that still sounds idealist. At the risk of sounding even more romantic yet, I have found that there is no way for me to write but from the heart, where very pragmatic issues such as the struggle for a territory combine with the daily reality of individuals whose lives I have had a glimpse of. I invite the readers here to catch a glimpse of the lives and thoughts of people I accompanied, in the struggle of the Chiquitano people of Bolivia for recognition of their territory.
Anne­Catherine Bajard worked in Bolivia from 1987 to 2002 in programmes of organizational development in relation to governance and territorial rights of indigenous peoples. She established particularly strong relations with the Chiquitano people in the Amazon region, the Aymara and Quechua organizations of the Highlands, and the national movement of domestic workers. From 1996 to 2002, she worked specifically with the organization of indigenous peoples of the Amazon and Highlands of Bolivia, Ecuador and Peru, and their regional representation for international incidence, the Coordination of Indigenous Organizations of the Amazon Basin (COICA). She is presently preparing a Master of Arts in Geography at the University of Victoria, including both Anthropology and Indigenous Governance subjects. Her thesis will be related to indigenous peoples’ organizations of Bolivia and Ecuador and transnationalism. Acknowledgements The leaders of the indigenous movement of Bolivia have given me privileged status in accompanying them in their struggle for territorial rights. I thank them, and particularly Jose Bailaba and Carlos Guasace, Chiquitanos of the dry tropical forest of Monteverde. This text is a creative reconstruction, with inner monologues, Jose’s (imagined by me), then mine. I would also like to highlight Nicole Smith and Michelle Rogers, for the tremendous work they have done in coordinating Cultural Reflections. 48 I find that the study of others, the description or analysis of their way of life, too often fails to take into account the fact that the others are also looking at us and adapting their ways in order to find a meeting point where we can communicate. Others’ perception of us must be highlighted when presenting a person. I thus choose to project the thoughts that might go through the mind of a Chiquitano leader, Jose, as he drives along with me, a Canadian project officer accompanying the Chiquitano’s struggle for recognition of their rights. In the last part, I include my own monologue, more briefly, to contextualize his interior monologue. Just as much of the learning process “in the field” is one of deduction, both Jose´s and my monologues are interspersed with facts and names which the reader cannot possibly know about. I consider that this is part of the journey: one receives bits and pieces of information, interprets them as is possible, and inevitably, one more trip and yet another and another are necessary to each time better know or better comprehend the people and the situation in which they live. Following on that, even after years with the Chiquitanos, I needed yet another journey with them. I went back to Bolivia in August 2003, and met and interviewed many of the leaders I shared my life with. I have told Jose Bailaba and Carlos Guasace (introduced in this text) of my studies, of this article, and most of all, of the degree to which I feel they have contributed to the person I am today. All other names have been changed, and/or are constructed figures meant to illustrate the situation. In brief, the issue at hand is the struggle to have the Chiquitano Territory of Monteverde recognized as an indigenous territory, to be used, managed, lived in, breathed in, by the Chiquitano people of Bolivia. Though a law was passed in October 1996, which set the framework for this territory and many others to be recognized as indigenous land within ten months, six years have now gone by, and still the territory is being used and exploited by private cattle ranchers, lumber industries and miners of the dominant class of Bolivia. The strategy for satisfaction of the indigenous rights to the territory has included lobbying at national level, capacity building for representation of indigenous peoples in municipal and national politics, international lobbying, negotiation with non­indigenous settlers in the territory, and the gradual settlement of new Chiquitano communities in the territory. My friends have suffered the continued lash of poverty and also severe physical aggressions while settling in or defending their territory, but continue with the legal and social battles ahead.
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS FIELD NOTES As we drive along... Drawn from notes of November 1999, driving along a dirt road in the Chiquitania, 200 km from Santa Cruz, Bolivia It’s dark out. The jeep’s lights make it seem even darker. The hours drag on, and I notice she has finally stopped talking, probing, asking questions about both the organization and the people, asking about my life, about my father and mother’s health and all that. She’s dropped the role of project officer, just driving and letting the silence in. I actually think we’re closer, at this moment. Oh no, I’m starting to think like they do, thinking about how we ‘relate’! And I know the jokes about her relation with me, the imagined competition between her and Susan, from the British NGO, about which one is closer to me, which one knows me best. I wonder if she knows that from our side, people have been saying the same about whether Carlos or I have a closer relation with her. We never used to talk or even care about these things, it’s just the gossip in the air. Got to change the topic. The trees are really young. Another patch of old trees, and again, second generation woods. Nothing new, but I’m noticing it again. Strange, I must be looking through her eyes, haven’t managed to change my line of thought yet. Ah, good! A snake crosses the road, something moved at least, it must be a snake. A big one. We’re fine in the jeep. But she’ll ask me something, I know she will. I look towards her. She has stopped the jeep, and is looking in the darkness, trying to peer out through the driver’s window, and I can imagine her thoughts: did she run over a snake? What was it? Is it dead? She will wonder about asking me to go out with the machete and sever the head. Will she herself go out and do it, just to prove she is not using me as the lower class man at her service, or as the indigenous man, or just as a man? She might just go out and look, to prove that she can. I speak: “we’ve run over a snake”. And there it is, she breaks the silence, jumps the bridges, jumps into the trust mode again, to tease me: “Jose, you’re the man, you’re the Chiquitano leader, so what snake is that? Are you going to go out and see? Is it dead?” It looks like the tail sticks out one side and the head out the other side, she’s gone over it right when it was crossing, and stopped perfectly on top. No danger. She’s probably interested in whether it was the famous Anaconda, the “deadliest snake of the Pantanal”. She’s probably even seen the soap opera based on the Anaconda. I don’t know and