## Critical Perspectives on Cultural Memory and Heritage

# Critical Perspectives on Cultural Memory and Heritage

*Construction, Transformation and Destruction*

Edited by Veysel Apaydin

First published in 2020 by UCL Press University College London Gower Street London WC1E 6BT

Available to download free: www.uclpress.co.uk

Text © Contributors, 2020 Images © Contributors and copyright holders named in captions, 2020

The authors have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of this work.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from The British Library.

This book is published under a Creative Commons 4.0 International license (CC BY 4.0). This license allows you to share, copy, distribute and transmit the work; to adapt the work and to make commercial use of the work providing attribution is made to the authors (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work). Attribution should include the following information:

Apaydin, V. (ed.). 2020. *Critical Perspectives on Cultural Memory and Heritage: Construction, Transformation and Destruction*. London: UCL Press. DOI: https://doi. org/10.14324/111.9781787354845

Further details about Creative Commons licenses are available at http://creativecommons.org/licenses/

Any third-party material in this book is published under the book's Creative Commons license unless indicated otherwise in the credit line to the material. If you would like to reuse any third-party material not covered by the book's Creative Commons license, you will need to obtain permission directly from the copyright holder.

ISBN: 978-1-78735-486-9 (Hbk.) ISBN: 978-1-78735-485-2 (Pbk.) ISBN: 978-1-78735-484-5 (PDF) ISBN: 978-1-78735-487-6 (epub) ISBN: 978-1-78735-488-3 (mobi) DOI: https://doi.org/10.14324/111.9781787354845 *For the displaced*

## Contents



CONTENTS vii


## List of figures




## List of contributors

**Jaime Almansa-Sánchez** is a Postdoctoral Researcher at the Institute of Heritage Sciences (Incipit, CSIC) in Spain. His research focuses on public archaeology and the management of archaeological heritage. He is currently implementing the project #pubarchMED Public Archaeology in the Mediterranean Context, aiming at a better understanding of the dynamics and impact of archaeological heritage management throughout the Mediterranean. He is also editor of *AP: Online Journal in Public Archaeology*: http://www.arqueologiapublica.es.

**Veysel Apaydin** is a Senior Teaching Fellow in Art, Design and Museology at the UCL Institute of Education, Department of Culture, Communication and Media. He was a Research Associate at the EC Funded project, EMOTIVE, at the Department of Archaeology, University of York. He completed his PhD at the Institute of Archaeology, UCL. His doctoral thesis evaluated uses and abuses of cultural heritage, identity construction and the relationship between heritage, education and attitudes towards heritage, taking modern-day Turkey as its case study. Apaydin has worked as an archaeologist and heritage consultant in the United Kingdom and Turkey, and taught in heritage and museum studies and public archaeology courses at the UCL Institute of Archaeology. He is the author of numerous articles and edited *Shared Knowledge, Shared Power. Engaging Local and Indigenous Heritage* (2018). Apaydin is also currently editor of the heritage section of the *Open Archaeology Journal*.

**Nekbet Corpas-Cívicos** completed her studies on archaeology at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid in 2010, then further specialised in archaeological heritage and museums (University of Cambridge, 2016). She is now pursuing a PhD at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid on archaeological heritage management and conflicts, having been awarded a grant from the Spanish Ministry of Education, Culture and Sports for training a prospective university faculty. She is also part of the Complutense University research team, Gestión del Patrimonio Cultural.

**Monique van den Dries** is Associate Professor in (Archaeological) Heritage Management at Leiden University (Faculty of Archaeology). She has been active in heritage management and in community work in the Netherlands and in an international context for over 25 years. Her research, publications and teaching cross the disciplinary boundaries of archaeology and heritage, focusing upon the societal values and impacts of heritage, participation and inclusiveness in the physical and digital worlds and the (current and future) effects of heritage management policies.

**Jonathan Gardner** is an archaeologist and Teaching Fellow in Heritage and Museum Studies at the UCL Institute of Archaeology. His recent doctoral research (UCL 2017) considered the archaeological traces of 'mega events', such as the 1851 Great Exhibition, the 1951 Festival of Britain and the London 2012 Olympic/Paralympic Games. Prior to his PhD, he completed an MA in Cultural Heritage Studies, following an undergraduate degree in archaeology. He has also worked extensively as a commercial field archaeologist, excavating sites across London and southeast England. Gardner's primary research interests lie in how the materials of the past and present intersect in large-scale urban development projects, and how varied ideas about such interactions (whether consciously articulated as 'heritage' or otherwise) are used to legitimise or challenge change in societies.

**Reuben Grima** studied archaeology at the universities of Malta and Reading, and read for his PhD at the Institute of Archaeology, UCL. He joined the curatorial staff of the Museum of Archaeology, Malta, in 1992. From 2003 to 2011 he joined Heritage Malta as Senior Curator responsible for prehistoric Word Heritage Sites. In 2011 Grima moved to the Department of Conservation and Built Heritage at the University of Malta, where he lectures in cultural heritage management. His current research interests include cultural landscapes, the history of archaeology and public engagement with the past.

**Cornelius Holtorf** is Professor of Archaeology and holds a UNESCO Chair on Heritage Futures at Linnaeus University in Kalmar, Sweden. He is also Director of the Graduate School in Contract Archaeology (GRASCA) at his University. Holtorf's current research interests include the meaning of cultural heritage in present society and the management of memory across generations.

**Amanda Kearney** is a Professor and Matthew Flinders Fellow at Flinders University, South Australia. She is an Australian anthropologist whose academic career has been informed by the disciplines of cultural geography, heritage and ethnic studies. Her research addresses themes of Indigenous experience, cultural wounding and healing, land rights and the prevailing impact of settler-colonial violence on Indigenous lives, lands and waters. Her research has developed with the kind support of Yanyuwa families, the Indigenous owners of land and sea in the southwest Gulf of Carpentaria, Australia.

**Rachel King** is Lecturer in Cultural Heritage Studies at UCL. Her research interests include the relationships between heritage and infrastructure development (especially on the African continent), the archaeology and heritage of criminality and histories of knowledge production within and about archaeology. She is the author of *Outlaws, Anxiety and Disorder in Southern Africa: Material Histories of the Maloti*–*Drakensberg* (Palgrave Macmillan, 2019).

**Emma Loosley Leeming** is an Associate Professor at the University of Exeter. Her work is interdisciplinary and encompasses the fields of Archaeology, Art History and History of Religion. She has over 20 years' experience working on early Syrian Christianity and more recently has begun comparative research on early Christianity in the Levant and the Caucasus. She founded the Dayr Mar Elian Archaeological Project (DMEAP) in 2001 and hopes to return to Qaryatayn when the situation in Syria allows.

**Erin Linn-Tynen** is a doctoral student in the School of Social Sciences at the University of Western Australia. She received her MA in Archaeology from UCL and an MA in Cultural Heritage from Deakin University. She is the founder and director of Integrated Heritage Project, a non-profit organisation, and has worked as an archaeologist and heritage professional in South-East Asia, Jordan, Israel, Italy, the United States, Australia and the United Kingdom. Her research interests include cultural heritage, identity politics and community-based heritage initiatives. Her dissertation research explores the concept of 'shared heritage', the use of shared heritage narrative(s) as a form of cultural diplomacy and the ways in which these narratives impact both cultural heritage and local communities, specifically within the context of China's Belt and Road Initiative.

**George Nicholas** is Professor and Chair of Archaeology at Simon Fraser University (SFU) in Burnaby, British Columbia, and Adjunct Faculty Member of the Flinders University Archaeology Department in South Australia. He was the founding director of SFU's Indigenous Archaeology Program in Kamloops (1991–2005), and has worked closely with the Secwepemc and other First Nations in British Columbia and Indigenous groups worldwide. Nicholas's research focuses on Indigenous peoples and archaeology, intellectual property issues relating to archaeology, social justice and human rights, the archaeology and human ecology of wetlands and archaeological theory and practice. From 2008–16 he was Director of the Intellectual Property Issues in Cultural Heritage (IPinCH) project – an international collaboration of over 50 scholars and 25 partnering organisations concerned with the theoretical, ethical and practical implications of commodification, appropriation and other flows of knowledge about heritage (www.sfu.ca/ipinch). In 2013 he received the inaugural 'Partnership Award' from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council.

**Nigel D. Pollard** is an archaeologist and historian, and board member of UK Blue Shield. He is Associate Professor of Ancient History at Swansea University. The main focus of his current research is the Allied bombing of Pompeii in the Second World War, and the lessons to be learned from the Second World War experience of cultural property protection.

**Paul Edward Montgomery Ramírez** is a decolonial heritage specialist and indigenous public archaeologist. A Nicaraguan-American, he holds degrees in anthropology and archaeology from Cleveland State University, the University of Glasgow and UCL. At the time of writing he was affiliated with the University of York in the United Kingdom, where he undertook his PhD in decolonial heritage tourism and economic sustainability at open-air museums. His research focuses on tourism, media and museums as tools to promote sustainability, dignity and decolonial narratives and options. He became a member of the World Archaeological Congress's Indigenous Council in 2016.

**Bruna Cigaran da Rocha** (PhD 2017 – Institute of Archaeology, UK) is Lecturer in Archaeology at the Universidade Federal do Oeste do Pará, in Santarém, Brazilian Amazonia. Her research has focused upon late Holocene archaeological sites situated in territories traditionally occupied by Munduruku Indians and by riverine dwellers of Montanha and Mangabal along the middle and upper reaches of the Tapajós river – an area at the centre of socio-environmental conflicts that threaten these peoples' singular ways of life. Rocha has sought to employ archaeology as a discursive tool in support of these forest peoples' claims to land and their rights.

**José Schreurs** has worked as Archaeology Advisor at the Cultural Heritage Agency of the Netherlands since 2005. Here she is involved with several projects, including the scheduling of ancient monuments and the listing of new monuments. She studied Prehistory of Northwestern Europe at Leiden University, specialising in the Neolithic period and functional analysis of flint artefacts. Following her studies, she undertook research at Leiden University on functional analyses of Middle-Neolithic Michelsberg sites and investigated flint assemblages from several other periods. Schreurs subsequently worked as an archaeology project manager at Rijkswaterstaat.

**Claire Smith** is a Professor of Archaeology at Flinders University, South Australia. She is the immediate past president of the World Archaeological Congress and editor of the 11-volume *Encyclopedia of Global Archaeology*. She has produced 12 books and more than 150 publications in English, Spanish, Catalan, Arabic, Russian, Portuguese and Japanese. Her academic life is driven by three passions: to convey the sophistication and accomplishments of Indigenous Australians, past and present; to enrich academia intellectually by strengthening the global impact of scholars from low-income countries; and to nurture the next generation of scholars who make a difference.

**Colin Sterling** is a Postdoctoral Researcher and AHRC Leadership Fellow at the UCL Institute of Archaeology. His research addresses critical–creative approaches to heritage practice, looking broadly across questions of preservation, photography, the Anthropocene and art and design. Sterling was previously a Project Curator at the Royal Institute of British Architects and a Research Associate with the heritage consultancy Barker Langham.

**Helen Walasek** is the author of *Bosnia and the Destruction of Cultural Heritage* and is Honorary Associate Research Fellow at the University of Exeter. She was Deputy Director of Bosnia-Herzegovina Heritage Rescue (BHHR), the only heritage NGO accredited as a humanitarian aid organisation during the 1992–5 Bosnian War. She has been a consultant expert to the Council of Europe, an advisor to the NGO Cultural Heritage without Borders (CHwB) and an Associate of the Bosnian Institute, London, 1998–2007. Her field trips with archaeologist Richard Carlton in 2000 and 2001 were the first major assessments of damaged and destroyed historic monuments across Bosnia-Herzegovina.

**Nicolas Zorzin** has been an Assistant Professor at the Institute of Archaeology of the National Cheng Kung University – 國立成功大學 – in Taiwan since 2017. His research projects are mainly focused on the social and political economy of archaeological practices worldwide and also, lately, on critical perspectives in cultural heritage. Since 2009 he has been involved in Neolithic archaeological fieldwork in Thessaly (northern Greece). Zorzin is interested in ethical issues in archaeology, identities, nationalisms and the politics of the past in general.

## Acknowledgements

The idea behind this volume began during my fieldwork on the Ilisu Dam rescue project in southeastern Turkey. Over five years I witnessed how landscapes' natural, tangible and intangible heritage are crucial for a sense of belonging and identity construction by local communities. I also perceived the ways in which archaeology and recent history play a major role in how people construct, change and transform heritage through the interaction of nature, landscape and material culture. Over the years tens of thousands of local people were forced to leave their homes and landscapes because of this mega project, a deracination that has similar echoes in many parts of the world. I would like specifically to acknowledge the contribution of these people to the shaping of this volume, and to thank all those who shared their experiences with me.

Preparation of this volume has taken over two years, and there are a number of additional people who have made it possible. First of all, I would particularly like to thank UCL Press for making this volume open access and the authors who kindly accepted my offer to contribute to this volume. Within this period many people, friends and colloquies were directly or indirectly involved in this process, both through discussions on the subject and in giving me the support and motivation to pursue and complete this volume. I would particularly like to thank Louise Martin, Brenna Hassett, Sara Perry, Ulrike Sommer, Andy Bevan, Gabriel Moshenska, Claire Smith, Shahina Farid, Cigdem Esin, Kahraman Yadirgi, Jonathan Gardner, Rachel King, Colin Sterling, Paul Tourle, Beatrijs de Groot, Gwendoline Maurer and Victoria Ziegler. Finally, my sincere thanks to my family, who are always there to support me.

## Introduction: why cultural memory and heritage?

Veysel Apaydin

The last several decades have witnessed a marked increase in research in relation to cultural heritage, memory and change, and to transformation and destruction within the field of heritage studies. This increase in the number of studies has exposed how cultural heritage and the memory it embodies is vital for individuals, groups and communities in forming collective identities. Such an exposure has also highlighted how the elimination of individual and group memory is an important underlying cause of cultural heritage destruction. The destruction of cultural memory through destruction of the material culture of the past and present has been used to oppress individuals, groups and communities in order to maintain power. This has been a common tool in many undemocratic nation-states that aim to establish hegemony over minority groups; it is frequently seen during conflicts between ethnic and religious groups, during genocides, sectarian conflict and in wartime. In many parts of the world, cultural heritage has also been destroyed or transformed through large-scale construction projects such as dams, railways, etc., in order to develop resources and create profit. In the post capitalist-era heritage, and therefore memory, has become a selling point and nostalgia something to be consumed, which further contributes to vanishing heritage and memory.

Scholars have widely discussed the importance of cultural heritage for individuals, groups and communities. It has been considered in relation to cultural heritage, memory and ethnic wars (Bevan 2016; Herscher 2010; Walasek 2015); cultural heritage, war and terrorism (Stone 2011; Holtorf 2006; Stone and Bajjaly 2008); the interlinkage between cultural heritage and memory (Hodgkin and Radstone 2003; Smith 2006; Erll and Nunning 2008; Berliner 2005; Benton 2010; Butler 2006, 2007; Winter 2004); cultural heritage and local and Indigenous groups (Atalay 2012; Nicholas and Bannister 2004; Smith and Jackson 2008; Apaydin 2018; Smith et al. 2018); cultural heritage and capitalism (Hamilakis and Duke 2007; Meskell 2015; Resco 2016). These research programmes and publications (and many more besides) have analysed and exposed the destruction of memory through the destruction of cultural heritage, as well as the complex interactions between heritage, memory and community formation.

In recent years several scholars in heritage studies (for example, Holtorf 2015, 2018; Harrison 2013; DeSilvey 2017) have developed new, provocative but helpful discussion about heritage process from a different perspective. They have argued that destruction and transformation of heritage are also a part of the heritage process that is necessary and can even be a positive change, developing new heritage and memories. However, as this is a very new discussion within heritage studies, there is still a lack of attention paid to the ethical side of destruction and transformation of heritage.

This book exposes the relationship between heritage and memory, discourses and the impact of construction, transformation or destruction of heritage; it emphasises the significance of such processes for groups and communities. *Critical Perspectives on Cultural Memory and Heritage* also brings new insights to the discussion of destruction and transformation from an ethical perspective by focusing on the question: how can this process be ethical? It further argues that even if destruction and transformation of heritage is necessary and inevitable, this process should be led at grassroots level by those communities and groups who develop and attach values and meanings to heritage and memory.

### Heritage, memory and destruction

Heritage is a vehicle of communication, a means of transmission of ideas, values and knowledge, which includes the tangibles and intangibles of both cultural and natural heritage (Ashworth 2007). These 'ideas, values and knowledge' have been constructed through the relationships of individuals and groups. The ideas and values of local, ethnic, religious or other communities, and their knowledge, have been ascribed or developed over time, although these meanings and values may – and do – change (Hall 1997, 61). Specific aspects of cultural heritage can become insignificant (Harrison 2013) through the process by which heritage is shaped and managed in the present and used as a resource in the future (Ashworth et al. 2007): through memories developed and transferred from one generation to another. Cultural heritage generally keeps its importance, however – particularly tangible heritage, because it provides both grounds and resources for constructing collective identity.

The definition of memory is a very complex concept as it has been interpreted from different perspectives. While many scholars have associated memory with past material culture, and have argued that it develops out of the active engagement of individuals' and groups' experiences in the past (Ricoeur 1999; 2004), it has also been emphasised that memory is a performance and involves active engagement with the present (Nora 1989). The concept of memory is often used in a very ambiguous and vague way in social sciences. In contrast, the interlinkage of memory with cultural heritage is not so abstract: tangible heritage (such as monuments, sites, objects and museums) provides strong representations of the knowledge and experience of people in the past and present. This relationship is plural and developed over multiple social experiences. These experiences can keep group collective identity alive through commemorative events or memories. Cultural memory and heritage are strongly linked to one another, as heritage is itself a cultural production that further develops values and meanings for individuals and groups.

Because of this cultural production, the meanings and values ascribed to heritage and the memories that are developed from it become a significant symbol for collective identity; they can thus serve to keep groups and communities together. The destruction of this important component through war, terror, sectarian conflict and top-down economic policies also means the destruction of memory and identity for individuals, groups and communities. The material culture of the past and present has a significant value for the future of groups and communities – which is why it is frequently targeted by powers interested in controlling land, resources and social or political relations.

As outlined above, the concept of heritage and memory, together with its importance for groups and communities, results in plural meanings. Yet these two concepts are integral resources for people who are connected to each other through them. These are groups of people who share similar values and develop tangible and intangible heritage and associated memory; ascribing meanings and values to cultural heritage helps them to come together and create a sense of belonging. This in turn provides a critical resource for survival in a complex world.

Heritage and memory are significant for people who are searching for descriptions of themselves (Crooke 2007) and for terms that represent their identity. The destruction of cultural memory and heritage can therefore be painful for people whose collective identity is attached (Ricoeur 1999). It is necessary to identify, discuss and analyse examples of memory and heritage destruction through war, terror, sectarian conflict, capitalism, natural disasters and economic downturns in those spheres that affect the preservation of cultural heritage – namely in academia, in public and in everyday life. Bringing these aspects of cultural heritage together is essential to a cogent discussion.