don’t really care what it is. I can almost see the lights of town, the gast station will be the first place we see, then we’ll drive to her hostel, and I’ll drop by the office before walking home. I need some space after six hours in the car with her. And tomorrow we continue. … We are on the road again. I need to make this trip useful. It’s all very well that I get a free ride to Santa Cruz, and we will get funding from her, no doubt about that, but funding isn’t everything. Pablo is in serious trouble with Justina and the kids, and we’re going to drive through their town. She’s already seen the Chiquitano Jesuit mission here, and wouldn’t want to show interest in tourist sites, so I can’t use that as a pretext to stop. I’ll just tell her. I break the silence: “Pablo’s wife is sick, and he has come back out of the territory to take care of her. We should stop and see him.” There is no point in my telling her that what happened is not really sickness. Pablo has been one of the first to put aside his role as political leader and actually settle in the territory. I wish I could do that. But then who would go on with the negotiations and the lobbying? But all that talk, being diplomatic with the landowners, with government officials, bilateral cooperation, and even bowing to the beautiful little ideas that the Danish advisors come up with, just because they are so willing to help us. I’m also tired of sitting through the endless meetings with the lawyers when basically, we should just develop the territory quickly, before the Terceros do it. What luck, Pablo. Of course, he couldn’t take his children with him, they need to be near a school. And a health centre. And Justina hasn’t understood the strategy, that some of us have to start up new settlements in the territory, lay claim to it before it disappears with the lumber industry and ranching… So she didn’t understand. And she found another man. I decide to speak again: “What happened is that Pablo moved to the woods and has been setting up his own little chacra there. He couldn’t take the family with him until he had things set up, and now Justina’s illness is forcing him to come back. Since he left his leadership role, he won’t even be in a position to be on the council until the next elections, since you all count so much on the assembly and election processes. Also, it could turn against us from inside, if we bring him back to the Committee as President, since now everyone from the communities has gotten used to the electoral system. That means I have to talk to Pablo, we have to figure out a way to get him active without shaking things up, and see what can be done with his new chacra”. …
Ay, Anne Catherine did it: she went into the gender thing, how Pablo should have been slower in just running off to the woods, that it’s not sustainable if male leaders just rush ahead and do not make it a family matter. She even said something about it not being strategic anyways, because he could do much more as President of the CICC than in the woods. Does she think the landowners and the ranchers
FALL 2003 49 FIELD NOTES are going to wait? I’ve told her that the road we took last year, that she so much enjoyed macheting open for the jeep, is now a full­fledged road, used by the lumber trucks. She doesn’t realize what that means: once a road is opened, people move in, miners come in, the forest is at risk. And our women, well, Susana should never have conceded to talking about her personal life, women things, with Anne Catherine at the last Assembly, when they went off for that walk on their own. Sure, it brought Anne Catherine even closer to our cause, but now she’s wanting to get in on our family issues. So what is it to her that my wife died, that my mother is bringing up my four daughters, that my present woman is happy with our arrangement even though we rarely see each other, and that my father is sick? She’d rather worry about the famous sustainability thing, making sure that when we get the territory, we will still be happy family units. Does she think we’re happy family units anyhow, when the only source of work is to be hired by terceros to cut up our own territory for their profit? Does she think there’ll be any territory left for us on which to live happily ever after? And she couldn’t even pick up the Chuvé family because there would be too many people in the car, a matter of insurance and such. She actually thinks that the law is worth respecting? After what she knows the laws do to us? And that stuff about accidents and insurances, well, we live with accidents and no insurance all our life, what is it to her? The Chuvés needed to go to Santa Cruz, now they’ll have to wait. …
Okay, I’m being unfair. Anne Catherine is sad for Pablo. Over coffee, when Pablo and I were speaking, she didn’t blink an eye, didn’t stiffen when she realized Justina wasn’t really all that ill, and she listened. She seemed to really feel for Pablos’s circulo vicioso. She does see the strategy behind it all. Her idea that he be part of a consultive group for the OICH wasn’t bad, as long as she’s not thinking of throwing funds into this process. Funding would just make him look like a technician, managed by outsiders. Ay, I wish we had it as easy as in Lomerio, where the village is actually right inside the territory, and everybody still speaks Besere. Why didn’t my parents just have the sense to talk to me in their dialect of Chiquitano? It was good when we went to the territory, to Monteverde last year. The meeting with Doña Josefina. Her story about what she remembers of freeing her parents and others from the seringueros. Anne Catherine and Susana needed to hear a direct story like that. From the past, but I think they know it’s not past. What’s funny is that they thought the meeting we held with them in Monteverde was good. They should have seen how much we discussed in the night, while they were probably fighting over who got 50 the hammock and who got the straw mattress, going to sleep fearing spiders and bats and all. And their reaction, when we told them to go and distract the Santa Cruz guys who had come in to hunt, so that we could steal their car keys! Susana was in shock but willing to do it, I think. Anne Catherine was wavering. I had to be nice and change the plan, and recommend roadblocks. It worked anyway, even in the settlement of Macanaté, where the families should be hungry for anything, any coima from unwanted visitors. They were the first to set up a new settlement, and now they need production, health, education, anything they can get, any contact they can make. And we can only bring sugar and oil out to them once a month or when we happen to go in like now. I think it took the Santa Cruz guys two days to get back out, they’re not going to recommend that their friends go hunting there! My voice comes out a bit too loud: “Anne Catherine, remember Monteverde last year, and the hunters? Remember on the way out, how I asked you to stop along the way even though you were in a rush? We told every family along the way, as we left the Territory, to block the road, rocks, bushes, anything, behind us. No one got hurt. And you didn’t have to get involved.” “Yeah,” she