This volume focuses on the interlinkage and importance of heritage and memory for group and community identity, and for the construction of a sense of belonging. Additionally, this volume aims to expose embedded motives and discourses in the *destruction* of memory and heritage. It argues that it is necessary to identify, discuss and analyse these to understand the causes of destruction of heritage and memory: a highly significant issue at the level of the individual, the group and wider society. Destruction of, and violence towards, heritage (and therefore memory) is common during war, terror, conflict, natural disasters and under capitalist policies. These polices also underlie climatic changes that impact on natural and cultural heritage.

It is in these affected spheres of cultural heritage that groups and communities ascribe values, develop memories and shape their collective identity. To illustrate this point, this volume offers a range of case studies that analyse and reveal the importance of cultural heritage and memory for people. It examines the destructive and violent actions that can impact heritage and memory through a variety of different approaches and methods on a uniquely global scale, in order to answer the following questions: what is the interlinkage between cultural memory and heritage? To what extent are cultural heritage and memory significant for group and community identity? What are the embedded discourses for destruction of heritage and therefore memory through war, terror, conflict, development and natural disasters? What are the ethical ways in which heritage and memory can be transformed? What should be the role of heritage studies as a discipline within the paradox of destruction, change and transformation?

In his epilogue to this volume, Cornelius Holtorf emphasises that as professionals of heritage studies we need to be careful about 'overt political motivation'. The thrust of this volume is in total agreement with his point that undertaking critical research, and the practice of being a critical academic, does not mean rejecting every instance of heritage destruction and every decision to change or transform heritage. Social circumstances are never black and white: they have many dynamics in both cause and consequence. We need to take a constructivist approach to respond to those social and political paradoxes. However, as critical heritage scholars, we should also remember the fact that heritage studies is integrally linked to actual people; most of our data is collected in the field, from human participants in different natural and cultural settings. The link between people and heritage is itself very political and encompasses many aspects, for example, values, meanings, a sense of belonging and identity, as well as social and economic issues. Therefore critical heritage studies cannot avoid interacting with the social, economic and political structures and settings in which people live. To give an example, when we research the links between climate change and heritage, how is it possible to avoid investigating the political and economic decisions that lead to climate change? In affirming these points, Holtorf emphasises that any form of sectarianism must be avoided within the discipline, even while heritage studies should be as inclusive – and give voice to as many people – as possible.

Chapters in this volume answer the questions posed from different perspectives and contexts. For this reason, the chapters are arranged under certain themes in six different parts. In Part I of the book, I attempt to expose the relationship between cultural memory and heritage. I concentrate on their importance for collective identity and the construction of a sense of belonging for groups and communities, and the consequences of these significant components of heritage. I deal with different case studies to demonstrate this fact, embedding discourses of heritage and memory destruction alongside the ethical issues of heritage destruction and transformation. I argue that transformation of heritage can be very beneficial for producing new heritage, while maintaining that the ethical side of this process must be that it is led and decided upon at grassroots level, by communities who are in interaction with the cultural heritage.

Part II of the book focuses on the effect of urban development and large infrastructure on heritage. In particular, this section deals with the issues of regeneration and large development projects. These have a huge impact on heritage and communities, as well as an additional role encompassing archaeology, archaeologists, heritage specialists and management of these affected cultural assets. Part II considers case studies from several different parts of the world to demonstrate and discuss the impact of urban development on heritage, heritage change and transformation, and the ethics involved in this process. In this section King focuses on the effect of large developments in sub-Saharan Africa from a different perspective. She explores the African literature to reveal how 'slow violence' through large developments impacts on heritage, landscape and the environment as a whole. Gardner brings a case study of a 'mega event', in this instance the construction of the site for the London 2012 Olympic and Paralympic Games; he considers its effect on heritage resources including archaeological materials, historic buildings and the impact on communities who interacted with the site in their daily and social lives. Sterling deals with the issue of urban development leading to the erasure of heritage, as well as issues around changing and transforming heritage by focusing on London. In my own contribution I concentrate on issues of changing, transforming and eliminating public space/heritage through top-down decisions, and the significance for collective identity and the sense of belonging of communities in a case study of Gezi Park in Istanbul. Grima deals with a similar case study, but one that encompasses the whole of Malta. He discusses issues around urban development that bring consequences for the historic environment and explores the ways in which these issues are managed at policy level. Almansa-Sánchez and Corpas-Cívicos focus on issues around managing archaeological assets during urban development in Madrid.

Part III of this book deals with issues of destruction of Indigenous heritage. It includes case studies on Indigenous communities and heritage, ranging from Australia to North and South America. Nicholas and Smith deal with the issue of an Indigenous heritage that has been neglected, 'denigrated' and destroyed. They point out the importance of tangible and intangible heritage for those Indigenous peoples whose identity and values are attached. They also flag up the issue of exclusion of Indigenous people from their own heritage by discussing the articles of the *Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples*. Kearney takes Indigenous Australian cultural heritage as a case study. She examines the engagement of Australian Indigenous peoples with heritage, acknowledging its vital significance for them. While exploring the significance of heritage from an Indigenous perspective with case studies, she also discusses colonial attitudes to Indigenous heritage. Montgomery Ramírez focuses on Central America to discuss issues around Indigenous heritage, placed under threat by environmental and development-led destruction processes that also endanger the Indigenous population. Rocha brings another interesting case study from the Brazilian Amazon, where large dams have been built on the lands of Indigenous people. She points out the impact that construction has had when implemented with no consultation of Indigenous people. Rocha also discusses the ethical aspects of conducting archaeological rescue excavations alongside the destructive process of dam building that destroys forests, landscapes and people.

Part IV of the book exposes the destruction of heritage in relation to erasing memory that occurs during sectarian violence, conflict and war. Such events are the most destructive processes in which heritage and memory are involved; they impact painfully on communities and their effects last for generations. Over the last several decades the world has witnessed some very violent destruction of heritage, including archaeological assets, historic and religious buildings, homes and landscapes. This has included destruction during ethnic and religious conflicts, civil wars and sectarian attacks on heritage and communities. Loosley Leeming brings the case study of the destruction of a monastery in Syria, a country where civil war and unrest has been going on for several years. While she focuses on the importance of heritage that has great significance for communities who are emotionally attached, she also discusses narratives that lead to the development of memories through her case study. The Bosnian War of the 1990s cost many lives and led to considerable population displacement. During the conflict, deliberate destruction of cultural property was very visible. Walasek focuses on this and discusses the importance of cultural heritage and identity for communities. She further explores the process of post-conflict restoration and reconstruction in Bosnia in the years immediately after the war. Pollard explores the accidental bombing of Pompeii in 1943 by Allied forces. He achieves this through archival research, particularly focusing on the media coverage of the time and on the memoirs of individuals involved.

Part V of the book focuses on the impact of decision- and policy-making on cultural heritage assets, which is closely interlinked to the collective identity and memory of groups and communities. Linn-Tynen focuses on the lack of representation in African American heritage, and discusses how this leads to the erasure of identity in relation to heritage. She deals with the issues of 'authorized heritage discourse' in the United States and explores how decisions at policy level have created inequality, particularly for African American and non-white communities. Zorzin concentrates on Taiwanese identity in relation to heritage in terms of construction, annihilation and reconfiguration through the analysis of different powers acting in Taiwan over different periods. While Zorzin analyses heritage legislation in Taiwan over time, he also exposes the impact of the 'neoliberal paradigm' on the heritage and identity of Taiwanese people. In the last paper of this section Dries and Schreurs focus on heritage management policy and practice in in the Netherlands. They deal with the issue of the decision-making process on what to preserve, and the ways in which these decisions were made, which have a significant influence on memory and identity.

Part VI of the book is allocated to an epilogue by Cornelius Holtorf, an archaeologist and Chair of Heritage Futures at UNESCO. Drawing upon his long history of research and publication of substantial papers on the subject, Holtorf reflects broadly on the issues of destruction, change and transformation of heritage. In so doing he combines an analysis and interpretation of the chapters in this volume with his own perspective on this subject.

#### References


Smith, L. 2006. *Uses of Heritage*. London; New York: Routledge.


Walasek, H. 2015. *Bosnia and the Destruction of Cultural Heritage*. Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate.

Winter, T. 2004. 'Landscape, Memory and Heritage: New Year Celebrations at Angkor, Cambodia', *Current Issues in Tourism* 7:4–5, 330–45.

## Part I Conceptualising Cultural Memory and Heritage

## 1 The interlinkage of cultural memory, heritage and discourses of construction, transformation and destruction

Veysel Apaydin

While the overall concept of cultural memory and heritage in theory and practice has been widely researched, the relationship between cultural memory and heritage needs further discussion in order to expose discourses of importance for groups and communities. In this chapter I do not attempt to argue that we need to be more obsessed with protection and preservation of heritage and memory. On the contrary: I aim to present and discuss the ways in which heritage transformation, reconstruction and destruction can be problematic for communities unless the communities themselves actively decide on – and engage with – these processes, from a bottom-up perspective. Furthermore, I attempt to establish a link between memory and heritage and their importance for communities, alongside processes of accumulation and continuity.

I emphasise here the more tangible aspects of cultural heritage, particularly monumental/architectural heritage and landscape. With their symbolism and meanings, I argue that they are more effective for the survival of communities, particularly oppressed communities, in areas of the world where conflicts and war are present, or where authoritarianism has taken hold. Not only does tangible heritage have more significance for communities in the situation of war and conflict, but it also has a large role as the place where memories are transferred from one generation to another, as well as being where cultural narratives are kept alive. This is seen in early anthropological studies, for example the work of Malinowski, who shows how stories are embodied in the physical material culture and landscape of the Trobriand Islanders (Malinowski 1922; see also Sommer 2017 for more examples). I would particularly like to emphasise that cultural memory and heritage is not presented here solely as a process engaged with the past, nor does the material culture of the past exist only for purposes of 'remembering'. It is strongly suggested here that cultural memory and heritage are processes that actively engage the social, economic and political life of the present; they are living processes and a tool for the resilience of communities.

This chapter first presents a brief overview of the concept of cultural memory as it has been widely researched and published in cultural studies. Second, it exposes the relationship of cultural memory to heritage, considering particularly how it is embodied in heritage and the need for more research in this area. Third, it moves on to its significance for communities from the perspectives of collective identity and sense of belonging. In the final section I examine the discourses of and motives for the destruction of heritage through violence by focusing especially on deliberate and direct destructions.

In this chapter, I particularly address these specific questions: what do memory and heritage mean for communities? How have these concepts been used as tools of resilience to protect the collective identity and sense of belonging of communities against oppression by hegemonic powers? How is memory embodied in heritage and material culture? What are the embedded discourses of heritage destruction and construction? These questions are significant for heritage studies as we live in an increasingly conflicted world. While cultural memory and heritage can be used for resilience, these concepts are also often abused and destroyed during conflicts. They may be targeted and manipulated or erased by nation-states, or wiped out for economic development and during gentrification projects, particularly in urban areas.

## The entanglement of cultural memory with heritage

Memory is perhaps one of the most difficult areas of the social sciences to define and set within boundaries. There may be no 'one way' of defining or marking the boundaries of the concept of memory. As a concept, memory is active. It interacts with the everyday life of individuals, groups and communities, who in turn engage with a wide range of activities. These actions are related to their individual lives, and help to shape individual memory. Group membership and the life of a community form and contribute to the construction of collective memory, which then creates collective identity and a sense of belonging. While the concept of memory as understood through neurological science has been widely researched, the aim of this chapter is instead to focus on understanding the concept of cultural or collective memory as it relates to the everyday life of groups and communities.

The terms cultural, social or collective memory are differentiated from the memories of an individual by being developed or created through social and cultural interactions of groups and communities. Groups and communities hold and share cultural values through material culture and heritage. These are also used for developing and consolidating memory, a sense of belonging and the construction of identity. The term 'cultural memory' was adopted into heritage studies from sociology – particularly from the work of the French sociologist Maurice Halbwachs, who developed the idea and theory of cultural (or social and collective) memory with his pioneering work *La mémoire collective* (1950). The use of these terminologies, particularly in heritage studies, can be problematic unless the distinction is strongly defined and the meaning of cultural memory made explicit for materials of the past and heritage of present (for more information about terminologies see Macdonald 2013).

Erll and Rigney explain that 'cultural memory is an ongoing process of remembrance and forgetting in which individuals and groups continue to reconfigure their relationship to the past and hence reposition themselves in relation to established and emergent memory sites. As the word suggests, remembering is better seen as an active engagement with the past, as performative rather than reproductive' (Erll and Rigney 2009, 2). Similarly, heritage is also an ongoing process as Smith and many other scholars in heritage studies have demonstrated (Smith 2006); the construction, reconstruction, even destruction of heritage and material culture is part of the transformation, development and therefore overall process of heritage. Both acts of destruction and construction support one another, as I discus below. However, I argue that although engaging with past material culture and developing new heritage (and therefore memory), as well as heritage destruction, are all part of the process, this needs to be decided at the grass roots level by relevant communities. The daily, social and economic needs of these communities may – indeed, will – be different in every part of the world and should be reflected in the decisions made. In this way the 'process of heritage' can be more ethical, as I discuss in my other contribution to this volume (Apaydin, chapter 5).

In most cases memory is considered to be an agent that is closely related to past events and the material culture of the past. This can be seen in archaeological studies, which often consider heritage only through past objects, namely historic or archaeological material. However, heritage and memory are not only related to the past; they also have direct associations with the present and future (Lowenthal 2015). Though both are accumulated through time, they are also shaped and developed in the present, which in turn gives direction to the future. There is surely an obvious distinction between memory and history, as Pierre Nora clearly points out: 'memory is living', but history is always reconstructed from the past and very problematic to deal with (Nora 1989, 2). Erll has further noted that cultural memory 'is the totality of the context within which such varied cultural phenomena originate' (Erll 2011, 7). Taking these points into account, the ways in which heritage is also 'living' and how it is related to social, economic, political and daily life should also be emphasised.

Although memory can be considered a very abstract and subjective concept, it is highly related to tangible heritage and material culture because this is where memory is embodied. Both arise from collective performance, and the dynamics of both concepts share many characteristics (see Sather-Wagstaff 2015). This can be seen in circumstances of difficult or contested heritage, and at heritage sites that have a strong relationship to the identities of groups and communities. In fact, even archaeological sites that were constructed thousands of years ago still play a role in the social and everyday life of groups and communities.

The case of the UNESCO world heritage site of Catalhoyuk in Turkey is a good example of an instance where heritage unrelated to modern-day inhabitants still has a strong impact. Even though local communities have no connection to the site in terms of their identity construction, it still holds importance for them. This is because the site as a landscape plays an important role in daily life. Local communities have been engaging in their daily activities for generations there, using the site for economic income (see Apaydin 2018) among other activities.

Such uses create an opportunity for heritage sites to survive for generations, allowing memory and heritage to accumulate for the future, but in a way that can adapt and transform themselves to the requirements of today's world. Sather-Wagstaff suggests that heritage cannot exist without continuous performance and active engagement of people within everyday life (Sather-Wagstaff 2015). We can agree with this, and further argue that memory is also accumulated through time and space. As it is a performance of everyday engagement by people, memory cannot exist over a long period of time and through generations without heritage. While this accumulation depends on the continuing engagement of people who actively 'remember', it also allows people to reconstruct and redevelop this process with the requirements of the present.

It is worthwhile to define the term 'performance' in a heritage context for this chapter. The performance of heritage can be understood as any frequent social action or interaction within and between groups and communities, using aspects of landscape and nature that provide the grounds for developing memory and heritage. Performance is important to memory and heritage, as has been emphasised (Holtorf 2018; DeSilvey 2017; Harrison 2013a); focusing solely on the preservation of past materials can prevent active performance and therefore the development of new heritage. It should also be noted that the processes of both remembering and forgetting have been well researched in memory and heritage studies since the second half of the twentieth century (for memory studies see Halbwachs 1950; Nora 1989; Ricoeur 2004; Erll and Nunning 2008; Radstone 2008; for heritage studies see Smith 2006; Benton 2010; Holtorf 2015; Harrison 2013a, 2013b).

Engaging or disengaging with heritage and memory can be problematic as it has different dynamics in social and daily life. Heritage and cultural memory are closely related at a political level, as both concepts have very often been abused to shape and oppress communities whose collective identity and sense of belonging is constructed through heritage. In this book I consider cultural memory that extends beyond the nostalgia of the past. Instead I consider it as a performance of resilience: heritage is a reservoir of memory that allows for the survival of collective identity. Such a perspective is critical to our understanding of heritage because the level of engagement with memory and heritage, or the significance given to these aspects, may be different across communities who value and give meaning to heritage in different ways.

### Heritage, memory and community

The meanings and values of material culture are a popular subject in heritage studies, where scholars have engaged with case studies from all around the world (Lowenthal 2015; Smith 2006; Harvey 2001; Huyssen 2003; Ashworth et al. 2007; Smith and Waterton 2009; Winter 2015; Jones 2017; Díaz-Andreu 2017). The meanings and values embodied in heritage and material culture store memories for different groups, and have varied meanings and values for different groups and communities. While some groups and communities may not value a given specific aspect of heritage, it might be crucially important for others who consider that specific heritage to be linked to their collective identity and whose memories may be linked to a specific place (Apaydin 2018). Memory can be a very problematic aspect of heritage in that it is also a very complex phenomenon and is always difficult to define; it is used by a wide variety of groups, all with different interpretations (see Harvey 2001). Heritage is also a very plural subject (Ashworth et al. 2007), but it has vital importance for storing memory, accumulating and developing it. As such it provides grounds for group and community survival.

#### Castleford

One of the most important case studies, which clearly shows the relationship between memory and heritage, as well as the meanings of these two concepts for communities, is Laurajane Smith's work at Castleford in West Yorkshire, in the north of England. Castleford is a small town, formerly based on coal mining, an industry that had great importance for the inhabitants. Smith points out that communities were closely tied to one another through coal mining before the mines were shut down in the 1980s (Smith 2006). The diminution of the coal mining industry affected communities hugely, leaving them without a collective heritage and therefore with no embodied memory – nor the capacity to begin a forgetting process to reframe their community identity. Despite this, however, people of the town began to develop and create new heritage, and therefore memories, in a powerful act of community resilience.

The work of Smith at Castleford not only demonstrates how tangible heritage is significant for identity and memory, but also illustrates the vital importance of heritage for memory and identity for groups and communities. Communities in Castleford performed and created new heritage (Smith 2006, 237) as part of ongoing memory and heritage practice. However, the Castleford response is not always the case in many parts of the world where new heritage needs to be developed and created. The people of that Yorkshire town had a capacity to hold on as a community: they were able to found a community trust that bound them together and provided grounds for set daily and social actions, as well as the opportunity to build new heritage and memory.