says, “you were going to use the little gringra girls to flirt with the wolves while the sheep got their vengeance. Can you imagine how international cooperation and your own cause would have looked like, if it came out in the press? It’s not just a matter of me or Susana wanting to be with the Chiquitanos, side with you on this, it just wasn’t strategic for you.” Okay, always her thing about being seen as girls, chicas. And sheeps and wolves? Little does she know. We’re not sheep. But she always knows how to argue something out until she sounds good anyhow. I’ll leave it at that. Abuela… grandmother… we can see the lights of Santa Cruz, it’s a haze, but it’s there. Abuela, what do you think? Should I just give up and take that job in the Prefectura, like Rolando did? Ay, Abuela, I wish you’d show up again like you did out in the Chaco Guarani. The road is paved now. There’s no space to think anymore, we go fast, the ride is too smooth, and soon I’ll be heading to the office. Don’t want to. I’m tired. We should just turn around and drive back to Concepcion. I’d rather face the ranchers and a beating again, than start again with all the routine, the projects, the meetings. At least at home, I know why I’m doing all this. I see Pedro who is now leading the literacy campaign, Diego monitoring the green lumber project for us… and I see that girl who was trained in the communication project, who is now working at the radio station, Horacio’s daughter. Things are either good or bad in Concepcion, but here in Santa Cruz… it’s all politics. Why did I have to be bloody good at it? … … CULTURAL REFLECTIONS …
FIELD NOTES Jose slumps in the seat. I look over, and now he looks tired, non­descript or rather unkempt. I can guess he’s older than me, not much, but diablos, he’s older now than when we were in Concepcion. I’d like to just keep driving, and we’d go through Santa Cruz, it wouldn’t be there, we would be out on the other side, and start talking again. The mosquitoes splatter on the windshield, white splashes here and there. I remember the time I used the windshield wiper and ended up with white paint all over the window. We actually used the last drops from my bottle of water to tray and clean up a clear space so I could drive. I wonder if Jose knows how happy I am to drive, not just proud, being a woman and all, but happy. I was thinking about Mamie when he sort of muttered Abuela just now. My heart just grew to a size bigger than my body. We talked once about how the people we have lost are somewhere around us, and there it is. I feel maternal. Diablos, that’s what I’m always trying not to do, being paternalistic. I guess this is different. It’s personal. And it’s only a flash. Jose Bailaba is now member of Parliament of Bolivia (2002). At the first session, he attended with his long hair in a braid, and adorned himself with symbols from the four peoples of the region he represented: Ayoreo, Guarayo, Guarani and Chiquitano. Some of the public saw the Indian, denigratingly and with mistrust. Some of the public saw a fake dressing­up and opportunism. A few anthropologists no doubt started analyzing the historic relation or lack thereof between the four peoples he thus represented. Some like me feel he has tried to embody the cause for which he ran for elections: self­governance of indigenous peoples of the Lowlands of Bolivia. It was funny, about the snake. Well, funny to me, for just a minute. I wonder if I hurt him, if he felt he really should have known what it was. Naaaah. There’s no way I could have been “unmasking” his indigenous role­playing, because he doesn’t play that role with me. But still, it wasn’t nice, bringing up the supposed traditional Indian “know­how” when I know how he grew up, having moved from his community to a white town when he was nine. The Chiquitanos are not the typical exotic Indian that the press wants to cover. Apart from Lomerio which is like a little Shangri­la in the woods. And it is our problem if we don’t use the past in our present, as the Chiquitano do. So we think that if a person doesn’t speak Besere, if his parents have forgotten it, he is not Chiquitano. Rights! That’s for the amateurs who forget that it’s not the numbers of generations that count, it´s what´s been transmitted. And if it´s not the languages, it´s the tradition of knowing that you are oppressed, humiliated, and that you once had your own language and culture. It´s the way you view the world. Terceros: Third parties. In this context, non­indigenous landowners and concession holders within the territory. Glossary of Terms Pantanal: Famous floodplain / wetland system in Brazil, Paraguay and Bolivia, covering 42 million acres Chacra: Agricultural plot, usually used for subsistence. Macheting: Inventing the verb: cutting down with a machete. Circulo vicioso: Catch 22 or vicious circle. “Catch 22” was too foreign to the context to use here. Seringueros: Rubber tappers Coima: Bribe Abuela: Grandmother Prefectura: Departmental government office.
FALL 2003 51 Reviews Seeking Tools to Revision the World: A Review of Jone Salomonsen’s Enchanted Feminism robyn a. cryderman
This review essay introduces readers to Jone Salomonsen’s important study Enchanted Feminism: The Reclaiming Witches of San Francisco (2002). This is the first academic work to focus on feminist spirituality as described and practiced by Starhawk, one of the founders of Reclaiming and the community’s foremost writer and teacher. Salomonsen studied Reclaiming over a period of ten years, 1984­1994. In her two part study, she describes “how actual women develop a spiritual alternative to Jewish and Christian religions, how they understand themselves as cultural agents and womanly subjects in the midst of this process, and [how they] analyze the meanings of their sexed, bodily experience when interpreted in the context of ritual action and symbolism” (13), while incorporating her own experiences in the community as part of her methodology. Salomonsen traces how Reclaiming, and particularly Starhawk, have developed a practical thealogy of the divine feminine, performing a complex critique of hegemonic masculinity and power relations in the modern, capitalist society, an analysis focused on revisioning and healing the self, community and world. Through her discussion of both text and robin a. cryderman earned her MA in English at the University of Victoria (1997), and currently teaches first year composition and literature courses as a sessional instructor with the English department. A mother of two, she works from a radical feminist spiritual perspective, combining activism and research in women’s issues (particularly sexuality, birthing, infanticide, and “sexual”/“domestic” violence) with studying women’s writing, their lived experiences, and the their constant struggle against discourses that perpetuate social inequalities and systemic violence against women, children and men. She is currently looking at modern masculinity in speculative fictions. In her spare time she is a midwifery advocate, a volunteer advocate for victims of so­called domestic violence, and treasurer for Cupe 4163, who hopes one day to be able to change