#### Çattepe

In contrast to Smith's case study of Castleford is an example in southeast Turkey. Here economic policies can be shown to have had a similar impact, but with even more destructive effect. An enormous dam project is under construction, and has already left hundreds of thousands of people displaced (see Ronayne 2005, 2006). As an archaeologist and heritage professional, I worked for years in the region. This gave me the opportunity to understand the importance of landscape, the concept of community, the importance of cultural memory and collective identity and the critical nature of the sense of belonging. I also had the chance to observe the longitudinal impact of the destructive process of large construction projects on local communities and cultural memory and heritage.

The dam project impacts on four cities: Siirt, Batman, Diyarbakir and Mardin. All are located in southeast Turkey, a predominantly Kurdish region which witnessed heavy conflict in the 1990s between the Turkish armed forces and the PKK (Kurdish Separatist Party). The conflict displaced thousands of people, but during the peace process in the beginning of the twenty-first century some of the local population managed to return to their lands.

The region historically has a very multicultural past. Its history includes prehistoric civilisations as well as past traces of Turkish, Ottoman, Byzantine, Arab, Armenian, Kurdish and the Yazidis cultures, all of whom left behind archaeological and monumental heritage. However, because the current population is mostly Kurdish, this is the group that has been actively accumulating, engaging and performing memory in connection with material culture, tangible heritage and intangible heritage. In so doing, they have built a strong relationship with the landscape and nature. The specific area I worked in is located in the Siirt region, on the Botan valley. Here the Botan stream and Tigris river merge, around the archaeological site called Çattepe. The site demonstrates an intense interlinkage between cultural memory, material culture and intangible heritage. It shows how memory and heritage have been performed through time and space and so continuously accumulated. It also shows how the area has been changed and transformed by diverse identity groups and communities, who have had different social, ethnic and political backgrounds.

Occupation of the site goes back to the prehistoric era. The stream and river that surround the site have been used for trade and the transportation of people in southeast Turkey all the way down to Iraq from prehistory until the twentieth century. Since the early twentieth century Kurdish-origin groups have occupied the site, constructing houses and gardens on top of the 3000-year-old history. They have actively engaged with the landscape, river and nature through generations, developing a deep-rooted cultural memory and collective identity in this place. Because of active engagement with the area, it has become significant for the sense of belonging felt by communities. In contrast to wiping out or destroying previous heritage and material culture, these groups continued to accumulate their own on top of it until their eviction in the recent past. This is a good example for discussion of the transformative and process-based nature of heritage (see Holtorf 2015, 2018; Smith 2006), as the site itself and the people living on it continuously transformed existing heritage and memory by creating a new one over the course of a hundred years.

The main economic activity of the local community is farming, for which they used the landscape and the river intensively. The landscape and the river have also played a great role in developing intangible heritage for local people who were very active in this process. Although the dam project has not yet been completed because of the ongoing archaeological rescue excavations, the local community of Çattepe were evicted years ago. Some of them moved to nearby villages, others to the city. Many villagers actually used to be employed in the rescue excavations (see Apaydin and Hassett 2019). Focused fieldwork with local communities uncovered local attitudes towards heritage and practices. During semi-structured interviews, a former inhabitant of Çateppe offered this insight:

Once water comes and covers all area, which includes landscape, farming and grazing areas, homes, we won't have anything tangible; we won't able to carry on our daily life as we were doing before; and whoever is still here will also move to cities or other regions.

In this vein, members of the local community indeed point out one of the main significant tools of developing cultural memory and heritage: the ability to engage with, and perform, cultural memory and heritage that is not linked to the past or to history but to the present. Pierre Nora has noted such a perception (Nora 1989). Landscape, river, home or fields are physical places in which memory can be stored; it can have greater effect through being visible and tangible. Another point raised by a local community member was that landscape and nature contribute significantly to a sense of belonging and collective identity; they are a force that helps to bind the community together. He emphasised that:

Previous generations and our generations were able to engage with this landscape and nature, and therefore were able to contribute to the social and economic life and productivity. However, because of the dam everybody has had to leave and move somewhere else.

The history of the local community of Çattepe region clearly demonstrates how layers of memory and heritage accumulated through the active engagement of communities in landscape and nature. The dam construction that has already led to forced migration also shows the process of destroying heritage to be one in which affected communities have no choice; they are not allowed to be involved with the decisionmaking process of large construction projects. The destructive results, shown by the case of Çattepe and across the dam region in southeast Turkey, risk communities permanently losing their collective identities and sense of belonging. In particular, the loss of homes and the associated landscapes may lead to a form of psychological trauma that can never be healed.

This can be seen in the ongoing conflict in Syria, which has deprived millions of people of their heritage. By this I mean conflict has destroyed homes, land, the natural environment and, most importantly, hundreds of thousands of people have lost their lives. It is particularly significant to point out that people who have lost their landscapes, homes and relatives are likely to suffer severe traumas that cannot be fully healed in their later lives; this kind of trauma can indeed continue for generations (Summerfield 2000). Moreover, people who have been displaced do not always have the opportunity or grounds for creating and developing new heritage. Millions of Syrians have now become refugees in many parts of the world. They live far away from the homes and people with whom they once had strong relationships, also part of a collective memory and identity as well as vital for a sense of belonging. The comparison of Castleford and Çattepe demonstrates the difference between destruction of cultural memory, collective identity and heritage, as in the case of Çattepe, and community-led reconstruction of those aspects, as at Castleford. In the latter case, the community showed strong resilience to continue functioning as a community defined by developing, transforming and creating new heritage and cultural memory.

#### Ani

Another historical site with thousands of years of history for consideration is Ani, a UNESCO World Heritage Site located in the east of Turkey on the border of Turkey and Armenia. It demonstrates the process of accumulation of cultural memory which has a stronger and more explicit relationship with monumental heritage and landscape. The site shows to what extent trauma can impact generations. It also presents how cultural memory and heritage are constructed through active engagement with the daily and social lives of groups and communities who shape and reconstruct these important aspects of heritage.

Although the history of Ani goes back thousands of years, the site is famous for its medieval period. In the tenth and eleventh centuries when the Armenian Kingdom was dominant, magnificent monumental heritage was built at the site. In the following centuries, the site was occupied by Seljuk, Ottomans and Turks – then, during the latest period of the site, by the modern Turkish Republic. The region of the site was occupied by a large number of Armenians until the Armenian ethnic cleansing during the first quarter of the twentieth century, in which most of the Armenian population was affected.

I have spent long periods of time conducting ethnographic fieldwork at the site and in the surrounding region. Here I undertook observation, participant observations and interviews with community members and the visitors to the heritage site. One of the most striking observations – but not a surprising one – was the interest shown by ethnic Armenians who had been born or lived abroad in visiting the site and viewing the landscape. Most of these visitors pointed out the importance of the site for their collective identity and sense of belonging. Although they had never lived in those lands their great-grandparents had, experiencing the trauma of the ethnic cleansing/genocide process. One of these visitors, who was born and lives in France, commented:

For us home is still here, although I do not even speak the language of this land.

His words provide a strong example of how people who are traumatised by certain events are not always able to create and develop new heritage and memory.

The site as well as the surrounding landscape is now home to a community of Turkish origin, relocated to the area in the early twentieth century. The Turkish members of the local community have actively interacted with the landscape, the site and its monuments as part of their social and daily lives. This has enabled them to develop their own cultural memory and heritage, built over that of previous civilisations and communities such as the Armenians.

Another good example of the continuity of cultural memory and its link to material culture is seen in the way the Turkish local community members chose to build a new village right next to the site of Ani. In the process they dismantled many monumental architectural structures to use in building new homes or in creating their own heritage (see Apaydin 2018). These actions, led by the requirements of that time and the needs of communities, can be considered as both destruction and reconstruction, as the stone of monuments was used to create new homes. This kind of destruction may be considered as community-led destruction and construction. It is in direct contrast to top-down destruction led by hegemonic powers, which I will discuss in the next section.

#### Palast der Republik, Berlin

While we have discussed community-led reconstruction, in most cases reconstruction happens from the top-down. This is where economic and political power aim at changing the natural process of accumulation and development of cultural memory and heritage. The case of Palast der Republik, which used to be People's Chamber of the German Democratic Republic (see Weizman 2013), demonstrates this well. The city itself historically engages with multiple memories, in part from an architectural perspective; it also presents a case study in how different hegemonic powers have reconstructed the city and its architecture. This results in the creation and development of new memories and heritage, to which distinct values are attached, in multiple periods of German history up to the present.

Andreas Huyssen has researched the interlinkage of memory and architecture in Berlin; in his work on 'the voids of Berlin', he has described it as 'the city of discontinuous and ruptured history' (Huyssen 1997, 58). The City Palace perhaps demonstrates this ruptured history most clearly as it has been reconstructed by different political powers in different periods for almost three centuries (see Weizman 2013; Costabile-Heming 2017).

In the twentieth century in particular, the palace went through substantial reconstruction. It was damaged during Allied air raids in the 1940s, during the Second World War. In the following decades the German Democratic Republic demolished the palace, reconstructing it again in the late 1970s. Since the unification of Germany, following the collapse of the Berlin Wall in 1989, reconstruction of the city can be seen in many parts of Berlin. The City Palace shows how cultural memory and heritage are reconstructed by the political powers in parallel to their ideology. Its current reconstruction wiped out the cultural memory of the German Democratic Republic, which had been stored there as a potent symbol of collective identity (Costabile-Heming 2017).

Since the early years of the twenty-first century, the German government has invested substantially to re-present the palace as part of the city's current urban identity, alongside historic layers and memories of Berlin (Costabile-Heming 2017). It is intended to turn the building into a cultural complex: exhibitions and cultural activities can be held within the complex structure. Without doubt, the new Palace (due to open in 2020) will serve to create a new identity for the building. In so doing, it will create and develop new memories consistent with the ideology of current German political power. Therefore, while architectural or monumental heritage stores and represents memories in a more effective way, as noted above, its capacity to evolve also increases its importance for political powers, seeking to shape and reconstruct the identities of communities and the public.

A similar case is seen in the recent annihilation of the Ataturk Cultural Centre in Taksim square, Istanbul. The structure represented strong cultural memories of the secular Turkish Republic; it embodied decades of knowledge of secularist Turkey and had therefore been a powerful symbol of the modern state. Nevertheless, it was demolished; a new centre will provide new impetus for the creation of memory and heritage, this time in parallel to the present government's ideology (for more detail see Apaydin, chapter 5).

#### Discourses of heritage destruction

Valuing heritage and cultural memory surely depends on the groups and communities' familiarity with the material culture of the past or present. Cultural memory and heritage are often used as a tool for communities' survival – or, in other words, for their sustainability. It is also important to point out that memory and heritage can also be considered as a threat by those who consider specific heritage and memory to be a threat to their hegemony. This could be authoritarian nation-states established on a certain ethnic origin, or groups who are in conflict with one another over ownership rights. Because of this, heritage and memory can be a reason for conflict in many parts of the world, with heritage being often targeted by other groups.

In order to exemplify this process, imagine first Group A, who share values and develop collective memory and identity through material culture. Then imagine Group B, who consider Group A to be an existential threat. They may thus seek to exert power over Group A by destroying or controlling heritage and memory that is symbolic of the group. However, while this kind of contrast may lead to deliberate targeting of one's heritage and memory, such negativity also motivates both Groups A and B to develop and create new heritage as proof of their existence. Jacques Derrida has explained this complex but natural structure of opposition with his supplement theory (Derrida 1976, 144–5). He has described this negative process as 'that dangerous supplement', emphasising that:

the supplement – which here determines that of the representative image – harbours within itself two significations whose cohabitation is as strange as it is necessary. The supplement adds itself, it is a surplus, a plenitude enriching another plenitude, the fullest measure of present. It cumulates and accumulates presence. It is thus that art, techné image, representation, convention, etc., come as supplements to nature and are rich with this entire cumulating function.

Derrida emphasises that these negativities support each other for both existence and destruction as well as for construction. Yet this is not something specific and limited to the twentieth or the twenty-first centuries, the former of which has seen large-scale wars, the latter of which features ongoing conflicts, such as in Iraq and Syria. Destruction of heritage has a long history that dates back to prehistoric times. Sommer points out that several deliberate destructions of heritage can be seen in the past (Sommer 2017, 38). These include the case of burnt Bronze Age houses in the Vinca tells in Denmark and burnt timber structures from the Early and Middle Neolithic era in Scotland, along with many other examples of deliberate destruction of heritage and landscape (see Sommer 2017).

Having pointed out that the deliberate destruction of heritage is not something new, it is also important to highlight the diverse motives that inspire deliberate destruction of heritage, and therefore also memory, in today's world. In answering the aims and research questions of this book, I have tried to bring together case studies from different parts of the world, to demonstrate the main motives for deliberate heritage and memory destruction alongside examples of this destruction through large-scale developments in urban areas. The world has witnessed considerable deliberate destruction of monumental and architectural destruction of heritage, for example houses and religious buildings in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries through war, conflicts and terrorism (see Bevan 2016; Herscher 2010; Walasek 2015). Monumental or architectural heritage is targeted as a symbol of cultural and collective identity; in containing stored memory, it provides grounds for specific groups to exist as a community. Therefore heritage is usually targeted first, to erase a group's existence and identity and to prevent that group from developing and creating new heritage and memory.

#### Cyprus

The case of Cyprus, and the conflict between the Greek and Turkish communities experienced on the island, may perhaps provide more explicit discussion for discourses of heritage destruction, serving to exemplify Derrida's 'supplement' theory. In Cyprus, both Turkish and Greek communities possess a specific heritage and material culture that is significant for their collective identity – in particular for their ethnic cultural identity. The Greek community's heritage links back to Christianity and the Hellenic and Byzantine Empires, while the Turkish community's heritage links to Islam and the Ottoman Empire (Constantinou and Hatay 2010, 1603).

During the conflict that began in 1974, both sides deliberately targeted monumental and architectural heritage (see particularly Jansen 2005; Copeaux and Mauss-Copeaux 2005). Two opposed and fiercely contested histories and heritages served to create negativity to one another; 'plenitude enriching another plenitude', to quote Derrida. A similar example emerged during the conflict in Kosovo in the late 1990s. Here destruction of monumental and architectural heritage through ethnic violence was clearly apparent in the Kosovo war. Both sides – Albanians and Serbs – targeted architectural heritage, mainly churches and mosques, as they believed the other group's heritage to be a threat to their own existence (see Herscher 2010).

These are a few examples and several other case studies can be discussed from many parts of the world, for example the Buddha statues in Afghanistan, Palmyra in Syria, the destruction of native heritage and landscape in North and South America as well as in Australia. Although the contexts are different, as all these geographic and cultural spaces have their own dynamics, it is apparent that the common embedded discourse for destruction of memory and heritage from prehistoric times onwards is to obtain hegemony, achieved through destruction followed by the construction of new heritage and memory. As 'supplement' theory demonstrates (see Derrida 1976), destruction and construction serve to complement one another.

## Conclusion: transformation, reuse and destruction – who has the right?

Consider the globalisation of the world and the diverse communities in which many now live, as well as the persistence of change evident throughout history from early periods to the present. Change or transformation of cultures, landscape, people and therefore material culture is inevitable, but the process of this change differs from one context and one culture to another. I have tried in this chapter to give an overview of the case studies of sites and material culture that are interlinked to the cultural memory, collective identity and sense of belonging enjoyed by specific groups and communities. While some heritage, and therefore memory, was deliberately and violently annihilated and wiped out to establish hegemony, other elements were sacrificed for economic development and some were reconstructed to reuse.

There is no doubt that all these actions provide grounds for developing and creating new heritage and therefore memory (see Holtorf 2015, 2018; DeSilvey 2017); in the world's rapidly changing cultural contexts, destroyed heritage is replaced to adapt to the realities of today's world (Holtorf 2018). The final questions of this chapter then must be: who has the right of transforming, reusing and destroying material culture and memory? What is the ethical way of going about this process? How can consensus be achieved in this process?

As I demonstrated in the different case studies discussed above, and in many other examples throughout the volume, there is no single answer nor even a single approach to these questions. Transformation and reuse of heritage can be part of memory accumulation and continuity; it can create opportunities for developing new heritage and memory, and may be helpful and beneficial for communities (see DeSilvey 2017). However, in many parts of the world, such transformation and reuse can also be abused. The very existence of communities may be annihilated, leading to the discontinuity and rupture of history as well as trauma for some groups that cannot be easily healed. Every single region and place must therefore be considered within its own context.

As a heritage academic and professional, I agree that we should be able to facilitate more opportunity for the development and transformation of heritage, in order to adapt to a changing world. However, we should not apply the same approach favoured in places where democracy is established, and the rights of groups and communities are strictly protected, to locations where authoritarianism is dominant, or to regions that are not stable, or even on the edge of conflict.

### References

Apaydin, V. 2018. 'The Entanglement of the Heritage Paradigm: Values, Meanings and Uses', *International Journal of Heritage Studies* 24:5, 491–507. DOI: 10.1080/13527258.2017.1390488. Apaydin, V. and Hassett, B. 2019. 'Should I Stay or Should I Go? Ideals and Realities of Archaeology in the Conflict Regions', *Journal of Community Archaeology & Heritage* 6:1, 36–50. DOI: 10.1080/20518196.2018.1549821.


Costabile-Heming, C. A. 2017. 'The Reconstructed City Palace and Humboldt Forum in Berlin: Restoring Architectural Identity or Distorting the Memory of Historic Spaces?', *Journal of Contemporary European Studies* 25:4, 441–54. DOI: 10.1080/14782804.2017.1361816.


Harrison, R. 2013b. *Heritage. Critical Approaches*. Abingdon; New York: Routledge.


Jansen, M. E. 2005. *War and Cultural Heritage: Cyprus after the 1974 Invasion*. Minneapolis, MN: Minnesota Mediterranean and East European Monographs.


Nora, P. 1989. 'Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire', *Representations* 26:26, 7–24. Radstone, S. 2008. 'Memory Studies: For and Against', *Memory Studies* 1:1, 31–9.


Smith, L. 2006. *Uses of Heritage*. London; New York: Routledge.


Walasek, H. 2015. *Bosnia and the Destruction of Cultural Heritage*. Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate.


## Part II Urban Heritage, Development, Transformation and Destruction

## 2 Mega-structural violence: considering African literary perspectives on infrastructure, modernity and destruction

Rachel King

In a 2017 interview,1 the science fiction writer Jeff VanderMeer described the challenge of communicating climate change in his novels. He explained that 'global warming is like a haunting because it appears everywhere and nowhere at the same time'; it is hard to 'give concrete essence' to phenomena that move slowly and cause feelings of helplessness. In this last point, VanderMeer echoes a concept that philosopher Timothy Morton has called the 'hyperobject' (Morton 2013): a thing that is, spatially and temporally, so huge that we are not equipped to comprehend it in its entirety. VanderMeer suggests that literature can make hyperobjects more comprehensible because 'one thing fiction can do in its laboratory is make visible what is often invisible to us'.