consciousness at will. 52 experience, Salomonsen positions Reclaiming’s feminist spirituality as an important cultural, theological and academic critique. Bringing enchantment to the everyday university is not an easy task. Here in Canada we find it normal to discuss Christian, Jewish, Muslim and Hindu theology as participating in, if not organizing academic discourses―the stuff we learn and the stuff we teach. These systems have achieved the status of rational discourses, academically valid; however, “feminist spirituality” (Starhawk 1999:xvi) has generally not been accorded such validity. Feminist spirituality itself is a generalized term that encompasses a diverse range of beliefs and practices, a tremendous variety of witches and pagans who nonetheless share a belief in “the Goddess” as primagenatrix and a deep respect for the natural world. And while there is a growing acceptance and tolerance of “radical” spiritual beliefs in Canada, feminist spirituality is little used in university as a theoretical model, a social critique or a practical guide for living; most often its study is relegated to “special topics” and Women’s Studies courses. At the University of Victoria, for instance, feminist spirituality is recognized institutionally; the eight major festivals composing the “Wheel of the Year” (the core cycle of the Goddess and the natural world, celebrated on solstices, equinoxes and other key seasonal points) are noted on the campus calendar. We have a Wiccan priestess on campus who is publicized alongside other spiritual providers, and the Interfaith Chapel is a site of both festival and moon rituals. Be that as it may, posit a critical discourse predicated on the principles of feminist spirituality and you will see professors and classmates alike react as though its broomsticks and pointy hats. Suggest “magic” as a social and political solution, or “the re­enchantment of everyday life” (to steal a phrase from Thomas Moore) as a critical position? That doctoral proposal slides off the table at most North American universities. As a feminist academic and follower of the Goddess, I have both a personal and intellectual stake in incorporating feminist thealogy (footnote #1) as a workable critical position, the lens through which I view the world and critique both theory and interpersonal / transpersonal relationships. Thus I was thrilled to discover the first academic study of the tradition I embrace, Jone Salomonsen’s Enchanted Feminism: The Reclaiming
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS REVIEWS Witches of San Francisco (2002), a marvelous, rigorous work that will go far in opening academic doors to feminist spirituality. Salomonsen is a Senior Research Fellow in Theology and Social Anthropology from the University of Oslo, Norway, who studied the Reclaiming Community based in San Francisco (Reclaiming), over a period of ten years, from 1984­1994. As this radical community is far from most people’s stereotypical and distorted view of modern pagans, we will also peer into the spiritual / thealogical world of Salomonsen’s co­researchers, a diverse group of women and men intent on enchanting the world. Reclaiming started as a loose group of feminist witches living in the San Francisco Bay area who began meeting regularly to worship the Goddess and organize political action in the community. One of Reclaiming’s founders and their foremost writer / teacher is Starhawk, who, over the past twenty­five years, has been the source of thealogy and ritual as well as numerous books, and a pedagogical system to train anyone who seeks to learn this practice. Now working and living in “imagined communities” (Anderson 1991) spanning Canada, the US and Germany, Reclaiming Witches look at themselves as “benders” and “shapers” (Starhawk and Valentine 2000) of reality, whose individual / collective goal is to heal the world and its peoples of the disease of patriarchy, a mindset characterized by a “’consciousness of estrangement’:” The history of Patriarchal civilization could be read as a cumulative effort to break that bond, to drive a wedge between spirit and flesh, culture and nature, man and woman ... and impose ... a mechanistic view of the world as a dead machine. That rupture underlies the entwined oppressions of race, sex, class and ecological destruction. (Starhawk in Salomonsen 2002:79) Reclaiming communities manifest this goal through political action, for example, the North American communities mounted highly visible contingents in antiglobalization protests in both Seattle (2000) and Montreal (2001), while the German communities mounted equally visible contingents on the continent. Starhawk’s critique of power relations, a discourse that bends social norms and shapes the political actions of Reclaiming communities, is, I suggest, a crucial step towards dismantling cultural patterns supported by hegemonic masculinity, and thus an important contribution to public and academic discourses. Salomonsen shows how Starhawk attacks the contemporary model of corporate North American society which reinforces a system of relations based on domination and violence, “power­over,” which prevents people from “really growing up, ... [from] cultivating their power­from­within towards a third ethical principle: ‘power­with.’ This form of power represents the sensibility to make choices for action, separating morally right from wrong, distinguishing between the social forces sustaining life and those promoting death” (Salomonsen 2002:286). In Reclaiming’s view, patriarchal societies promote death, not life, and in this way are “unnatural.” Salomonsen’s erudite and compelling prose accomplishes three linked goals. The first is descriptive: “how actual women develop a spiritual alternative to Jewish and Christian religions, how they understand themselves as cultural agents and womanly subjects in the midst of this process, and [how they] analyze the meanings of their sexed, bodily experience when interpreted in the context of ritual action and symbolism” (13). The second is methodological; her study exemplifies an interdisciplinary approach she calls a “method of compassion.” She develops this method by combining Anthropology’s standard participant observation method, the textual and exegetical analyses common to Theology, and her direct participation in Reclaiming’s “modern mystery religion.” As she suggests, “in Witches rituals, covens and classes, there is no outside where an observer can literally put herself” (17). In other words, for a scholar to study Reclaiming, she must be willing to commit to and undergo a process of change, the same process that her informants have undergone; she must seek the Goddess while seeking knowledge. Salomonsen’s study incorporates the researcher as informant, anchoring theory in practice and illuminating the paradoxical position occupied by Reclaiming Witches and academic feminists who follow the same path. This is my position. I have developed a solitary ritual practice based on Reclaiming principles, with only one direct experience of these principles in action―a weekend workshop in “magical activism” held in Victoria (2000) and facilitated by Starhawk. During this