Robert Macfarlane has similarly suggested that literature and its languages are up to the task of coping with hyperobjects (Macfarlane and Morris 2017) – as is evidenced in the online artwork 'The Bureau of Linguistical Reality', which curates crowdsourced neologisms to 'provide new words to express what people are feeling and experiencing as our world changes'.2 . My point here is to do with communicating and managing the impacts of a destruction so immense as to constitute a hyperobject. There are events and objects so damaging that the intellectual and practical tools to describe or cope with them may be found in registers better suited to popular or literary culture than heritage studies.

Megadams, oil pipelines and other forms of large infrastructure lend themselves to this discussion. They are, of course, more concrete than global warming, and in many ways more visibly bounded: we can see the limits of dam walls and pipelines, as well as the movement of water and oil, and perhaps feel a bit more secure with this containment. But those of us accustomed to managing the effects that these projects have on heritage are aware – and have been aware for some time now – that these impacts reverberate in diverse, often unanticipated ways. To borrow a phrase from Bruno Latour, the earth-moving and extractive impacts of infrastructure development 'strike sideways' (Latour 2001, 16: emphasis removed). They produce knock-on effects that include changes to livelihoods, land use and population resettlement; they change access to local resources and fuel the politics of representation. Infrastructure development schemes also affect people in ways that may be difficult to encapsulate within our existing heritage management vocabularies. These often privilege languages of loss and value, conditioning us to measuring impact as something that happens all at once. Nor is this helped by the standard framework for developer-led mitigation, which defines the remit of heritage salvage as the conditions preceding new construction rather than development's long-term effects.

We know of these difficulties in describing experiences of development because writer-activists in Africa and the wider world have been telling us about them for decades. In this chapter I want to explore some themes in this writing that I believe merit further attention from heritage scholars. In this I take my cue from Rob Nixon's *Slow Violence and the Environmentalism of the Poor* (Nixon 2011). In this work he examines a genre of environmental activist literature, describing global manifestations of what he calls 'slow violence' visited upon those countries deemed in need of development. For Nixon, 'slow violence' describes calamities brought about both through environmental disasters (erosion, flooding) and human intervention or mismanagement (dam building and oil spills), emphasising where the consequences of these forces are 'dispersed across space and time' (Nixon 2011: 2, 6–9). Slow violence is thus related to structural violence – the hidden agencies at work in institutions that perpetuate social injustice and inequality – but focuses specifically on where environmental catastrophes are diffuse, long-lasting and not spectacular.

Consequently the effects of projects such as megadams and pipelines are tremendous but often difficult to track, especially in our era of 'turbo-capitalism' and 'super-modernity' that dedicates so much media space to events that are massive, loud and immediate. In this chapter I follow Nixon's suggestions to pay attention to slow violence as it is manifested in the works of several African writer-activists, whose work includes both fiction and political non-fiction or biography (I mainly discuss the latter here, cf. Meskell and Weiss 2006). I consider what insights from this work can offer heritage studies and heritage managers in how we conceive of the environmental impacts of infrastructure development, how landscape can be both a cultural asset and a potential danger, and how we define risk and security in the face of development threats. As my main involvement with infrastructure projects has been related to heritage mitigation and salvage (King and Arthur 2014; King and Nic Eoin 2014; King et al. 2014), much of my discussion is concerned with these applications of the themes described here.

### When land is a weapon

Land is perhaps the obvious place to begin, especially in light of how deeply 'the land question' has been entangled in questions of postcolonial restitution, empowerment and development in many African countries. Written in 1961 amid widespread movements for African independence and decolonisation, Frantz Fanon's *The Wretched of the Earth* related the structural and economic conditions of colonisation to the dehumanisation and psychological trauma experienced by colonised peoples. This extended to experiences of alienation from land, including both its resources and its entanglement in feelings of belonging and historical self-awareness. Fanon argued that for colonised peoples the ability to own and access lands previously arrogated by colonial powers would bring dignity as well as rights. Land restitution and rehabilitation were correctives to decades (in some cases centuries) of colonialist endeavours to impose prescriptive understandings of civil and moral progress on African populations via institutions linking cultivation and 'effective occupation' to civilisation (for example, Comaroff and Comaroff 1991; Vernal 2012; King 2018).

However, for much of the late twentieth century the loudest voices clamouring for intervention against environmental destruction (especially by dams) did not draw strength from arguments such as Fanon's, which linked land with cultural and economic empowerment. Instead conservationists such as Wallace Stegner and David Brower, both based in the United States, called for the preservation of pristine wildernesses – not cultural or socially meaningful places. Nixon argues that Arundhati Roy's 1999 essay 'The Greater Common Good', about the hegemony of dam-building that lay behind India's Narmada Valley dams, was a landmark work that shifted the environmentalist rhetoric around development from one based on a nature/culture divide to one premised in sociocultural justice, of the sort envisioned by Fanon (Nixon 2011, 154–5). The wave of dam-building accompanying the Narmada project was an opportunity to highlight not only how in the late 1990s the dam-building industry was becoming more globalised, but also how the 'exploitative centre of gravity' of such projects was shifting to densely populated rural places, where land was a source of history, identity and security. Dambuilding, and by extension certain forms of infrastructure-building, thus became cast as ways for states to 'perform' development, and also as acts of state- and developer-led violence.

Ken Saro-Wiwa's writing against Shell's oil extraction in Nigeria (1993–8) sits beside Fanon's linking of land with dignity, North American environmentalism's connection of land rights with custodianship and Roy's insistence of focusing on the perspectives of people on the politico-economic periphery. In two major non-fiction works – *Genocide in Nigeria* (1992) and *A Month and a Day* (1995) – Saro-Wiwa describes the complicity of the regime of Nigeria's Sani Abacha and Shell Oil in coupling ethnic and environmental violence. The decision to instal oil pipelines in the Niger River Delta area, home to political minority communities such as Saro-Wiwa's Ogoni, was the centrepiece of these texts, although Ogoni representation had been a lifelong 'article of faith' for the author (Saro-Wiwa 1995, 39).

In an earlier work of 1990 (*On a Darkling Plain*), Saro-Wiwa linked oil extraction with dehumanisation in the wake of the Nigerian Civil War (1967–70). He observed that 'oil was very much at the centre of this war', and that post-war development policies 'have turned the delta and its environs into an ecological disaster and dehumanised its inhabitants' (see Saro-Wiwa 1995, 44). His subsequent visits to the United States showed the power of environmental consciousness (of the 'pristine wilderness' sort) in making demands of governments and companies. He describes this as a 'sharpening' of his awareness to organise a particular kind of Ogoni activist platform against oil extraction, one combining a North American strain of ecological preservation with a particularly local set of concerns about wellbeing and representation (Saro-Wiwa 1995, 54).

Saro-Wiwa's concept of 'ecological genocide' captures this sort of environmentalism. He argues that land is a major casualty of destruction caused by development and its attendant (often flawed) mitigation efforts: oil seepage destroys rural livelihoods and pipeline construction and management practices tend to disenfranchise local area residents. But 'genocide' here contains another sense of damage, one in which land can be politically and physically weaponised through degradation and pollution. Delta lands may be a cornerstone of Ogoni identity and politics, but they can also damage Ogoni health and wellbeing. In this view Saro-Wiwa differs from contemporaries such as Ngu˜gı˜ wa Thiong'o, who characterised land as a weapon in the hands of colonisers but a source of nourishment in the hands of Africans (Caminero-Santangelo 2007, 702).

From a heritage perspective, Saro-Wiwa's description of ecological genocide illustrates that landscapes – for all the multifaceted and multi-component traits that heritage scholars accord them – have changeable social value. Land in Saro-Wiwa's telling is not just a 'weapon of the weak' (in James Scott's now-famous phrase), nor is it primarily the province of local knowledge and imagination (Scott 1985). Far from being anodyne or ineffably complex, land can have the power to harm in two senses: it became increasingly polluted under Shell's stewardship, thus becoming a source of physical danger for residents of the pipeline's catchment, and it was also a mechanism through which the state could suppress Ogoni activism. With respect to this latter point, Saro-Wiwa's re-telling of the Ogoni activist movement against Shell and Abacha (the focus of *A Month and a Day*; Saro-Wiwa was executed in 1995 for alleged crimes related to his activism) emphasised where Nigeria's ambitions to post-colonial development and economic viability came at the expense of Ogoni human rights. Environmental violence here tracked and reinforced ethnic factionalism.

Claims to human rights contingent on land rights are certainly familiar to heritage scholars, as are the ways in which political factionalism can manifest itself in contests over rights to culturally significant places. Here, however, we see Saro-Wiwa claiming that land is not equal to the payout of political recognition, but rather an active conduit of political aggression. This is a significant point to bear in mind in how we understand stakeholder access to, and investment in, the territories that are contested when infrastructure development demands that we identify people who stand to benefit or lose out from landscape destruction. Imperatives to record or salvage landscapes in the way of building projects rarely confront this question, but what if salvaging landscape includes salvaging vehicles for violence (cf. Ronayne 2007)?

## The haze of modernity

Saro-Wiwa's writing further showcases how, during the course of the Abacha regime's involvement with Shell, inequities between ethnic groups in Nigeria were widened and allowed to solidify. Meanwhile transnational companies such as Shell were increasingly freed from regulatory constraints during the structural adjustment protocols that took hold in the 1980s and 1990s, which devolved governing powers to a mosaic of extrastate entities. In highlighting this process, Saro-Wiwa leads us into a brief discussion of where tracing experiences of development, or 'betterment', in Africa blurs the distinction between colonial and post-colonial, and renders hazy the dawn of 'hyper-modernity'.

Transnational connections of the sort just described are familiar terrain in heritage studies. This is especially true as twentieth-century neoliberal development schemes reached into ever-farther corners of the so-called Global South, entrenching heritage in the role of economic driver, political persuader and vehicle for global representation. Taking development as a subject of historical study, however – especially through the lens of popular culture and literature – illustrates where 'betterment' schemes are part of a longer history of efforts to enclave or localise poverty (arguably beginning in Africa with missionary activities), or at least to tell us how poverty relates to the emergence of the modern world (cf. Lafrenz Samuels 2009).

Litheko Modisane has described his unease over how African modernity has been characterised with a hazy boundary or link to the colonial era that whiffs of ambivalence (Modisane 2015: if we can agree (in the spirit of archaeologies of the modern world) that modernity did not begin with African independence movements but much earlier, and perhaps with the spread of global mercantilism, then how are we to cope with the roots of modern African heritage that lie in conditions of colonial exploitation? Modisane's anxiety over this hazy boundary is instructive. To my mind it encourages us to take another look at the linkage between transnationalism, development and poverty within a longer view of African modernity. If we are prepared to accept that the modern world was born of global connections, then we should look to where transnational involvement of entities bent on 'bettering' African communities instantiated and then perpetuated ideas about poverty and the way to uplift it. In part, this amounts to a plea for more nuanced, deeper histories of development and its legacies in the form of land management, soil erosion control, dam-building and mining. It is also a plea for heritage studies to locate its practices within an awareness of this history.

But we would do well to return to Saro-Wiwa, and also to more recent commentaries on how these legacies of betterment have been negotiated in African print cultures over time. In Khwezi Mkhize's recent writing about the birth of South Africa's first black publication in the early twentieth century (Mkhize 2018), there is a resonance with Saro-Wiwa's desire to destabilise the centre-periphery model that positions so many African communities as downstream from politics, policy and literary trends. Mkhize writes that these early publications, produced by the first generation of mission-educated Africans, were a way for this constituency to add their voices to the public sphere and critique the failure of liberal promises of upliftment and betterment. Escaping the centre-periphery model, then, is not just about recovering subaltern voices or provincialising the metropole. It also requires a reconfiguration of political geography to assert that historically marginalised voices can carve out a space in the public sphere, and that this space can challenge ideas about betterment.

Critiquing transnational development schemes in a way that disrupts the centre-periphery model, then, is arguably an essential component for understanding the length, breadth and duration of development interventions in Africa, along with their slow violence.

## The meaning of risk

In 1977 Wangari Maathai launched the Green Belt Movement (GBM), a Kenyan activist association whose tree-planting efforts not only raised global awareness of the conjoined problems of deforestation and soil erosion, but ultimately won Maathai a Nobel Peace Prize. Maathai's activism treated large-scale deforestation as both a contributing factor to the economic insecurity of rural women (traditional cultivators) and a symptom of the authoritarian policies of Kenya's long-term president Daniel arap Moi, who was in power from 1978 to 2002. In Maathai's 2008 memoir *Unbowed*, she describes the GBM's aim to reintroduce 'a sense of security among ordinary people so they do not feel so marginalised and so terrorised by the state'. In so doing, Maathai relates the question 'What does it mean to be at risk?' to environmental, gender and democratic security.

Nixon argues that Maathai's activism was successful because of its intersectionality. The imperative to plant trees and arrest soil erosion was about more than preserving forest lands as 'pristine wilderness', in line with the 'antihuman' conservation measures that Kenya inherited from colonial economics (Nixon 2011, 139). To understand the net impacts of deforestation and soil degradation as slow violence, it is also necessary to understand the historical events that positioned rural women as the inheritors not only of a historical system of land dispossession and labour devaluation, but also of a contemporary programme of resource mismanagement by Moi's government. For the GBM, risk could be minimised and security achieved by looking both backward to the past and sideways to other, related spheres of impact. Together these optics could provide the necessary tools to prevent future conflict among rural communities.

These messages were especially timely within Kenya (affected by ethnic factionalism as Moi's tenure closed its second decade) and the wider world. Maathai's Nobel Prize came in the wake of the 11 September 2001 attacks and the start of George W. Bush's Iraq campaign, and she in turn faced criticism inflected by misogyny, racism and sentiments that tree-planting was too anodyne a focus for a time of terror. However, as Nixon explains, Maathai's writing and activism shows how 'structures of violence sustain tinderbox conditions that cynical political elites can readily ignite at great cost to a society's systematically disenfranchised' (Nixon 2011, 149). If soil erosion causes a chain reaction that leads to insecurity and instability, surely something as simply and effectively pre-emptive of violence as tree-planting is worth supporting.

The GBM and Maathai's writing about it raise two significant, heritage-resonant points. The first relates to how slow violence often occurs in the passive voice, 'without clearly articulated agency' (Nixon 2011, 136). Part of what makes slow violence so pernicious and so difficult to keep within one's analytical field of vision is that it often refuses to declare itself as such. Slow violence (once we are aware of it and its traces) too easily lends itself to description as a series of regretful events, produced by the confluence of administrative happenstance or unintended consequences. These easily appear as downstream from so many convoluted processes that decision-making authority for violence itself becomes abstracted. Maathai and the GBM refused to accept this. They held Moi and his government directly responsible for rural insecurity, regardless of how far removed from the deforestation process they claimed to be.

When considering heritage damaged or put in harm's way by infrastructure development programmes, the alphabet soup of funding bodies and the contracting processes of which heritage managers see only a small part help to obscure the historical and networked factors behind this destruction. This is especially the case as neoliberal development schemes have ensured that financing and governance associated with large infrastructure construction are dispersed across an assemblage (to borrow a phrase from Tania Murray Li, 2007) of institutions; this creates a horizontal landscape of power across which to track developer agendas (Ferguson 2007). Maathai, along with scholars of neoliberal heritage regimes (Coombe 2013), encourages us not to shy away from chasing these networks, but instead to probe more deeply into how they imagine and instrumentalise heritage. I would argue, along with some anthropologists and historians (for example, Mbembe 2001; Ferguson 2007; Chalfin 2010), that the authority to enact development programmes and (potentially) bring about slow violence should never be taken for granted, nor be allowed to position itself as too far 'up there' in the hierarchy of governance to be critiqued directly. The corollary of this position is more historical and ethnographic work into states and extra-state entities, along with exploration of how they work together to articulate ideas about development and its cultural value.

Second, Maathai illustrates where risk must be evaluated by taking into account historical conditions as well as imagined catastrophes. In recent years heritage mitigation in development contexts has expanded to include not just archaeological salvage, but also intangible heritage and oral history recording (for example, Nic Eoin and King 2013; Kleinitz and Merlo 2014; Apoh and Gavua 2016). This expanded remit necessarily entails a broader awareness of time and context in a developmentaffected area, and creates opportunities for non-expert voices to define the impacts of development on heritage. We see this in projects such as the recent inscription of Lesotho's Sehlabathebe National Park on UNESCO's World Heritage List, which entailed an oral historical survey to ascertain local communities' feelings toward rock art within the park's boundaries.3 Rather than rock art-specific comments, the survey elicited long simmering concerns by area residents about the lack of economic opportunities and their ongoing unhappiness with the forced removals of communities from the park's boundaries in the 1970s. If the direction of heritage management associated with population displacement and landscape alteration is to include this sort of anthropological or oral historical work, then this insistence upon putting present-day impacts in historical contexts of alienation and disenfranchisement will become increasingly commonplace.

Risk – of loss of place and damage to heritage – is related to catastrophe that is imagined, but the extent of imagination is rooted in historical awareness. The business of managing heritage and its associated risks will become increasingly complicated in this era of intangible heritage mitigation. We would do well to heed Maathai's warning that confining our understanding of heritage impacts to silos (tangible/intangible, historical/contemporary) is to miss the bigger picture.

### Conclusion

The discussion in this chapter is a preliminary one, aimed at beginning a conversation among heritage studies and print cultures and directing attention to vocabularies or concepts that can (I believe) enrich approaches to destruction in heritage studies. We live in a time of rapid change for heritage, its subjects and its methods; a time of proliferating hyperobjects that require us to shift our frames of reference to take in ever-larger timescales, assemblages of actors and flows of knowledge. However, the writers described here (representing a very small fraction of the relevant literature) alert us to the ways in which many themes surrounding heritage and destruction are not wholly new, especially in sub-Saharan Africa. Landscape destruction, whether through erosion, megadams or oil pipelines, both embodies and conducts different forms of violence; these can reverberate across time and space in ways that may be subtle but devastating. These are not unprecedented conditions, but ones that have been in place for decades in countries such as Nigeria, as Saro-Wiwa reminded us.

The embeddedness of violence within these sorts of infrastructure development projects is impossible to ignore. Yet it is also easily abstracted, distanced from the complex assemblage of state and extrastate entities involved. Paying attention to this array of actors, then, becomes not just an exercise in tracing new forms of governmentality and global heritage, but also in examining how the business of governance (increasingly outsourced to non-state actors) implicates decisions about heritage management and development that are inherently violent. In considering this, we would do well to heed Rosemary Coombe's insistence to take states, developers, non-governmental organisations and the like as subjects of detailed ethnographic and historical enquiry (Coombe 2013), thereby resisting the abstracting power of slow violence.

Time and risk also emerge as themes worth further consideration. Maathai's GBM illustrates how understanding, anticipating and mitigating the effects of destruction is an exercise in imagination – but an imagination that is not infinite; it is influenced or limited by peoples' historical self-awareness, memories and desires. Moreover, destruction is never produced through a single policy or set of actions. It is rather located at the intersections of historical and contemporary socio-economic circumstances that can (in Nixon's words) 'sustain tinderbox conditions' through the accretion of slow violence over time. Thinking of slow violence in this way offers something of a rejoinder to the suggestion that in our era of supermodernity, time and destruction both behave exceptionally fast, accelerating and changing course with remarkable velocity (González-Ruibal 2016, 148–9). I suggest that authors such as Saro-Wiwa and Maathai demonstrate how, in the context of destruction, time behaves unpredictably and multi-directionally. Soil erosion may be experienced as a slow process, but challenge the reasons for it and the same apparatus behind erosion will react with swift, militaristic efficiency. Oil spills are catastrophic, fast events, but their negative impacts seep into the future (affecting the long-term health and slowly declining livelihoods of multiple generations of area residents), as well as into the past (in how ideas about land and one's place in it are transformed).

Indeed, this chapter could be glossed as a suggestion to view supermodernity and destruction as slow phenomena instead of, or in addition to, fast ones. Fundamentally, though, the discussion here highlights areas in which popular and print cultures can give us food for thought and are worth paying attention to. Following authors such as VanderMeer and Macfarlane, quoted at the beginning of this chapter, and so crossing genres as well as disciplines, is a necessary step towards beginning to comprehend hyperobjects, megastructures and their associated violence.

## Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Veysel Apaydin for the opportunity to publish in this volume.

### Notes


## References


## 3 Competing for the past: the London 2012 Olympic Games, archaeology and the 'wasteland'

Jonathan Gardner

*Regeneration which wipes out or ignores the past is at best unwise.* Neville Gabie, artist in residence at the London 2012 Olympic Games1

Between 2005 and 2009 a large programme of archaeological fieldwork was carried out in Stratford, East London, on what would become the main site of the 2012 Olympic and Paralympic Games (today called the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, but for brevity referred to here as 'the Olympic Park'; Fig.3.1). This fieldwork presented an opportunity to consider a large spatial and temporal slice through the east of London (see Powell 2012a). However, I suggest in this chapter that this work also offered the developers of the Games, the Olympic Delivery Authority (ODA), another opportunity: a means of publicly legitimising and contextualising the rapid changes that the mega event would enact in Stratford. I argue that the results of these archaeological investigations came to be seen as the acceptable past of this site, while more recent uses and occupations were, in the main, denigrated or ignored by organisers and parts of the media. Such an approach is most apparent in the description of the pre-event site as an 'industrial wasteland', a place seemingly without use and without occupants (for example Neather 2014; Cameron in ODA 2011, 5; Atkins 2012, 9; LLDC 2017, para.2).

Below I compare press releases and media reports related to the archaeological fieldwork of the Games project with 'unofficial' documentation of the site's more recent past produced by photographers and activists. The aim of making a comparison such as this is, firstly, to show

**Figure 3.1** The Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park today (Stratford, East London). Photograph courtesy of the author.

how, through dissemination of archaeological results, the ancient past was foregrounded and instrumentalised by the ODA and other Games supporters to legitimise the forthcoming changes in Stratford. I demonstrate that such a focus on the more distant past necessitated a partial denial of other stakeholders – namely, the occupants of the site prior to 2007 when the Games' construction began. These people appear to be missing from the project's history, their places of work, residence or leisure being labelled, and then rendered physically through compulsory purchase and demolition, a 'wasteland'. The archaeological process and its dissemination and repetition appear to have been a part of this legitimising process. Ultimately this discussion is intended to blur the boundary between what is to be valued as archaeology and what is to be considered 'waste' in the context of large-scale urban regeneration, and indeed the uses and ethics of heritage in development projects.

### The mega event

Following Roche, I define 'mega events' as large-scale, globally-oriented, cultural spectacles that 'have dramatic character, mass popular appeal and international significance' (Roche 2000, 1), and that usually operate for only a few weeks or months. Today's most commonly recognised mega events are the FIFA World Cup and the modern Olympic/Paralympic Games, though this term was originally associated with events such as the Great Exhibitions (for example, London 1851) and World's Fairs (see Gold and Gold 2005).

This chapter draws upon my broader research into how the materials of the past are inextricably linked with legitimising discourses connected to London's history of mega event hosting, and how these event sites' histories are mediated for a variety of purposes (for example, Gardner forthcoming a). In this case a 're-excavation' of the Olympic Park's past is particularly important as the area changes further in an ongoing 20-year 'legacy' programme – set to include the building of thousands of new homes, a campus of University College London (UCL East), an outpost of the V&A (V&A East) and numerous office developments.

The importance of the past to such mega events, whether related to exhibitions or sporting activities, cannot be understated (Gardner forthcoming a; 2018). At a material level, the past activities of a host site often condition its suitability for hosting a mega event. Frequently these are liminal urban zones or industrial areas (for example, Strohmayer 2013). This suitability also relies on the discursive construction and reification of a landscape or neighbourhood – change must be seen to be desirable and possible, and the past or existing landscapes must be 'cast out' or contrasted with that which is to come (Doron 2000). Such representations have a powerful role in helping to shape how we conceptualise and use spaces (Eade 2000, 4–9), whether through recounting the findings of archaeologists or some other means such as oral history or photography.

McAtackney and Ryzewksi note that '[a]rchaeology has always had the potential to show how interpreting material realities can reveal different and even deliberately obfuscated narratives of recent history […]' (McAtackney and Ryzewski 2017, 20). Following this, I suggest that a contemporary archaeology of London 2012 cannot only consider its official programme of archaeological excavation, but also must map how these findings interact with, or are contradicted by, other traces or narratives. Hence this chapter's comparative focus and my interest in the discursive construction of 'the past' in the support or contestation of this mega event.

This research draws methodologically upon a form of 'critical discourse analysis' – analysing publicly available texts and other media for keywords, themes and their interrelationships which help to constitute value claims about particular subjects (see Wu and Hu 2015; Waterton et al. 2006). Press releases and other public statements produced by archaeologists, the Games' organisers and others in relation to the Olympic Park can be productively compared for the claims they make about the nature of the past here (see Shoup 2006 for another example).2 The traces of this place's past and their selective recording, destruction and promotion have created a diversity of 'heritage discourses', not all officially sanctioned, which continue to influence the Games' legacy today.

#### Previous work

To date, little archaeological or heritage-based research has been carried out in relation to the modern Olympic Games or mega events more generally (see however Nordin 2011; Penrose 2012; Hamilakis 2007, chapter 1; Graff 2012). Importantly for this study, Angela Piccini has shown – through a contemporary archaeological examination of the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympic and Paralympic Games – that the artistic and cultural programmes of such spectacles ('official' and otherwise) highlight their political and material incongruities. She further argues that such an approach, in 'presencing absenced pasts', draws attention to alternative viewpoints and histories that are all too readily dismissed by organisers (Piccini 2012, 300).

A vast literature exists on the hosting of mega events more generally (see Gold and Gold 2005). Of most importance here are those works discussing the discursive and semiotic content of their displays and performances, given mega events' emphasis on the role of imagined national pasts or distant civilisations with regards to legitimising narratives (for example, Gillooly 2007; Jolivette 2009; Silk 2015; Moser 2012). Once again, however, little of this work is overtly attuned to how heritage or archaeology intersects with mega event development itself, a lacuna which the present work seeks to address.

With regards to the London 2012 Olympic Games, a large number of works have been written from a more straightforwardly historical point of view or related to planning and sociological issues (for example, Poynter and MacRury 2009; Cohen 2013; Bernstock 2014). In these works the past of Stratford is seen as an important factor in the hosting of the Games, and is often connected to the economic marginalisation and deprivation the area continues to face. Thus, though not articulated as 'heritage', these authors recognise the burden of the past in this place and appreciate that a *tabula rasa* model of development is 'misguided at best', as Gabie's quote at the beginning of this chapter acknowledges.

## The context of the 2012 bid

Arguments are often made that Olympic Games are nakedly neoliberal land-grabs disguised as cultural programming, and, with regard to London 2012, issues such as the sell-off of public assets or sponsorship and tax deals may support this view (Sherwin 2011; Boykoff 2013, 85). However, given the vast amount of state funding the project received, this was not a straightforward corporate sell-off; it was even described as 'a massive Keynesian boost to the economy' by then Culture Secretary Jeremy Hunt in 2012 (quoted in Boykoff 2013, 81).

The primary motivation for hosting the Games was ostensibly one of regenerating the East End and attracting investment to what had become, since the closure of London's docks from the 1960s onwards, one of the most economically depressed areas in the UK.

The effect of the bid (London winning against Paris on 6 July 2005), and the subsequent formation of the Olympic Delivery Authority, was ultimately to transform a huge area of the East End (and sites elsewhere), to build an entirely new set of stadia and facilities for the Games and to lay the foundations for legacy development. This relied upon removal of the Stratford site's existing businesses and residents. They were removed from the development area through a Compulsory Purchase Order (CPO) served in late 2005 and enforced on 2 July 2007 (Davies et al. 2017, 192).3

There remain serious questions around whether mega events enacted through such processes can really achieve an equitable 'regeneration' and truly empower local communities (Cohen and Watt 2017) – and indeed whether cultural mega projects can 'cure' urban ills more generally (for example, Butler 2007). I will return to this below, but pause for now to explore briefly the concept of 'wasteland'.

### Wasted

What makes a wasteland? In the case of London 2012 the language used to describe its Stratford site by its developers and much of the media seems to refer to a literal 'waste of space': terms such as 'scarred' and 'underdeveloped', used by the ODA in pre-Games documents, especially emphasise this (Armitt in 2011, 20; 2007a, 4). However, a place that becomes labelled as wasteland is rarely considered as such until it is politically expedient to do so. I would argue that the apparent marginality of places such as Stratford's Olympic site, geographical or otherwise, exists for a reason. They were (and are) important as sites of productivity, employment, low-cost housing, utilities and places of leisure (see Clifford 2008; Davis 2009). Below I demonstrate that this labelling also denies the history of such activities and the importance of their relationship to the wider city, replacing complexity with simplicity and teleology, and in this case seems to emphasise and value a distant archaeological past rather than the more recent history of the site.

The wasteland is not simply transformed through repetition of how recent past uses of the area were unacceptable, but also through acts of 'mitigation', both archaeological and otherwise (for instance environmental decontamination), of the stuff of the past. A material and human absence must be created, in order to produce space for 'regeneration' to occur. This happened in Stratford through compulsory purchase and also, I would suggest, through officially sanctioned archaeological work, whereby only certain traces of the past were recorded while others were forgotten. This erasure was then further enacted through demolition of buildings and re-landscaping to create the new Olympic Park. Lastly, I suggest the promotion and discussion of these processes of removal themselves also served as a means of underpinning the regeneration narrative. Such processes enabled the ODA to demonstrate that they cared about the past enough to treat it with respect (i.e. showing that they 'saved' archaeology – despite this being a standard requirement on almost all UK development projects). It is to this archaeological process that I now turn.

## Digging the wasteland

Archaeologists (Fig.3.2) who took part in the excavations for the Olympic and Paralympic Games – one of the largest archaeological programmes London has ever seen – worked on 122 evaluation trenches and 8 larger excavations, alongside geoarchaeologists and buildings specialists (Powell 2012a). This work targeted known archaeological locations as well as sampling an overall percentage of the Olympic Park area. It was carried out as a part of a planning condition, the developers being required to mitigate damage to archaeological and heritage resources (ODA 2007b). Though simplified for brevity here, the project was funded by the developer (i.e. the ODA). The mitigation was specified by the government's heritage monitor (English Heritage – now Historic England), managed by heritage consultants (see Atkins n.d.); the work was then tendered for and carried out by contract archaeology companies.

**Figure 3.2** The author drawing an excavated rowing boat in December 2007. This site now lies beneath the main Olympic Stadium (the London Stadium). Photograph © Maggie Cox/MOLA 2007.

The fieldwork, running mainly through 2007–8, recovered and recorded material from prehistory to the present. Notable sites included a small settlement and field systems encompassing successive uses from the Middle Bronze Age to Late Iron Age, a succession of mill buildings dating from the late sixteenth century onwards and sealed by a late Victorian street, an early nineteenth-century reused ship's boat and an anti-aircraft gun emplacement from the Second World War, among many other discoveries (see Powell 2012a). Rather than discuss these findings in depth here, I instead now turn to how they arguably played a role in legitimising the transformation that the mega event brought to this area.

## The past as PR

I contend here that the presentation of the archaeological past, and publicity about the fieldwork programme itself – albeit a small part of the total Games preparations – were useful from a public relations standpoint for the ODA and the government in their promotion of the mega event. Beyond simply fulfilling their planning legislation obligations, the evidence of the past was carefully deployed by the developers to contextualise and support the massive changes being made to the area.

Due to the nature of contractor-client relationships in commercial archaeology, generally speaking mediation of archaeological findings on large projects is handled by the client or their representatives (for example, consultants) rather than archaeologists themselves. As a consequence, it is often the case that archaeologists do not have full control over how their results are presented. The use of archaeology for PR, by state-led projects in particular, is well documented. It often serves a variety of functions, from emphasising national identity to encouraging tourism (for example, Silberman 2007), obfuscation of the politicised nature of developments or the encouragement of 'cultural continuity' (Shoup 2006, 239). While I do not of course imply any dishonesty or inaccuracy related to archaeological works on the Games project, nonetheless, as we will see, the traces of the past can have a multitude of uses in the present and not only for archaeological interpretation.

Below I have analysed a series of press releases published by the ODA discussing the archaeological work. In doing so, I explore how the interpretation of the past was utilised to add support to what might otherwise have been seen as an expensive and disruptive mega project. These are compared with the mediation of these findings by others (such as news outlets), prior to a consideration of alternative histories of the site from the recent past in the next section.

In analysis of these press releases certain themes emerge. The first is a progressive, narrative-driven discourse highlighting the physical remains excavated. This was in keeping with the ODA's 'Demolish. Dig. Design.' mantra (Fig.3.3), where the past is cared for and studied, but ultimately removed for the event to take place.

The first press release related to archaeology appeared on 28 November 2007. Entitled *Archaeological Work on Games Site finds Evidence of the First Londoners and Romans*, it told us how 'the first Londoners … lived in thatched circular mud huts on the site that will boast a Zaha Hadid designed Aquatics Centre' and, following descriptions of ancient ceramics, that 'The Aquatics Centre will be beside the river, which is currently being widened by eight metres as part of a programme to restore the ancient waterways of the Lower Lea Valley' (ODA 2007c). Of most interest here is the ODA's emphasis on this idea of 'first Londoners', and the conscious linking of this with the developments taking place with the Aquatics Centre.4

This linking of past and present is repeated in a later release about the same site from March 2008, which noted that 'archaeologists have uncovered the skeletons of early Eastenders buried in graves dating

**Figure 3.3** 'Demolish, Dig. Design.': a hoarding from the Olympic Park in 2007. Photograph by Gordon Joly (cropped). CC BY-SA 2.0 2007. Available from: https://flic.kr/p/4aSaur.

back to the Iron Age on the London 2012 Olympic Park'. Tessa Jowell (then Olympics Minister) is here quoted as saying: 'The "big dig" on the Olympic Park offers a unique opportunity to witness and understand the fascinating history of this part of east London from ancient to modern' (ODA 2008a). In such language these releases attempt to connect these mid-Iron Age people and the development taking place for the Games. I return to this shortly, but first consider a few more examples.

Another thread seems to be the use of the past to show that rapid and large-scale transformation here was natural and legitimate, based on the history of the area. The ODA's then chief executive notes, also in the initial press release, that the Olympic development is 'a story of change and transformation dating back centuries' (2007c). This view is subsequently repeated by one of the lead archaeologists on the project:

[…] the change represented by the construction of the Olympics is absolutely in keeping with all the change that's happened in the Lea Valley beforehand – it's just happening in a shorter time period. (ODA 2009a 0:1:52)

In such mediation one sometimes gets the sense that the archaeology is useful to the ODA insofar as it legitimises their plans and does not interfere with construction, rather than primarily as a source of information about the past. Another frequent theme in such documents is the repetition of the idea that archaeologists were 'given the opportunity' to work on the site, suggesting magnanimity on the ODA's part; for instance, 'The ODA invited [archaeologists] to look for evidence […]' (2008b). This appears somewhat misleading, given that the archaeological companies involved were not 'invited' onto to the site, but were involved in a standard process of competitive tendering for the work that the developer was required to carry out, as with any other construction project.

Let us consider a few other sources, starting with the primary heritage consultancy on the project, Atkins Global. In a statement entitled *Digging Olympic Gold* (Atkins n.d.), describing the cultural heritage investigations carried out under their management during the preparations for London 2012, they note that:

Used effectively, archaeology can help to avoid damage to potentially significant finds and make sure that everyone – from developers to the local community – views a project favourably from the start and long after the work is done.

Later they also suggest that rather than act as a 'barrier' to developers, a project such as London 2012 'demonstrates how archaeologists can […] turn what might be a negative into long-lasting positives'. (Atkins n.d.)

Such statements show that London 2012's developers and their representatives were aware of the potential for archaeology to be employed as a means of reducing perceived negative impacts associated with the development, rather than solely being a requirement for planning or opportunity of scientific enquiry.

Dissemination of the results of the Olympic archaeological programme was also assisted by extensive media interest. Articles appeared regularly in mainstream outlets (for example, Brown 2006; Brooke 2008; BBC 2009; *Daily Mail* 2009), again using tropes of 'gold' and 'East Enders', sometimes alongside the words 'wasteland' or similar to label the more recent past. Archaeological magazines also took note of the developments. *Current Archaeology*, having advertised the piece on its front cover as *The first East Enders: 10,000 year tale of stinky Stratford*, concluded their 2000-word article with:

Once the Victorian industry declined, there was little left to recommend the region, making it the perfect dumping ground for bombed-out building rubble and other landfill. It is only now the Olympic Park has opened a new chapter in the Lea's history that the site has been revitalised.

(Symonds 2012)

Clearly such coverage tends to use archaeological findings rather simplistically. Buried treasure and ancient bodies are common tropes, some of which tend to be encouraged by archaeologists themselves (Ascherson 2004). Rather than focus on inaccuracy or authenticity (see chapters in Clack and Brittain 2007), it is worth asking what the effect of such repetition and translation achieved in the case of London 2012.