weekend I worked, practiced and performed ritual with a likeminded but diverse group of 250 witches and political activists, work focussed on antiglobalization. It was a lived experience of “power­with” that altered my perceptions enormously; however, it has been difficult to elucidate what I learned to anyone who has not had a similar “magical” experience. In the same way, it has been difficult to import Reclaiming’s discourse into academic research when most readers are not familiar with its principles and thealogy. Nevertheless, most academic readers are familiar, viscerally, with hegemonic masculinity and power­over, and all have lived experience of its institutional and theological manifestations; it is this experience that Starhawk deconstructs in all her writings, and through Reclaiming’s ritual practices. Salomonsen’s discussion of the way Starhawk’s thealogy reorders power relations in society―the spatial dimension often overlooked in dominator society and theology―achieves her third goal; she clearly shows how a crucial aspect of Reclaiming’s feminist spirituality is
FALL 2003 53 REVIEWS embodied subjectivity, a non­hierarchical approach to living as mind / body / spirit / divine that discredits and dissolves binary oppositions. “Witches regard humans as embodied, passionate, gendered selves, inserted into nature and culture and irrevocably left to create life in organic harmony with the dependence” (Salomonsen 2002:285). Where I resonate most strongly with Reclaiming is here, the transformative aspect of embodied subjectivity, its ability to alter gender relations on a sociopolitical scale: The polarity of the Female and Male Principle should not be taken as a general pattern for individual female and male human beings. We each contain both principles; we are female and male both. To be whole is to be in touch with both forces―creation and dissolution, growth and limitation. [...] Sex, for instance, is far more than a physical act; it is a polarized flow of power between two people. (Starhawk 1999:52). Reclaiming Witches believe that pleasure, not violence, is the working principle of the cosmos, encapsulated in a phrase from “The Charge of the Goddess:” “My law is love unto all beings” (Starhawk 1999:6). This is, obviously, not the view currently held by those in power (nor most in the academy), thus precisely the relations Reclaiming practitioners desire to bend and shape. Reclaiming Witches, then, believe the main error in contemporary western culture, created through thousands of years of hegemonic masculinity, is a “spatial dislocation,” a generalized confusion about the nature of power relationships stemming directly from patriarchal social systems, replicated and perpetuated by masculinized religions. Starhawk first explicitly developed her critique of power in Truth and Dare: Encounters with Power, Authority, and Mystery (1990), where she suggests western society has confused “power­from­within” with “power­ over.” Power­over is the normative global standard; those at the top gain and keep power through violence and force, predicated on the control of women’s bodies and the exploitation / destruction of the natural world. Power­over structures all masculinist religions. Salomonsen’s study traces, step by step, the development of Starhawk’s critique of power over a fifteen year period, showing her evolving thealogical position, which, simplified, states that the ethics of power­over are linked to the “ethics of transcendence,” the vertical axis valuing those things “transcendent, disconnected and above” (Salomonsen 2002:286), a world view embraced by hegemonic masculinity in both religions and institutions, devaluing all things associated with the female, and in particular threatened by female pleasure. In general, dominator societies and religions devalue the body and pleasure, and are highly suspicious of anything called magic; this core misunderstanding of paganism underpins Western stereotypes around witches, stereotypes that 54 Salomonsen and Reclaiming work consciously to dispell consciously trying to Enchanted Feminism is divided into two parts, the first called “Guardians of the world” and the second “Priestesses of the craft.” This arrangement permits Salomonsen to first ground readers in Starhawk’s complex social analyses and critiques before moving them to individual narratives and observations of the way women and men see themselves as “Witches,” and the diverse ways they work within Reclaiming’s rituals and magical principles / practices. In this latter section, Salomonsen also describes her own experiences with the community, ones that ultimately led her to ask for initiation, the highest level of training and practice a Reclaiming Witch can aspire to. Initiation, though, is problematic within the community. As a ritual that separates some witches from others, it is warily regarded as a hierarchical construct by some members, disrupting the consensus model organizomg all Reclaiming activities. By revealing and then theorizing around the contentious issues within Reclaiming that emerge in this second part, Salomonsen foregrounds the multiplicity of methods and positions incorporated in their communities. This goes a long way towards dispelling North American stereotypes around witches, not at all an homogenous population. Everyone in Reclaiming, however, agrees in principle that to be a Witch in the tradition, or a “friend of Reclaiming” (someone who attends rituals and actions, but does not name themselves “witch”), you must follows the mission statement. This is published on the page one of every issuetheir magazine, Reclaiming Quarterly, serving as both statement of belonging and introduction to strangers: Reclaiming is a community of women and men working to unify spirit and politics. Our vision is rooted in the religion and magic of the Goddess ― the Immanent Life Force. We see our work as teaching and making magic ― the art of empowering ourselves and each other. In our classes, workshops, and public rituals, we train our voices, bodies, energy, intuition, and minds. We use the skills we learn to deepen our strength, both as individuals and as community, to voice our concern about the world in which we live, and bring to birth a vision of a new culture. Salomonsen discusses the vivid history of this gestation in the first chapter of her text, “The Reclaiming community: a feminist, social construction,” providing readers with the larger theoretical and methodological questions addressed by the text. She then traces the development of Reclaiming’s thealogical position through Starhawk’s writings, starting with her ovarian text: The Spiral Dance: The Rebirth of the Ancient Religion of the Great Goddess (1979). This text resonated with many