I suggest that the archaeology presented by the ODA and others, was not simply useful as a tool or method of 'mitigation' of the pre-Park landscape, but also, more importantly, 'as a socio-political actor in itself', generating effects which went beyond headlines (Zorzin 2015, 117). As Atkins' statement above shows, it would appear that developers realise that the past can be useful as a form of public relations management and that archaeological knowledge, and the value claims it enacts, can operate as a commodity (though not necessarily monetarily based). An archaeological perspective is valued for what it tells us about the past – but *also* for what it permits in the present and in the future (Moshenska 2010; Gestrich 2011; Gardner forthcoming b; Haber 2015). Archaeological labour granted the ODA both a means of 'meeting their local authority requirements' (Atkins n.d.) and an opportunity to show that they cared about their responsibilities as developers. As a means of legitimising the project, this tied in with a discourse of improvement and, especially, 'legacy', foregrounded by the UK government. In 2009 the ODA's chairman wrote in another press release that:

Archaeologists and local people have had the opportunity to learn more about the development of Lower Lea Valley and the people that have lived here for thousands of years before it is transformed for future generations.

(ODA 2009b)

Thus the past (or at least most of it) was arguably seen as a resource for the new development and figuratively linked to the future. This foregrounding of a particular narrative of what the past was like here – i.e. mainly presented as archaeology and very much 'over' – was reliant on an 'other', much more negative vision of more recent times, the late twentieth-century 'wasteland'. Rightly we should ask: was the wasteland really 'wasted'? If not, what then was the nature of this recent past? How was *it* presented outside of ODA public relations or mainstream media?

#### Re-populating the wasteland

This other past, the recent 'prehistory' of the Olympic Park (i.e. the late twentieth and early twenty-first-century period prior to July 2007 when Games construction began apace), has until recently gone mostly undiscussed, with the wasteland narrative still prevalent today (see, for example, public comments on Burrows 2017). Rather than reproduce more press releases, I instead turn to those who demonstrated that the site was anything but empty in the run-up to the Games' development. I suggest that the activities taking place here can be seen to be as much a part of the heritage of this landscape as the archaeological discoveries discussed above.

A recent publication entitled *Dispersal*, by Davies et al., combines photography, ethnography and mapping (Davies et al. 2017). It provides a reminder of just how diverse the activities in the pre-Olympic zone were up until 2007 (Fig.3.4). The *Dispersal* archive, documenting 70 businesses (out of over 280, employing in total more than 5000 people prior to 2007), was created and presented by photographers Marion Davies and Debra Rapp. Their intention was to 'document a visual history of a place and community that was about to vanish' (Davies et al. 2017, 33). As Davies points out, the work also aimed to question 'how it [the area] was represented […] as a defunct and decaying wasteland in east London, somewhere that was "ripe for redevelopment"' (Davies et al. 2017, 1).5

Their work shows that the 'industrial heritage' of the Lea Valley and Stratford was anything but consigned to history. In meeting galvanisers, belt makers, set designers, salmon smokers, car repairers and many others, they showed that the site was still economically active and far from 'defunct'. The reasons for the success of these latest businesses were intermingled with the history of the landscape: the growth of London required marginal places such as Stratford to function. Relatively cheap land, access to water, railways and then roads, and a prevailing westerly wind meant that certain industries could set up here and flourish. These latest occupants featured in *Dispersal* continued to serve the city, despite the area's supposed post-industriality. Yet it was this social and spatial marginality that also made the area especially vulnerable to redevelopment (see also Strohmayer 2013).

**Figure 3.4** (above): Parkes Galvanizing Ltd. This 50-year-old enterprise had to leave the Park for the construction of the main Stadium. Photograph by Diamond Geezer (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0) Diamond Geezer 2006. Retrieved from: https://flic.kr/p/23JXZd; (below): An operative working within Parkes prior to 2007, photographed as part of the *Dispersal* project. Photograph © Marion Davies 2019.

In his foreword to *Dispersal,* photographer Mike Seaborne notes that there was a near-total failure of 'official' archaeology in the Games project to record these businesses and indeed the lives intertwined with this place. Without the *Dispersal* photographers and Juliet Davis' associated research, he suggests that they 'would have been effectively written out of the story' (in Davies et al. 2017, viii). This calls into question what form archaeological/heritage investigations (for example, Powell 2012b, foreword) should have taken here, especially with Seaborne's suggestion that the area's more recent heritage was missed by the official programme of work. Standing buildings research did occur on modern structures, for example the electricity pylons of the area, as part of the official archaeological programme (Dwyer 2007), and an oral history recording of a small subset of former workers in the wider area was undertaken (ECH 2010). However, little work appears to have been undertaken to engage with the thousands of workers or hundreds of residents who were required to move out for the Games.

*Dispersal* was not the only means by which the activities of the area's recent past were documented. For example, a dedicated network of activists campaigned for those who had to leave their homes to make way for the event – again often drawing upon what might be seen as heritage discourses, drawing attention to their longevity of occupation and an autochthonic connection to the area, but also a close sense of community. In some cases this took the form of overt anti-Olympic activism, with the dogged action of websites such as *gamesmonitor.com*, who highlighted issues ranging from the CPO, job losses, security and the contamination of the Park. This website and others now also act as a record of what has changed in the Park area, and indeed as an archive of efforts to resist such change and document it. A tradition of activism also survives today in ongoing campaigns such as *Save Hackney Wick* (*http://savehackneywick.org/*), where artists and residents on the fringes of the Olympic Park resist demolition and evictions.

Another group displaced by the Games' development was the Manor Garden Allotments Society, who campaigned to save their plots of land close to the Olympic Velodrome site. Understandably they made much of their close connection with land they had occupied since the 1920s in their campaign against removal (Life Island 2014), which was ultimately unsuccessful. Such a place, though small-scale and less likely to generate newspaper headlines than prehistoric villages or buried boats, should arguably have been recognised as part of a living heritage tradition. The allotments, having transformed an originally marginal marshy site adjacent to a landfill, were somewhere valued and treasured; they were explicitly recognised by users as heritage (MGS 2016). Despite this, however, they seem to have been left untroubled by official archaeological investigations and were removed in late 2007. Traces of this heritage were recorded only through the efforts of individuals such as photographer Peter Marshall (Fig.3.5) and the members of the Society

**Figure 3.5** The Manor Garden Allotments in early 2007. Photograph © 2007 Peter Marshall, mylondondiary.co.uk.

(who eventually moved to a new site provided by the Games' developers outside the Park boundaries).

Like the work of Davies and Rapp, such efforts, and those of others who documented acts of resistance and other recent heritage of the area (for example, Husni-Bey 2012; Dixon in Gabie 2012, 125), stand as an alternative archaeology of the recent past here, challenging the idea that this was an empty wasteland.

## Discussion: the valuation of the past

The 'official' presentation of the past of the Olympic Park by its developers suggests that any notion of this place's historical value appears to stop after the Second World War. As discussed above, the period from 1945 to 2012 saw further changes in the area, reducing it in the views of some to a spatial and temporal 'wasteland'. This suggests a powerful value-judgement at play and, in the language of the mega event, that the past was something to be carefully 'mitigated' or managed. Mitigation in this sense was not only to protect *some* of said past's material remains through archaeological fieldwork, but also to legitimise the removal of traces of more recent activity. Why though was this recent past not seen as a form of heritage by the project?

A partial answer may be simply that the favouring of certain periods by the ODA was a result of contract archaeology's reliance on UK legislative heritage frameworks and guidance by monitoring bodies such as Historic England (named English Heritage at the time of the project) in the run-up to the Games specifying the mitigation work. The emphasis in such guidance's language is of the relative 'significance' of sites or buildings, and thus the level of 'intervention' (recording or preservation) they require (English Heritage 2008, MOLAS 2002). Such frameworks tend to consider the recent past as less significant than more distant eras, usually based on a principle of scarcity, and have rarely fully addressed considerations such as intangible heritage value to users in the present. Although the programme of works at the Olympic Park was understandably guided by these approaches (ODA 2007b), the likes of recording the mid-to-late twentieth-century electricity pylons mentioned above show there is considerable variation in the interpretation of 'value' as defined by such guidance (though ultimately these were not included in the Games published monograph, see Dwyer 2007). It nonetheless seems that these relatively 'safe' approaches to the past influenced the ODA's dissemination strategy. That said, however, this is clearly not the whole story of why only more distant periods were discussed positively with regards to the Park's past, nor should the representativeness of such frameworks be accepted without question.

If this was simply an issue of relative research priorities by heritage monitoring bodies, archaeological consultants or contractors, then one has to ask why there was still this need to cast the more recent past negatively as a wasteland. Some of this denigration would seem to be due to the need to present the mega event as a progressive 'public good' despite the cost to the taxpayer (which could easily be contrasted with the relative poverty of its host area) and, by 2009, the beginnings of fiscal austerity and growing unemployment (Zimbalist 2015, 109). I would suggest progress here relied upon a narrative of the 'cleaning up' and 'improvement' of the East End, described as 'regeneration'.

In this conception it seems the still extant industrial past jarred with post-industrial and neoliberal visions of what inner London was 'meant' to be like (i.e. its economy to be based around service industries such as finance rather than traditional industry; Eade 2000, 133–4). Along with this need for post-industrialism, the low-cost housing, allotments and the 'patchwork' of uses of the pre-Olympic site seemingly did not fit with these more future-oriented visions of the city. Arguably this vision of the area as requiring 'transformation' and regeneration also relates to the historical denigration of the 'East End' as a slum or wilderness more generally by the capital's wealthier and more politically powerful West End (Cohen 2013, chapter 1; Eade 2000).

Thus the duality in the use of the past here can be seen as 'pharmakonic': both 'poison' and 'cure', 'treasure' or 'trash'; residing in indeterminacy, flickering between the need to excavate or bury (Butler 2011; Derrida 1981). The past at the Olympic Park at times presented the 'opportunity' to create knowledge about history and to establish a sense of place for the new Park, at least in its archaeological manifestations. This relatively 'ancient past' was presented in stark contrast to negative visions of the site's 'recent past': as messy, piecemeal and anachronistic, jarring with what was seen to be a necessary change for regeneration (Cohen 2013, 210). Archaeology was arguably useful as an opportunity for good public relations for the organisers in that it could be related to a narrative of continuous change and improvement. This discourse seemed to suggest that the likes of industrial employment in this area was now naturally 'over', an activity only legitimate when considered in the past, rather than one which had ongoing historical continuity and that remained active in the present (see Gardner 2013).

Haber notes that the expert knowledge and claims to truth that professional archaeology makes in a development context often occurs at the expense of the living communities and living heritage in the place being transformed (Haber 2015, 105). This may have occurred, even if inadvertently, in Stratford's case. This is not to single out for criticism the archaeologists, consultants or others for a lack of attention to living communities, especially given the circumstances of a major project like this – strict control over dissemination, and tight constraints on budget and time – but it *is* to argue that a major opportunity may have been missed here. Those forced to move from the site could have been included to a much greater degree as part of the heritage investigations carried out here, rather than having their homes, businesses, and spaces of leisure consigned to a wasteland. This is not to say archaeologists could have stopped demolition or compulsory purchase orders, or necessarily been able to change the narrative of the ODA. However, I would suggest that heritage professionals could have better supported those who challenged and resisted the 'wasteland' narrative through demonstrating that the people dwelling and working here up until 2007 had their own connection to the area's history and heritage that was also worthy of recognition.

It is rare for individual archaeologists to speak out against a development or to overtly discuss the ethics of working on a particular project. This is for a variety of compelling reasons, including the precarious nature of employment, the risk of losing repeat work and so forth. In some rare cases, however, archaeologists have actively sided with those opposed to what they felt to be unsustainable or unethical forms of development, most notably on dam projects (for example, Ronayne 2006; Kleinitz and Näser 2013). While this may be unlikely to happen in a UK context, a much stronger engagement with the discussion of ethics in the commercial sector is required. I would suggest that archaeologists *should* be questioning the narrative of such large projects, to advocate for more engagement with those who these schemes displace and to attempt to regain some control of the messages or narratives associated with their findings. Archaeological work can be a form of profit-making enterprise and contract archaeologists are not simply victims of power: they are, at times, complicit in its operation (Haber 2015; Hutchings and Salle 2015; Gardner forthcoming b).

In the case of London 2012, a more socially engaged archaeology could have shown that the industrial and social history the archaeologists documented so well up until the mid-twentieth century was not only dead and buried in the wasteland, but that the landscape they picked through had, until only a few months before, been a place of work for thousands and a home for hundreds more. In essence, their explorations could have been viewed not simply as an 'opportunity' to excavate London's rich past, but also to highlight its diverse present. As we are now the mega event's legacy period, with the development of the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park continuing apace, we are presented – in the establishment of institutions such as UCL East and V&A East here – with an opportunity to begin to redress this imbalance.

## Acknowledgements

Helpful comments on early drafts of this chapter were kindly provided by Dr Gabriel Moshenska, Dr Veysel Apaydin and Dr Beatrijs de Groot. This research was funded from 2012–15 by an AHRC Studentship at the UCL Institute of Archaeology (ref.1159756).

#### Notes


## References


Doron, G. M. 2000. 'The Dead Zone and the Architecture of Transgression', *City*, 4:2, 247–63.


English Heritage. 2008. *Conservation Principles, Policies and Guidance*. Swindon: English Heritage.


## 4 Covert erasure and agents of change in the heritage city

Colin Sterling

## Heritage and change

Towards the end of 2017 the Victoria and Albert Museum (V&A) announced a major new acquisition for their collections: two complete maisonettes from the Robin Hood Gardens council estate (RHG) in East London. Long threatened with demolition, this much dilapidated brutalist icon (in fact two separate buildings) had become a key battleground in fierce debates over the qualities of postwar architecture and the provision of social housing in the city (Powers 2010). According to Neil Bingham, curator of contemporary architectural collections at the V&A, the acquisition would 'motivate new thinking and research into this highly experimental period of British architectural and urban history' (quoted in Brown 2017). Echoing this sentiment Christopher Turner, the museum's keeper of design, architecture and digital, argued that the huge fragment – 8.8 m high, 5.5 m wide and 8 m deep – was 'worth preserving for future generations' (quoted in Brown 2017).

The news was greeted with great ambivalence. For some the acquisition was unsuitable on the grounds of taste, with brutalism still a much maligned architectural style in many circles. For others the act of curatorial salvage was bittersweet. Following a hard-fought campaign to protect the estate from demolition Catherine Croft, director of the Twentieth Century Society, commented in 2017 that the site:

[…] could have been refurbished to provide good quality housing.

[…] Keeping a small section is by no means an adequate way of preserving all that is important about a great building, but nevertheless we are delighted that some sense of the physical materiality of RHG will endure. It is very prescient of the V&A to recognise the significance of the estate, both as an example of high modernist design and as a highly controversial conservation disaster. We are sure that future generations will be inspired by the exhibit, and be as incredulous that demolition of RHG was allowed as we are today about the destruction of the Euston Arch.

Alongside this disillusionment, perhaps the most vocal response to the acquisition emerged from those eager to defend not the physical fabric or architectural merits of RHG, but the utopian aspirations of good housing for all. Although 1500 homes are due to replace RHG's 214 flats as part of the site's redevelopment, the provision of housing for council tenants and those on lower incomes remains unclear. In the words of one commentator, the V&A's act of 'preservation' may ultimately serve as little more than 'PR for luxury condos […] a fetishisation of working-class ways of living' (Pritchard 2017a). Here the very process of saving, conserving, displaying and interpreting social housing is called into question as part of a 'state-led cycle of gentrification' (Pritchard 2017a). This is exacerbated by the website for the new development, where former residents are invited to 'share their memories of Robin Hood Gardens' – a common practice in heritage-led community work that takes on a different meaning under the shadow of large-scale dispossession (a point to which I return below).

I highlight the case of RHG here as it brings into sharp focus three of the major themes I want to focus on in this chapter: the tension between conspicuous practices of demolition and the hidden or 'covert' processes of social erasure these often obscure; the visibility and capacity of different agents or actors in shaping these processes; the knotted relationship between heritage and urban development across different scales and categories of 'past presencing' (Macdonald 2013). Taking 'the city' as a key site of contestation in debates around destruction and preservation, I am interested in the 'cultural meanings of development' (Mandle 2011, 238) as much as the history and potentiality of heritage (the two are rarely seen in isolation, of course). This (re)orientation positions critical heritage at the nexus of important debates occurring in related fields, including urban geography (Hall and Barrett 2017; Colavitti 2018), architecture and urbanism (Campkin and Duijzings 2016) and the arts (Rosler 2010).

These admittedly wide-ranging lines of enquiry are rationalised over the following pages around the core concept of change – a word that has gained considerable traction across the heritage sector in recent years, both from a theoretical standpoint and as a rallying cry for conservation practice. The National Trust, for example, defines conservation as 'the careful management of change', while English Heritage (now re-named Historic England) argues that 'considered change offers the potential to enhance and add value to places, as well as generating the need to protect their established heritage values' (English Heritage 2008, 15). Cornelius Holtorf meanwhile has been particularly vocal in calling for a move away from prevailing attitudes that see heritage as static and therefore 'at risk', leaning towards an understanding of heritage as 'the continuous manifestation of change over time' (Holtorf 2015, 417).

These different threads of 'change management' work along the grain of a world constantly in flux. Organic processes, non-human agencies and vast systemic forces conspire to eradicate any sense of stability or continuity in this reading, which radically undermines the perceived 'threat' of destruction (see Holtorf 2016). As Caitlin DeSilvey summarises in her recent book *Curated Decay*:

In some heritage contexts, the rigidity of professional boundaries and the adherence to the preservation paradigm are giving way to recognition that processes of change and creative transformation can be productive and positive.

(DeSilvey 2017, 132)

The argument I want to put forward here is broadly supportive of this paradigm shift, but with one important caveat. Rather than see change itself as the focal point for a renewed critical engagement with the past in the present, I suggest that our attention needs to be focused on the differential *agents of change* that constantly shape and reshape heritage. On the face of it, this may seem like a rather banal observation. However, it gives rise to a series of crucial points of analysis that are liable to remain hidden if we continue to foreground the change/preservation dynamic as the prime locus of heritage meaning. Most visibly, if we take change to be the *starting point* of heritage rather than its antithesis (something I think we should do), then two lines of concern immediately leap out: who or what brings about this change, and what are its effects?

The destruction of cultural heritage as a result of conflict, criminal damage, neglect or over-development has been an important area of investigation for heritage researchers since at least the end of the Second World War (see Bevan 2006). Indeed, in the longer term, the erasure of physical reminders of the past may be understood to have motivated the growth of 'heritage' in the first place (Lowenthal 1998). But while the loss of buildings, artefacts, sites and landscapes can be considered a core concern of the field, less attention has been paid to the social worlds in which this destruction occurs, or to the impact it has on the continuation or otherwise of those processes through which heritage is made and unmade (see, however, Mah 2012).

This is surprising for a number of reasons – not least the obvious link between the erasure of 'things' and violence against people (Matthes 2018). Recognising that this association needs to be at the forefront of any discussion about heritage and destruction, I would suggest that the tendency of scholars and practitioners in the field to focus on the most spectacular or visible acts of demolition effectively occludes the broader patterns of erasure and change in which heritage is embedded.

To take a well-known example, the destruction of parts of Palmyra by the so-called Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant was roundly condemned by various high-profile groups and individuals in 2015 (Jeffries 2015; Bowersock 2015). At the same time commentators noted the relative silence of the heritage world with respect to the dispossession and murder of different communities in the country. The same can be said in relation to most case studies in the literature around heritage destruction, from the bombing of Dresden and other German cities by the British air force during the Second World War (Joel 2013) to the spectacle-driven demolition of the Bamiyan Buddhas in 2001 (Kalman 2017). Such destructive acts have helped to solidify a belief that heritage is in urgent need of protection in many different contexts around the world. Taking issue with this stance, Holtorf maintains that loss and destruction 'are not necessarily threats to heritage; in fact, they may make heritage' (Holtorf 2016). As well as Palmyra and the Bamiyan Buddhas, Holtorf draws on examples such as the Berlin Wall and the Twin Towers to make his argument, suggesting that the absence of these objects has been more important for their emergence as heritage than their continued presence would have allowed.

At one level this is no doubt true, but the position I want to put forward in this chapter is that loss, risk and endangerment also need to be considered from the perspective of heritage as process (Smith 2006): when we do this, a different set of 'threats' emerges. These are more closely related to the social worlds of heritage, which – while always in a state of flux – may still be understood as vulnerable. Put simply, even if heritage as a thing or object may not be 'at risk' from acts of destruction, for precisely the reasons that Holtorf outlines, heritage as a democratic, multi-layered and inclusive process is very much threatened by these acts, which are inherently unilateral, appropriative and exclusionary (as well as being in many cases violent and traumatic).

To return briefly to the case of RHG, we can begin to see that this perspective opens up a new set of questions around processes of change and the visibility or otherwise of erasure. For example, while the Twentieth Century Society may have been right to suggest that refurbishment could have saved the building, would this have been preferable if all council tenants had been evicted and replaced by investment bankers as part of a luxury 'redevelopment'? If not, would the protection of a certain 'way of life' (working class, ethnically diverse, family oriented) have been more desirable *from a heritage perspective* than the preservation of the buildings in situ? Furthermore, if residents had voted for the wholesale demolition and rebuilding of the site,1 would heritage advocates have supported or hindered this (hopefully) democratic decision-making process?

These questions are rarely so black and white, of course, and the argument can be made that the built environment is such an integral component of community and identity formation that the two cannot be separated. Nonetheless, my key point remains: heritage as a process is interwoven with broader social imbalances and inequities that are brought to the surface around issues of change and destruction, and the risks and vulnerabilities associated with this dynamic should be a core concern of the sector. This can be brought out most obviously in discussions around heritage in the urban landscape, where change is built into the very fabric of the field (Bandarin and Van Oers 2012).

## The heritage city

Urbanisation is one of the key phenomena of our time: over half the planet now lives in cities (UN 2014). A vast literature has emerged to deal with this new reality, which impacts on the conceptualisation and use of heritage in myriad ways (Jacobs 1961; Amin and Thrift 2002; Massey 2007; Zukin 2011; Minton 2012; Merrifield 2014; Anderson 2015). While there are many different strands to this thinking, a key thread linking work in this area is that 'the city' cannot be reduced down to a single idea or image. Instead it must be understood as 'the site where people of all sorts and classes mingle, however reluctantly and agonistically, to produce a common if perpetually changing and transitory life' (Harvey 2012, 67).

For the past decade I have travelled from south to north London almost every day, either to study at the Institute of Archaeology or to work as a heritage consultant in a carefully restored former school building in Farringdon. My bus route takes me through or near some of the most contentious sites of 'regeneration' in the city: the rapidly gentrifying neighbourhood of Peckham; the dilapidated council estates of Aylesbury and Heygate (the latter now demolished); the heavily branded spaces of the South Bank; the vast new 'public' squares of Kings Cross, created and managed by private money. My point here is not to claim some special insight as to the pace of development in London, but to underline the commonplace nature of change in the city. Indeed, I would wager that most bus routes take in a similarly complex thread of destruction and rebuilding, neglect and rejuvenation. To live in a city is to inhabit change – the unavoidable warp and weft of the urban.

Sometimes, however, this change is hidden, or is at least downplayed. I have written elsewhere about the peculiar practice of wrapping structures undergoing major repairs or rebuilding in images of themselves (Sterling 2017). This takes the now routine spectacle of 'facadism' – where a building is gutted but its facade left in place – to sometimes comical levels. Here one of the key functions of heritage in the urban environment is made clear: providing a sense of continuity or stability in the face of rapid change. Beyond this, familiar concepts and practices such as conservation areas, listed buildings, cultural tours and specially designated heritage 'quarters' all point to the importance of heritage (broadly defined) for the city. As a recent UNESCO report on sustainable urban development makes clear:

What we call 'heritage' is found in quality public spaces or in areas marked by layers of time. Cultural expressions give people the opportunity to identify themselves collectively, to read the traces of history, to understand the importance of traditions for their daily life.

(UNESCO 2016, 17)

Crucially, the issue of managing change is highlighted throughout this report, which – in the framework of the UN's Sustainable Development Goals – sees culture as 'a lever for development' (ibid).

It should hardly need stating that this view of heritage is far from comprehensive and may be considered overly deterministic. Italian journalist Marco D'Eramo has even coined a term to posit quite the opposite viewpoint, suggesting that the 'heritagisation' of cities constitutes a form of 'UNESCOcide' (D'Eramo 2014). While traces of the past may well be used to promote regeneration or tourism, heritage is also about resistance to change. In London, for example, a series of public campaigns against major development in the 1970s are still felt in discussions around conservation and redevelopment today (Murphy 2016). Most famously, in the 1970s Covent Garden Market was saved from destruction through a grass-roots movement which saw 'the voices of ordinary people' included in debates over the city's future in an unprecedented manner (Murphy 2016, 146). Here, however, another key dimension of heritage in the city is exposed, as the communities that made up Covent Garden would eventually be displaced through commercial gentrification. For Murphy, the preservation and subsequent social transformation of Covent Garden was 'a Pyrrhic victory, in many ways just as bad as losing the buildings would have been in the first place' (ibid).

Heritage cannot be reduced to a single category or process in such cases. Instead, it must be seen as a malleable and highly contested component in the broader interplay of capital, activism, property speculation and commercialisation. What we might call 'the heritage city' draws on and nurtures all of these forces at once, intersecting with processes of destruction and 'change management' in countless ways. This supports the notion that heritage itself cannot be considered at risk from development or erasure. At the same time there needs to be a recognition that certain aspects of these developmental pressures do threaten the production of different forms of heritage that may contradict the interests of neoliberal urban governance. The covert erasure played out through these processes is different in kind from that instigated during times of conflict, but it is no less meaningful.

### The commons and monopoly rent

To explore these ideas further I want to bring in two interrelated themes from the work of urbanist and Marxist geographer David Harvey. Across a series of essays published over the past two decades, Harvey has put forward an incisive analysis of the myriad ways in which urbanisation and capital interact, focused on the differential and highly contested absorption of capital and labour surplus within the urban environment. Building on Henri Lefebvre's influential concept of the right to the city (Lefebvre 2003), Harvey sees this process as bound up with complex forms of control and coercion, which in turn become 'major sites of political, social, and class struggle' (Harvey 2012, 66). This has been exacerbated since the mid-1980s through the widespread application of neoliberal urban policies that channel wealth and resources towards dynamic 'entrepreneurial' growth poles (for example, business districts, regeneration areas) in the hope of creating a spatial version of the 'trickle down' effect (Harvey 2012, 29). For Harvey, such initiatives have unleashed 'a veritable flood of creative destruction' in urban environments across the world (Harvey 2012, 86).

At one level, heritage may be seen as a victim of such processes, with buildings, landscapes and ways of life overwhelmed by the march of capitalist progress. Yet this would be a simplistic reading. Instead we need to understand the different ways in which heritage is not just a pawn of capitalist destruction, but is itself deeply implicated in the erosion of urban life. Two interconnected strands can be drawn out from Harvey's thinking to help illuminate these processes: the social practice of *commoning* and the notion of monopoly rent.

The urban commons for Harvey are more than simply open spaces or public, non-commodified assets. They rather signal 'an unstable and malleable social relation between a particular self-defined social group and those aspects of its actually existing or yet-to-be-created social and/ or physical environment deemed crucial to its life and livelihood' (Harvey 2012, 73). 'Commoning' in this sense is to be seen as a social practice that treats certain aspects of the urban environment as 'off-limits' to the logics of market exchange and market valuations (ibid). Indeed, the exploitation of the commons through such frameworks can lead to their degradation or banalisation – a form of covert erasure that does not destroy outright, but rather eats away at the very substance of the commons. Like heritage, then, the urban commons are continuously being (re)produced and appropriated. Yet we cannot say that the two are synonymous, as heritage may be seen as both a foundational feature of the commons and part of its exploitation. Here the entanglement of heritage with processes of 'Disneyfication' and gentrification come to the fore. As Harvey explains:

The primary means by which [the commons] is appropriated in urban contexts is, of course, through the extraction of land and property rents. A community group that struggles to maintain ethnic diversity in its neighbourhood and protect against gentrification may suddenly find its property prices (and taxes) rising as real estate agents market the 'character' of their neighbourhoods to the wealthy as multicultural, street-lively and diverse. By the time the market has done its destructive work, not only have the original residents been disposed of that common which they had created (often being forced out by rising rents and property taxes), but the common itself becomes so debased as to be unrecognisable.

(Harvey 2012, 77–8)

The process described here is explained in greater detail by Harvey in his 2002 essay *The Art of Rent*, which examines the contradictions and potentialities of a concept that lies at the heart of capitalism's 'creative destruction': monopoly rent. Put simply, monopoly rent arises when 'social actors can realise an enhanced income stream over an extended time by virtue of their exclusive control over some directly or indirectly tradable item which is in some crucial respects unique and non-replicable' (Harvey 2012, 90). Tellingly, Harvey provides an extended list of heritage objects to explain this uniqueness, from 'aboriginal art' to 'Buddhist temples' (Harvey 2012, 92). These exemplify the special place 'historically constituted cultural artefacts and practices' hold for those wishing to capture monopoly rents, which may rest on 'narratives, interpretations and meanings of collective memories' as much as on the material qualities of particular environments (Harvey 2012, 103).

What is at stake here for Harvey is 'the power of collective symbolic capital, of special marks of distinction that attach to some place, which have a significant drawing power upon the flows of capital more generally' (Harvey 2012). These marks of distinction do not simply emerge from the unique heritage of a social group or location. Instead they are constantly made and remade through the work of various actors, which may include the knowledge and heritage industries.

None of this should seem particularly novel or radical to those familiar with the heritage sector, which has long wrestled with questions of commodification and symbolic capital (Hewison 1987; Baillie et al. 2014; Dicks 2016; Alderman 2016). What I want to suggest here, however, is that such processes may prompt us to look again at the privileging of 'change management' as a new heritage paradigm and to reconsider the diffuse agents and actors that support or hinder such change, especially in the context of the heritage city. Although less spectacular or immediate than we are perhaps used to, the destructive nature of capitalist urbanisation deserves our close attention – not because it is destructive *per se*, but because it exposes the appropriative, exclusionary and exploitative dimensions of heritage change to critical scrutiny. We can see this more clearly by returning to Holtorf's arguments against loss aversion, which can now be modified to encompass the covert and often deeply inequitable processes of erasure that constantly transform the urban environment.

For Holtorf (following Tim Ingold), the destruction of heritage 'objects' should not be seen as inherently detrimental to their capacity to facilitate remembering (Holtorf 2015, 418). Accepting that such objects are constantly in 'a process of becoming rather than a state of being' allows us to appreciate the 'valuable function' they might play in society even when subjected to 'major alterations' (Holtorf 2015). These functions may include acting as tourist sites, providing focal points for commemorative events or supporting educational activities. The absence of an object does not prohibit such uses. Indeed, as Holtorf has shown so clearly, this may be the starting point for the heritage function of a particular site or space. Moreover, existing objects may well be replaced wholesale by new objects and yet maintain a similar value within society. As Holtorf concludes:

What we […] need in Heritage Studies is an intensified discussion of how to identify, evaluate and compare the benefits and values of cultural heritage objects in constant transformation in society.

(Holtorf 2015)

Reading such processes through the lens of Harvey, a number of key questions emerge around the dynamic production of value in relation to heritage, and the utility or otherwise of certain heritage 'objects' (which may be physical, local, intangible, diasporic or any mixture of the above) for different social groups. First, we might ask who is building this value, and how is it subsequently deployed, interpreted and understood. The social practice of commoning, for example, could well be seen as an important method of heritage production, especially in the context of urban environments where certain communities generate an indefinable (yet highly sought after) sense of 'character'. It is interesting to note, I think, that such 'character' may often arise in areas previously deemed 'unsavoury' as a result of material neglect. Through the logic of monopoly rent, such localities will eventually come to be seen as desirable and subsequently marketed on their unique atmosphere, which will inevitably involve an element of 'sprucing up' to appeal to more affluent city-dwellers. This process of heritage restoration is simultaneously a form of (social) heritage erasure – one that the privileging of change management elides, if not supports. As Harvey notes, the 'tragedy' of the urban commons is that:

[…] those who create an interesting and stimulating everyday neighbourhood life lose it to the predatory practices of the real estate entrepreneurs, the financiers and upper-class consumers bereft of any urban social imagination. The better the common qualities a social group creates, the more likely it is to be raided and appropriated by private profit-maximising interests.

(Harvey 2012, 78)

On the surface, the slow degradation and banalisation (but not wholesale destruction) of the commons can be linked to a familiar conceptualisation of heritage as 'non-renewable' (Holtorf 2001). In this model, the marginalisation and appropriation of particular ways of living through monopoly rent may be seen as a case of irreversible erasure. But if we see heritage as a permanent process of change, a different set of concerns emerges. Crucially, these concerns circle around the capacity for different actors to shape the use and meaning of the past in the present. Rather than see either change or destruction as the 'enemy', this framework directs us towards a new point of analysis: namely the dense interweaving of heritage with differential and often diametrically opposed notions of value, creativity, tradition, history, culture, etc., and the forces and actors who seek to define or control these conditions. Building on the work of Harvey, those fighting change in and of the heritage city might aim to resist the destructive forces of capitalist urbanisation – not simply because destruction is antithetical to heritage (it is not), but because this mode of erasure shuts down the multitude of voices that help to generate further heritage. We can explore this further with reference to the growing trend of 'artwashing' in urban environments, which contains many lessons for the heritage field.

### Heritage-washing?

The term 'artwashing' has gained considerable traction in recent years as part of the public discourse surrounding rapid gentrification (O'Sullivan 2014; Jones 2016; Francis 2017; Minton 2017a; Mould 2017). In the words of researcher and artist-activist Stephen Pritchard, artwashing 'uses art to smooth and gloss over capitalism – it hides capitalism's primitive aggression and acts of oppression that underwrites accumulation of capital by dispossession' (2017b). Pritchard goes on to identify various categories of artwashing in his detailed analysis of the subject. These include corporate artwashing, such as that carried out by big oil companies sponsoring art institutions (see Evans 2015), developer-led artwashing, which involves public art and specially designated 'cultural quarters', and government-led artwashing, in which state and local authorities use art to 'reinforce social agendas' and notions of 'social and civic engagement' (Pritchard 2017b). Artists who choose (unwittingly or not) to engage in such activities have been the target of much criticism; by some they are viewed as part of a 'mobilisation of artistic creativity completely devoid of its subjective, complicated and politically charged context' (Mould 2017). Others have claimed that no matter the outcome or circumstances, artists have an important role to play in supporting communities to 'articulate experience' and 'advocate for their rights' in the face of neoliberal urban development (Francis 2017). Against the backdrop of these ongoing debates, this complex and malleable term may best be understood as a rallying point for those challenging the engagement of 'the arts' with capitalism, which is seen as inherently destructive of alternative 'ways of life' (tellingly, these often remain poorly defined).

There are many points of overlap between such arts-led practices and the role of heritage in the city. We might, for example, point to the creation of temporary artists' studios in historic buildings slated for redevelopment, or the production of sculptures and other public interventions which draw on the history of a certain place or community to help 're-brand' that locality. Such strategies are often encouraged by local government and funding agencies, who see the intersection of arts and heritage as beneficial to creative practitioners and local communities alike. Having been involved in many such initiatives across London and beyond, I am aware both of the immediate social benefits to be gained from this approach and of their underlying economic imperatives – which may eventually undermine the capacity for certain groups to remain in the very places they helped to define.

For Pritchard, this meeting point of arts practice and community heritage work offers a particularly fertile ground for a form of socially engaged artwashing that is 'smaller in scale and relatively covert in nature' (Pritchard 2017c). This 'community artwashing' may involve gathering, sanitising, archiving and re-interpreting the 'social capital of local people' (ibid). Using language that evokes many of the themes I have covered in this chapter, Pritchard describes how there are:

[…] many 'opportunities' for arts organisations and artists to exploit communities using a facade of 'community benefit' and 'social impact' […] community artwashing exploits intangible assets in a neighbourhood faced with or in the early stages of gentrification; socially engaged artists become its agents, bringing about a form of social change that is antithetical to the principles of social justice.

(Pritchard 2017c)

Furthermore, this social capital often takes the form of 'memories, stories, histories and even old photographs' which may be used to 'create "memorials" to disadvantaged communities displaced by gentrification' (Pritchard 2017c). As Pritchard concludes, this form of artwashing deals in 'the one thing that capitalism could not commodify – until now – the intangible bonds and ties that keep struggling and long-abandoned local people together' (ibid).

While more research is needed to understand the precise motivations and impacts of such processes, I would like to suggest that Pritchard's characterisation of community artwashing provides an important jumping-off point for interrogating the 'change management' model of heritage in the shadow of capitalist urbanisation. The key question here must be: how can we 'do' heritage in ways that resist the appropriative and exploitative dimensions of neoliberal urban policies, and instead promote alternative agencies of change in the heritage city? This line of enquiry foregrounds the active and creative capacities of heritage without shying away from the complex ideologies and systems of governance in which these processes are embedded. To return to Holtorf's belief that heritage is constantly evolving and may be expected to fulfil a 'valuable function in society even after being subjected to major alterations' (Holtorf 2015, 418), we might respond: yes, but valuable for whom?