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS REVIEWS women and men who had already rejected patriarchal ideologies and religions; it also attracted many in the ecological movement. Salomonsen argues that Starhawk’s goal here was to “establish a normative image of natural culture. Its hallmark is that symbolic representations are metonymical rather than metaphorical: every symbolic act is understood to be in continuity with its social meaning and natural function” (Salomonsen 2002:41). This is the basis of magic: “The magical and psychic aspects of the Craft are concerned with awakening the starlight vision, as I like to call it, and training it to be a useful tool. Magic is not a supernatural affair; it is, in Dion Fortune’s definition, ‘the art of changing consciousness at will’―of switching the flashlight off and on, of picking out details, of seeing by the stars” (Starhawk 1999:42). Magic in Reclaiming is practical, material, and transcendent, it unites mind, body, spirit and divine through the discipline / practice of ritual, moreover ritual focussed metonymically, bringing that consciousness into daily reality, the “enchantment” of Salomonsen’s title. Reclaiming, though, like all spiritual traditions, is historically positioned, and Starhawk based her thealogy in Spiral Dance on the unbroken European heritage line claimed by many witches: “We are pagans: we practice an earth­based spirituality rooted in respect for nature. We are Witches: our roots are in the initiatory Goddess traditions that arose in Europe and the Middle East, though our practice is strongly shaped by the multicultural traditions of this land [North America]” (Starhawk and Valentine 2000:xvi). In her earlier work, Starhawk pushes this ancestry even farther back in time: “The mythology and cosmology of Withcraft are rooted in that ‘Paleolithic shaman’s insight’: that all things are swirls of energy, vortexes of moving forces, currents in an ever­changing sea” (1999:42). In Salomonsen’s view, this has a purpose; Starhawk is mythologizing in order to explain the long­ standing condition of patriarchy, and its global manifestation: In Starhawk’s theory, what she describes as the peaceful, prosperous goddess cultures in Neolithic Europe were suddenly attacked from the outside. Since these people were innocent to the phenomenon of war, having no defence or weapons, they became an easy prey. In the origin myth, the invaders are simply called “conquering patriarchs” from the East. (2002:74) According to Anderson, though, every new “imagined community” seeks to unify itself through appeals to a golden historical era. In this way, diverse populations not necessarily related by blood can come to imagine themselves as “natural” communities, joined over geographic distance through strong and valid roots in history and time (1991). Salomonsen, even though she sees Reclaiming as unique, resists Starhawk’s myth­making. She suggests that Starhawk wants to establish a “foundation ... for her critique[:] the unnatural is the result of social and historical construction, not of metaphysical origin” (2002:74). Salomonsen calls this Starhawk’s “optimistic rhetoric,” rhetoric that does, however, facilitate the view change is possible―the unnatural is profoundly cultural, and instead suggests Starhawk’s position, though academically untenable, is completely workable for Reclaiming communities. Salomonsen explain this mythologizing as one step along a continuum; feminist spirituality as an evolving theological system would normally go through a stage that reconstructs a “golden age,” a female mythology extending back to “ancient times.” However, chapters in the latter half of her study, “Elements of magic: learning to ritualize” and “Women’s mysteries: creating a female symbolic order,” reveal that to most Reclaiming Witches, the difference between myth and history remains academic. It is Salomonsen’s position that Reclaiming derives from extant heretical and mystic traditions in both Christianity and Judaism, spending most of the chapter “Wicca revival: Starhawk and the myth of ancient origin” developing this claim: Starhawk tells two different stories about the development of unnatural cultures. In the first story, published in The Spiral Dance, Starhawk explains the unnatural as resulting from invasion. In the second story, in Truth or Dare, the unnatural culture is due to degeneration, meaning a real fall within society itself .... Starhawk does not fully succeed in avoiding metaphysical explanations in her dual effort to establish the fall as socially constructed since she cannot elucidate the causality of its happening – whether as invasion or as degeneration. Actually, she comes close to turning the traditional Jewish and Christian paradisiacal narratives in the book of Genesis on their heads, making of the male, instead of the female, the generic weak spot. (2002:74) Making the male a “generic weak spot” is also a contentious issue within Reclaiming. In her later works, Starhawk herself has commented (in the revisions to The Spiral Dance and The Twelve Wild Swans) that concepts of gender and the gendered divine have evolved since the Salomonsen concluded her study. I have observed Starhawk refine and refine her gender theorizing, the practical effect of which is that Reclaiming has developed both female and male ritual, and has achieved inclusivity in ritual . Salomonsen’s argument was not well­received by the Reclaiming community, as indicated by a review of this work in Reclaiming Quarterly. Specifically the reviewer, Anne Hill, criticizes Salomonsen’s narrative and
FALL 2003 55 REVIEWS interpretation of private and public ritual, Reclaiming’s public classes and their initiation rituals into the Craft found in the chapters “The Spiral Dance ritual: a celebration of death and rebirth,” and “Initiation: transforming self.” Hill argues “[b]ecause [Salomonsen] paints us as a reform branch of Christianity, she is able to take our feminist, earth­based practice and use it to influence the evolution of Protestant theology” (2002:57). This stems, in Hill’s opinion, from Salomonsen’s explicit agenda: “If an ideal in feminist theology is to include voices and perspectives from all genders and queer spirits, and represent the realities of the world in which we may live more meaningfully ... how may the discipline of theology be revised” (cited in Hill 2002:23)? For Hill, Salomonsen’s location in academia and her focus on revisioning an academic discipline, automatically excludes her as a Pagan (“Jone is not a Pagan” [2002:22]), and firmly prejudices her study. Hill suggests that although Salomonsen “seems to understand the transformation that happens through initiation, [the chapter on initiation] in the end strikes me as more pillaging than respectful of a community that took her in to the extent that we did” (55). Hill also states, from her position as a practicing and initiated Witch in Reclaiming and a co­researcher, that Salomonsen has “earned the ire of some of her informants by paraphrasing the initiation script from the Spiral Dance, and adding to it a detailed account of one Reclaiming initiate’s initiation experience, as well as some parts of her own” (2002:23). Betrayal is explicit in Hill’s review essay, particularly evident in her jabs at Salomonsen’s scholarship, but what is important to my argument is how the tensions between myth / history, private / personal, chthonic / divine, is demonstrated in this “ire.” That emotion speaks to the diversity of positions held within Reclaiming, and brings us back to the core issue beginning this review.
The inherent paradox resting in both Salomonsen’s project and in my project of bringing Starhawk’s cultural and thealogical analyses into the university sits in the “/” between terms, the non­linguistic pause between two polarities. Central to the Craft is the individual, mystical experience of the Goddess, an unmediated relationship with the divine beyond the Law of the Father, as Jacques Lacan might say. In Lacanian psychoanalysis, all individuals must enter into language (The Law of the Father), the realm of the symbolic, where the phallus is the transcendental signifier grounding all language. In systems ruled by hegemonic masculinity, by patriarchy, the phallus is conflated with its physical analogue, the penis; if the phallus signifies power, so too does power accrue to individuals with a penis. Thus it is individuals with a penis who have developed “unnatural” cultural systems, including institutions of higher learning, although Starhawk, Salomonsen and myself agree that women have been and still are complicit with these systems. The radical act of changing consciousness at will 56 challenges the rationality of academia, and lived experience of the Goddess as immanent in all life does not lend itself to empirical analysis. As well, a further stumbling block to acceptance of Reclaiming’s analyses of power relations in North American society is its insistence on the “golden past.” Mention a primal matriarchy to most academics and they will laugh at you. I find myself comfortable with a middle position. As Gerda Lerner suggests: While the formation of archaic states, which followed upon or coincided with major economic, technological, and military changes, brought with it distinct shifts in power relations among men, and among men and women, there was nowhere evidence of an “overthrow.” The period of the “establishment of patriarchy” was not one “event” but a process developing over a period of nearly 2500 years, from app. 3100 to 600 B.C. It occurred, even within the Ancient Near East, at a different pace and at different times in several distinct societies. (1986:8) Lerner offers a perspective that supports Starhawk’s critique of the “unnaturalness” of patriarchy, situating its development firmly in culture, not nature. However, her remarkable text also insists there is no evidence of a past where women ruled as men do now, only evidence to support societies in which a partnership model is likely. Salomonsen, then, offers Starhawk’s work and Reclaiming’s principles as critique of patriarchy that builds upon feminism’s ongoing deconstructive project while offering new terminology, opening the space to radically reconstruct gender and religion. This space, however, also includes men, offering males the tools tear apart masculine stereotypes while constructing new images and representations of the masculine in both human and divine forms: Reclaiming women’s contributions have mainly been to reinterpret this heritage line [Christian and Jewish], launching syncrestic experimentation, ritualizing and mystical experience as basic methods, and women’s emancipation and dignity as ethical stances. Worshipping a female deity, reanimating the universe and perceiving the sexed body in ecological terms may, however, be regarded as new and original within recent western history. (288) I could, however, understand the community’s issues with Salomonsen’s study, as raised in Hill’s review. It reveals a central problem with theorizing feminist spirituality. “Most people involved with Reclaiming don’t have much use for theology (or thealogy for that matter), because
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS REVIEWS theory is distracting and beside the point when dealing with mystical experiences of the Divine” (Hill 2002:57­8). Salomonsen’s text attempts to deal with this issue by performing the theorizing required for academic rigor, but highlighting personal and mystical experiences through individual respondent’s experience and narrative. Her self­ reflexive narrative voice weaves her own “mystical experience” with her academic reasoning in insightful and engaging ways. Thus, the very qualities that garner criticism from the Reclaiming community are the ones that make this study important for the academy. Salomonsen’s rigorous analysis of the historical and traditional roots of North American witchcraft will satisfy the academic, while the details of the craft and its practice demonstrate praxis, and will satisfy readers looking to understand the Reclaiming Tradition or to discover a history of North American witchcraft. However, as a academic seeking new language to tear down hegemonic masculinity and its stranglehold over theory and discourse, this study provides an important bridge joining the material practice of Reclaiming Witchcraft with feminist demands for social change. Salomonsen’s study presents Starhawk’s analysis of power relationships, her critique of gender, and her development of ritual practice as tools with which to rebirth a new culture: The values of the Reclaiming tradition stem from our understanding that the earth is alive and all of life is sacred and interconnected. We see the Goddess as immanent in the earth’s cycles of birth, growth, death, decay and regeneration. Our practice arises from a deep, spiritual commitment to the earth, to healing and to the linking of magic with political action. [...] We are an evolving dynamic tradition and proudly call ourselves Witches. Honouring both goddess and God, we work with female and male images of divinity, always remembering that their essence is a mystery which goes beyond form. [...] We know that everyone can do the life­ changing, world­renewing work of magic, the art of changing consciousness at will. We strive to teach and practice in ways that foster personal and collective empowerment, to model shared power and to open leadership roles to all. We make decisions by consensus, and balance individual autonomy with social responsibility. Our tradition honours the wild, and calls for service to the earth and the community. [...] We work for all forms of justice: environmental, social, political, racial, gender and economic. Our feminism includes a radical analysis of power, seeing all systems of oppression as interrelated, rooted in structures of domination and control. (excerpted from “The Reclaiming principles of unity,” in Salomonsen 301) 1 Notes “Thealogy” a term introduced by Mary Daly in Gyn/ecology: The Metaethics of Radical Feminism (Boston: Beacon Press, 1978), has been used by numerous feminists since to indicate a radical religious theory based on worship of the Goddess. In Greek, theos is masculine, and all theologies are thus etymologically masculinist. References Cited Anderson, Benedict. 1991 Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (revised edition). New York: Verso (originally published 1983). Hill, Anne. 2002 “To See Ourselves as Others See Us.” Reclaiming Quarterly 88 (Autumn):22­23, 55­58. Lerner, Gerda. 1986 The Creation of Patriarchy. New York: Oxford UP. Moore, Thomas. 1996 The Re­Enchantment of Everyday Life. New York: HarperCollins. Reclaiming Quarterly. 2002 88 (Autumn): 1. Salomonsen, Jone. 2002 Enchanted Feminism: The Reclaiming Witches of San Francisco. London: Routledge. Starhawk. 1999 The Spiral Dance: A Rebirth of the Ancient Religion of the Great Goddess (revised edition). San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco (originally published 1979; revised 1989). Starhawk. 1990 Truth and Dare: Encounters with Power, Authority, and Mystery. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco. Starhawk and Hilary Valentine. 2000 The Twelve Wild Swans: A Journey to the Realm of Magic, Healing, and Action. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco.
FALL 2003 57 Information for Contributors CULTURAL REFLECTIONS solicits submissions from graduate and undergraduate students on Vancouver Island through an annual Call for Papers, and does not accept unsolicited submissions. Scholarly contributions relevant to the four anthropology sub­fields of archaeology, and cultural, physical and linguistic anthropology will be considered for publication in the form of articles, reviews and notes from fieldwork experiences. All submissions should be double­spaced, 12­point Times/Times Roman font, single­sided, on 8 1/2" x 11" paper, with 1" margins all around. List of References Cited, endnotes, captions and headings may be single spaced. Unless prior approval is given by the Editors, articles should be no more than 20 pages, and reviews and field notes should be no more than seven pages, including all notes, figures, tables and references. All pages should be sequentially numbered. The cover page should include: submission title, author's name, address, telephone and/or e­mail address, and the targeted journal section (i.e., Articles, Field Notes, Reviews). Initially, authors will be required to submit an abstract or brief description (150­200 words) of the proposed manuscript. Upon receipt of this description, the Editors will forward a more complete style requirements guideline which the author must use for their manuscript prior to acceptance for peer­review. This style guide appears in Cultural Reflections, Volume 2, Spring 2000, pages 76­78. Once your submission has been reviewed and accepted for publication, you will be required to submit one hard copy plus a digital version in a format to be determined at that time. Since the production of the journal is completed by graduate students with varying technological software and hardware, the requirements may change from issue to issue. CULTURAL REFLECTIONS
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REVIEWS For information on the Master of Arts program in Anthropology at the University of Victoria, as well as a listing of current graduate students, please visit the departmental website: REGULAR FACULTY AND SENIOR INSTRUCTOR Leland H. Donald (Ph.D. Oregon) Lisa Gould (Ph.D. Washington, U. St. L) Yin Lam (Ph.D. SUNY, Stony Brook) Quentin Mackie (Ph.D. Southampton) Margo L. Matwychuk (Ph.D. CUNY) Lisa M. Mitchell (Ph.D. C.W.R.U.) April Nowell (Ph.D. Pennsylvania) Eric A. Roth (Ph.D. Toronto) Peter H. Stephenson (Ph.D. Toronto) Michael Tsosie (Ph.D) Andrea N. Walsh (Ph.D. York) Rebecca Wigen (M.A. Victoria) Margot Wilson (Ph.D. S. Methodist) ETHNOLOGY; Northwestern North America; comparative social organization; ethnohistory; research methods. BIOLOGICAL ANTHROPOLOGY, Madagascar, Central America; primate behaviour and ecology; primate demography and life history; hominid and primate evolution. BIOLOGICAL ANTHROPOLOGY AND ARCHAEOLOGY; Sub­Saharan Africa; Paleoanthropology; Zooarchaeology; stone age archaeology. ARCHAEOLOGY; Northwest Coast, North and South America; Archaeology of Haida Gwaii; Method and Theory in Northwest Coast archaeology; Lithic Analysis, especially ground stone; Archaeology of archipelagos. ETHNOLOGY; Latin America, Caribbean; Anthropology of Power; Rural Societies; Development and Underdevelopment; Elites; Theory. MEDICAL ANTHROPOLOGY; North America, Canada, Southeast Asia, Philippines; Medical Anthropology; Gender; Technology and the Body. PALAEOLITHIC ARCHAEOLOGY; Europe, Near East; Lithic technology; evolution of human cognition; origins of language, art and symboling; taphonomy. PHYSICAL ANTHROPOLOGY; Africa; Demography; Evolutionary Ecology; Nutrition; Childhood Growth. ETHNOLOGY; Canada, Europe; Medical Anthropology; Applied Anthropology; Symbolic Anthropology; Hermeneutics. INDIGENOUS GOVERNANCE PROGRAM; Program Coordinator VISUAL ANTHROPOLOGY; Northwest Coast, Canada, North America; Contemporary Native Art in Canada; Method and Theory; Ethnographic writing; Vision and Visuality; Ethnographic and Documentary film; Museology. ARCHAEOLOGY; Western North America, Pacific Northwest Coast; Faunal analysis; seasonality studies; comparative skeletal collections; taphonomy. ETHNOLOGY; South Asia, Bangladesh; Development Anthropology; Medical Anthropology; Gender Studies; International Adoption ADJUNCT, SESSIONAL, VISITING, AND EMERITUS FACULTY William Alkire (Emeritus; Ph.D. Illinois ) ETHNOLOGY; Micronesia & Oceania ; Southeast Asia; Cultural ecology; Political economy of Oceania; Ideational systems and material culture; Austronesian culture history and language. Michael Asch (Ph.D. Columbia) CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY; Canada, North America, Scandinavia, Australia and New Zealand; Aboriginal and Treaty Rights, Political Anthropology, Social Organization, Economic Anthropology, Ethnomusicology. K. Berthiaume (Emeritus; Ph.D. Arizona) ETHNOLOGY; Latin America; Southwestern United States; Pacific, Guam, and the Phillipinines; Structural analysis; Symbolic Anthropology; Religion and Folklore Mythology; Culture Change Heather Botting (Ph.D. Alberta) ETHNOLOGY; North America; Symbolic Anthropology; Anthropology of Religion; Political Anthropology. N. Ross Crumrine (Ph.D. Arizona) ETHNOLOGY; Latin America, Southwestern United States, Pacific, Guam, and the Philippines; Structural analysis; Symbolic anthropology; Religion and folklore­mythology; Culture change. Ronald Donaldson (Ph.D.) Orville Elliot (Emeritus; Ph.D.) Donald H. Mitchell (Emeritus; Ph.D. Oregon) ARCHAEOLOGY; Pacific Northwest; North America; Prehistory of the Pacific Northwest; Archaeological Method and Theory; Ethnohistory. Anne Irwin (Ph.D. Manchester) Laurie King­Irani (Ph.D.) Marjorie Mitchell (Ph.D.) Nicolas Rolland (Emeritus;Ph.D.Cambridge) ARCHAEOLOGY; Prehistoric archaeology; Palaeoanthropology; Anthropology of foraging societies; Europe, Mediterranean, Temperate and tropical Asia; Palaeolithic; Prehistory economy and ecology; Social life of ancient hominids; Method and theory of archaeology; Anthropological theory. James Stemp (Ph.D.) ANTHROPOLOGISTS IN OTHER UVIC DEPARTMENTS, SCHOOLS, AND CENTRES Brendan Burke (Ph.D.) Leslie Butt (Ph.D. McGill) Marcus Milwright (Ph.D. Oxford) R. Christopher Morgan (Ph.D. ANU) John P. Oleson (Ph.D. Harvard) Ana Maria Peredo (Ph.D. Calgary) Nancy Turner (Ph.D. British Columbia) Wendy Wickwire (Ph.D. Wesleyan) 60 ARCHAEOLOGY; Mediterranean; Bronze Age; Textiles (Greek and Roman Studies) CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY; Irian Jaya; Gender, Medical Anthropology (Pacific and Asian Studies). ARCHAEOLOGY; Syria; Middle East; Ceramics; Medieval Islamic Pottery (History in Art) CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY; Polynesia, Tonga; Economic anthropology, exchange systems (Pacific and Asian Studies). ARCHAEOLOGY (classical); Near East; Technology; Maritime Archaeology (Greek and Roman Studies). CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY; Latin America; Peru; Community­based entrepreneurship; sustainable development (School of Business). ETHNOBOTANY; Northwest North America (Environmental Studies). CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY; North America, Canada; Oral history (Environmental Studies and History).
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