The implicit contradictions of monopoly rent offer one way of tackling the role of heritage in community artwashing. As Harvey makes clear, the capitalist desire for monopoly rent involves constant interventions in the fields of 'culture, history, heritage, aesthetics, and meanings' (Harvey 2012, 109). These may be deployed in different ways to generate the marks of distinction and symbolic capital on which such rent depends. The key point here, however, is that such activities generate their own resistance. In seeking to produce and maintain 'unique qualities', capital encourages 'local cultural developments that can be antagonistic to its own smooth functioning' (Harvey 2012, 110). This contradiction provides a certain space – however narrow, contested and fragmentary – for oppositional practices and politics to take hold. Harvey's optimistic verdict on this subject gestures towards a potential role for heritage theorists and practitioners who might wish to address this particular form of covert destruction:

By seeking to trade on values of authenticity, locality, history, culture, collective memories, and tradition they [capitalists in search of monopoly rent] open a space for political thought and action within which socialist alternatives can be both devised and pursued. The space of that commons deserves intense exploration and cultivation by oppositional movements that embrace cultural producers and cultural production as a key element in their political strategy. (Harvey 2012, 112)

## Conclusions: beyond change management

In her recent book *Big Capital*, Anna Minton outlines the many problems of the London housing market in stark prose. As her chapter on 'Demolitions' makes clear, residents of social housing are often seen as 'collateral damage' in the rush to rebuild or regenerate council estates (Minton 2017b, 41). While sites such as Robin Hood Gardens have become key battlegrounds in the opposition to this form of covert erasure, little attention has been paid to such modes of destruction by heritage researchers (despite the interventions of prominent heritage institutions such as the V&A). Perhaps this is because the broader erosion of community life is harder to frame within current heritage vocabularies than the demolition of a piece of architecture. Although connected, a different set of issues coalesce around Harvey's exploration of the commons and monopoly rent which, I have suggested here, offer one way of conceptualising the often paradoxical role of heritage in neoliberal forms of 'creative destruction'. When combined with emerging ideas of 'community artwashing', we can begin to see how the practice and conceptualisation of heritage is a vital ingredient in these often pernicious processes.

It is crucial to recognise that heritage may be deployed in many different ways across these debates. It may be used as a statutory protection against demolition or redevelopment, or as a collection of stories and memories to be used in 'place-making', or as a locus for arts-led activism. To suggest that heritage can be defined either as a resistance to change or as a continual process of becoming seems inadequate in these circumstances. Instead we need to track and critique the differential agents and forces that shape conceptualisations of heritage within the urban landscape – and in so doing pay close attention to the sometimes covert forms of destruction they help to sustain and promote.

Change, I would argue, should be the starting point of these discussions, but not the core emphasis. The concept of heritage as a process is now well established, and while this framework has helped us to understand how even the complete erasure of a site or building does not preclude its active functioning as an object of remembrance (Holtorf 2015), the imbalances and asymmetries built into such systems need further consideration. As I have sought to show with reference to concepts drawn from Marxist urban theory, processes of heritage-making open out onto a broad range of threats and vulnerabilities that go far beyond the destruction of physical remnants of the past. Ultimately, within the context of the heritage city, the language of 'change management' seems to be at best an absolution of responsibility and at worst a capitulation with the very forces of dispossession, alienation and exclusion that we should seek to resist.

### Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Jilke Golbach for her insightful comments on an earlier draft of this chapter, and for introducing me to the relevance of David Harvey's work to the heritage field.

## Note

1. In February 2018 Mayor of London Sadiq Kahn announced plans to give residents a ballot on whether estate regeneration projects should go ahead.

## References

Alderman, D. H. 2016. 'Place, Naming, and the Interpretation of Cultural Landscapes', in P. Howard and B. Graham, eds, *The Ashgate Research Companion in Heritage and Identity*. London; New York: Routledge, 195–214.

Amin, A. and Thrift, N. 2002. *Cities: Reimagining the Urban*. Cambridge: Polity Press

Anderson, D. 2015. *Imaginary Cities*. London: Influx Press.


Bevan, R. 2006. *The Destruction of Memory: Architecture at War*. London: Reaktion Books.


D'Eramo, M. 2014. 'UNESCOCIDE', *New Left Review* 88, 47–53.

DeSilvey, C. 2017. *Curated Decay: Heritage Beyond Saving*. Minneapolis, MN; London: University of Minnesota Press.


Powers, A. 2010. *Robin Hood Gardens: Re-Visions*. London: The Twentieth Century Society.


Smith, L. 2006. *Uses of Heritage*. London; New York: Routledge.


## 5 Heritage, memory and social justice: reclaiming space and identity

Veysel Apaydin

The date of 27 May 2013 marked one of the largest environmental demonstrations in recent history, as protestors sought to save Istanbul's Gezi Park from being replaced with a shopping mall and a reconstruction of an Ottoman barracks. The riots and clashes began in Gezi Park and spread to other Turkish cities. Millions of people gathered in the city centres' squares and main parks, not only to protest at the proposed demolition of Gezi Park but also to reclaim their own spaces. In the following days and weeks Gezi Park and the main squares and parks of other cities were occupied by the people who had reclaimed them. The protests showed resistance against top-down government decisions and the transformation of cultural space for profit-making – and against the attempt to challenge the identity construction of those who used these spaces through an authoritarian approach. Such resilience demonstrated that cultural or public spaces have a significant role as heritage for a public who have the right to attach values, ascribe meanings and develop memories within them.

Many papers from anthropological and sociological perspectives have been published since the Gezi Park protests (Arat 2013; Moudouros 2014; Cayli 2016 and many others). However, it is still important to explore discourses of why it is significant to look at cultural space as heritage. Such an approach is critical for understanding the aims both of the government, in insisting on demolishing these spaces, and of the public, in showing resistance to that attempt even if it cost many lives.

This chapter examines the importance of public space as a place where heritage is developed, exploring its links with memory and identity and the destructive nature of economic development. It then considers the impact of attempted destruction of cultural space on the public and their resistance to hegemonic power by taking into account the concepts of social theorists Henri Lefebvre (on 'space and social production') and David Harvey (on 'the right to the city' and 'social justice and spatial system'). Through its focus on Gezi Park, this chapter will demonstrate the importance of public space for heritage-making, and therefore in identity construction and memory development, seen against attempts to use such spaces for profit by erasing heritage and memories and re-constructing identities.

#### Public space, heritage, social production and power

If we are to understand space, we must consider its symbolic meaning and its complex impact upon behavior as it is mediated by the cognitive process.

(Harvey 2009, 36)

Public spaces have great significance for individuals and groups. With their meanings, representations and symbols, they are the key tool for establishing heritage, constructing identity and developing memories. Public spaces, particularly in urban cities, also serve as the voice of the people: many groups carry out activities such as protests, festivals, etc., in these places, which have great significance for social life. These squares or public spaces also represent historic events with monuments. For instance, the Republic Monument in Istanbul's Taksim Square commemorates the foundation of the Republic of Turkey in 1923, following the Turkish War of Independence. These spaces and monuments are all symbolically significant in representing and commemorating certain events in the past.

In the last few decades public spaces have been transformed into commercial places and used as profit-making tools for wielding economic and political power. Gentrification, urban development and, especially, 'mega projects' have targeted public spaces at the heart of a community's sense of belonging, as well as of the identity of individuals and groups. These developments, which have a huge impact on public spaces and the environment, have strong links with the ambition of economic development (Harvey 2007). The aim of promoting economic development without considering its benefit, both economically and socially, and public opinion has affected people's lives widely, changing their way of life and their perceptions (see Harvey 2007). This kind of transformation is particularly critical in countries such as Turkey, where democracy has been effectively suspended for over five years under an authoritarian regime. Public spaces and natural resources are increasingly being abused for economic development, for the benefit of elites seeking economic power. In this process forests are cut down for construction projects, rivers are used for dams and, of course, city squares and public spaces are turned into profit-making places.

These places are extremely significant for the daily lives of the public, as it is where they produce their values. Because of the importance of these spaces for heritage-making and memory development, the public are motivated to reclaim their own space. This results in strong resistance, as in the case of Gezi Park. In other words, top-down decisions made without consulting the public, which neglect the rights and benefits of individuals and groups, result in urban crisis; as the philosopher Henri Lefebvre has pointed out, they transform, reconstruct and erase spaces, heritage and memory (Lefebvre 1991). Certainly cities and spaces have many different functions; they therefore contain highly complex meanings and symbols strongly connected to the social, political and economic lives of individuals and groups. According to Lefebvre, space has several dimensions strongly connected to social production:

... a product that is consumed as a commodity and as a productive resource in the social reproduction of labor power; a political instrument that facilitates forms of social control; … reproduction of property relations through legal and planning regimes which order space hierarchically; a set of ideological and symbolic superstructures; … a means of human reappropriation through the development of counter spaces forged through artistic expression and social resistance.

(Lefebvre 1991; quoted in Butler 2009, 320)

Space therefore takes an important place in power sharing as well. While space is a social production which has been laboured over by ordinary people, it is also significant for elites seeking to gain the power to control politics and economies. The case study of this paper, Gezi Park, was right in the middle of this battle of power sharing. While government aimed to make more profit, and to shift the symbol and meaning of the space, the public sought to reclaim their space. Because Gezi Park is located in Taksim Square, a site that commemorates the Turkish War of Independence following the collapse of the Ottoman Empire and the establishment of a secular state, it has great significance for the public identity construction of Turkish secularists (Fig.5.1). With its monuments and the Ataturk Cultural Centre, it was deliberately constructed as a potent symbol of modern Turkey.

**Figure 5.1** Overview of Gezi Park, The Republic Monument and Taksim Square. ©Google Earth, 2018 Digital Globe.

For decades Taksim Square has been symbolically significant for left-wing labour unions and groups. It represents their struggles for rights, being formerly the site of union rallies and demonstrations (Baykan and Hatuka 2010). Gezi Park, set in the centre of Taksim Square, also represents an Armenian minority group who had a graveyard located there until the 1930s; although this was later moved, it is still significant as a place that affirms identity and offers a sense of belonging to Armenians (see Watenpaugh 2013). Lastly, as Gezi Park is one of the few green areas in the city centre, it plays a significant role in local people's daily lives.

Although Taksim Square and Gezi Park thus have significant importance for many different stakeholders, these aspects have been neglected by an authoritarian approach that aims to profit from cultural spaces. David Harvey has suggested how the notion of cultural rights has been turned to the benefit of 'economic elites' (Harvey 2007). This kind of authoritarian and destructive approach against the demand of people whose space was under threat encountered strong resistance. Harvey emphasises in his concept of 'the right to the city' that public spaces can be changed and transformed (Harvey 2003). However, the question is whether this change should be *creative* or *destructive*, and who it is that has the right to bring it about.

## Authoritarianism, destruction and (re)construction

It is widely believed within heritage and political studies that heritage is a key tool for constructing identities, developing memories and ascribing values (see Smith 2006; Macdonald 2013; Graham and Howard 2016; Apaydin 2018). However, heritage is itself a process (Smith 2006) – not developed in a short period of time, but rather a long process of social production (Lefebvre 1991). It is constructed within groups for collective social memory (Hall 2005, 25) over generations of social interaction. This construction, particularly in the case of constructing national identity, is often imposed by political elites who establish an 'authorised heritage discourse' (Smith 2006), or in other words, 'official heritage' (Harrison 2013). The use of authorised heritage discourse can be seen widely in undemocratic nation-states, particularly those founded on certain aspects of identity such as ethnicity, religion and ideology (Kohl and Fawcett 1995; Meskell 1998).

The dramatic political transformation of Turkey over the last decade can clearly be seen in the change and use of authorised heritage discourse as well, following an attempt to shift to more Islamic and Ottoman values and identity (see Zencirci 2014). The state was established on secular values, in direct contrast to the religious values of the Ottoman Empire that officially collapsed with the foundation of secular Turkey in 1923. The key focus for Turkish heritage discourse by the state has always been secularism as well as Turkish ethnicity. In 1980, following a military coup in Turkey, Islamic values were added to this heritage discourse, but it by and large kept its ethnic and secular orientation (Zencirci 2014).

Since 2002, however, the Justice and Development Party (AKP) has been in power. The party was founded with an Islamic orientation, and it has focused on changing the values and means of society's construction of identity, investing it with a more Islamic character (see Zencirci 2014). This can be seen in every part of the society and state institutions, particularly in the education system; this now includes more religious classes as economic and political power has shifted during the 17 years that the AKP has been in power. However, as Hall (2005) points out, this kind of transformation is a slow process and takes time; it is not straightforward to change the identity of individuals and society. People often resist change. Recent elections in Turkey (2018) demonstrate that the public remains strictly divided, one half supporting the AKP and the other half, whose identity and values are founded on secularism, showing resistance to this attempt at transformation.

Since the AKP assumed governmental power in 2002, its rule has been transformed into 'competitive authoritarianism', particularly within the last five years. The term 'competitive authoritarianism' distinguishes this type of power from the classic authoritarian regimes common before the Cold War. In a competitive authoritarian system elections are still held and some democratic norms remain, but power – including state institutions, the judiciary and the media – is controlled by the ruling group. This results in a restriction of human rights and freedom of expression alongside 'electoral manipulation, abuse of state resources, harassment and violence' (Levitsky and Way 2010, 3).

In this kind of political atmosphere, the demands of the public are often neglected. Particularly in Turkey, authoritarian and oppressive policies can be seen occurring under the umbrella of economic development by abusing natural and public resources, including repurposing public spaces for economic development. Taksim Square and Gezi Park were not the first cases in which public spaces were targeted for transformation through economic development. In many parts of Turkey large developments have become more common, particularly in the last decade. For instance, dam construction in many parts of Turkey (but particularly in southeastern and eastern Turkey) has been erasing the landscapes and cultural, social and economic spaces of the minority groups: their identities were attached to these places, and their memories developed there. Even though campaigns and public demonstrations were held against those developments, the people's voice has been completely ignored (Ronayne 2006).

Since AKP came to power it has increasingly used public spaces and natural resources to make more profit and grow the country's economy (see Buğra and Savaskan 2014). These include mega construction and development projects in every part of Turkey. This kind of economic and political approach is closer to abuse of public spaces and heritage than to the often-stated goal of developing economic resources for public benefit. Abusing public spaces, natural resources and landscapes by using them for profit making has effectively decentralised public and individual power.

The aim of exercising this particular form of power – in order to decentralise the rights and power (by which I mean people's values and memories) of individuals and groups – is to take social control and consolidate power over public rights. This was clearly seen in the Gezi Park case. Here the combination of a push for economic development and an authoritarian-style approach can be explained in two ways. The first follows the argument that public space represents forms of abstract knowledge, produced and controlled by government institutions (Lefevbre 1991). Because Taksim Square and Gezi Park symbolically represent the knowledge and values of secular Turkey, alongside those of leftist groups and Armenians, the Turkish elite currently in power aim to erase such representation and knowledge; their intention is to shift it to a representation of their own, diametrically opposed ideology. In doing so, they wish to demolish the Park and reconstruct an Ottoman barracks to be a symbol used for identity construction of the 'new' Turkey ('Yeni Turkiye').

The second avenue of explanation for the actions at Gezi Park is that the AKP depends on neoliberal policies for profit, particularly for 'constructions' and 'developments'. Abuse of the space of Gezi Park for increasing profit is not something new; it is in fact one of the main aspects of the capitalist system in place. This is because space also contributes to production (Lefebvre 1991; see Butler 2009 for more details), and space needs to be fixed physically to make more profit out of it (Harvey 2009). The plan of developing a shopping mall was indeed not only contributing to Lefebvre's argument concerning the connections of capitalism and space, but also to his analogy about the space:

Social spaces are a recognition that the political dimensions of space extend beyond its management and use as a political tool by the state. Space is itself a site of political conflict in which the class struggle has increasingly been transformed into forms of conflict which are spatial as well as political and economic,

(Quoted in Butler 2009, 321)

As the Taksim Square-Gezi Park case demonstrates, space can be used in reconstructing identities and erasing memories. The planned shopping mall in Gezi Park was not a traditional shopping mall, but was going to include a cultural centre and a mosque, as well as an Ottoman barracks, to serve as symbols of the new Turkey. In this way, the identity of individuals and communities would be radically changed.

Although the plans to transform and demolish Gezi Park and replace it with a shopping mall are currently on hold because of the public reaction and community resistance, underlying issues surrounding the space's use remain. The continuing goal of employing this space for capitalist enterprise and transforming Turkish identities can be seen in the example of the Ataturk Culture Centre (AKM), located in Taksim Square. In the 1960s, as one of the first modern buildings in Istanbul and a symbol of the Republic of Turkey, the Centre was listed as built heritage, secured by the protection and preservation law. In later years the future of AKM became the subject of recurring debate: should it be replaced or restored?

In 2008 the Centre was closed prior to demolition. However, because of a strong public reaction, community resistance to the building's destruction and associated legal requirements, any proposed demolition by the current government would clearly take years. Since 2008 the public, academics and professionals have heavily debated and opposed the plan to demolish the Centre. As with the attempt to develop Gezi Park, there was no public consultation. Finally in 2018, in a very top-down decision, the AKM was demolished, along with its memories, symbols and the knowledge it represented. It was rebuilt to develop and construct a new identity, and to give a new focus to memory development and heritage making. Although destruction is also a natural process in constructing new heritage, memories and values, the question for the AKM and the Gezi Park must be 'how ethical was the decision-making process?'

Archaeologist and UNESCO chair on Heritage Futures Cornelius Holtorf argues that destruction and transformation of heritage can lead to new opportunities and possibilities of developing new heritage and memories for future generations (Holtorf 2015, 2018). Furthermore, he suggests that cultural heritage should be adaptable in order to be sustainable; it should be conceived as being as natural as 'mountains, clouds, or waves in the ocean' as they continually change (Holtorf 2018). It is indeed true that heritage is a process, of which construction, destruction and re-construction are part, and that it should be adaptable in order to be sustainable, as he suggests (Holtorf 2015), changing over time. Material culture of the past cannot be protected forever; loss is inevitable, and the focus should be on producing new heritage (Harrison 2013).

However, what has been neglected in the arguments of Holtorf and other scholars who argue along similar lines (Holtorf 2018; DeSilvey 2017; Ingold 2010) is the ethical side of this approach. Here my questions are: who decides what is to be erased, reused and transformed? Who decides what is to be demolished in order to build new heritage? To what extent can transformation and destruction be creative? Should heritage still be transformed, even if it is destructive for people?

This brings us to Harvey's points on 'whose rights and whose city?' What is the outcome of destruction of public space, or its transformation? In this case we ask: what is the outcome of destruction and transformation of built heritage? Is it creative or destructive? Harvey argues for the cases of urban spaces, declaring that 'they are usually both: the city historical site of creative destruction' (Harvey 2007). This is not different in the context of heritage, as can be seen from many heritage sites. Surely the city and city heritage or public space is more complex; they have many different claimants or stakeholders and are always contested (Mitchell 2003, 4).

Although material culture should be considered as progressive cultural production, open to transformation, I argue that this process should be managed at the grass-roots level and decided from the bottom up. The case of Gezi Park clearly demonstrates that top-down decisions to transform public space using a neoliberal and authoritarian approach are destructive rather than creative. However, space and heritage can be transformed – and new meanings and memories can be developed in a positive way – through the actions of ordinary people who have the right to claim the space and heritage, as the Gezi Park protest and occupation also demonstrated. Here protests and occupation have shown a path towards ethical transformation of space and heritage, attaching new meanings and memories to the public space and heritage of Taksim Square and Gezi Park for future generations. Furthermore, what the Gezi Park protests and occupation also demonstrate is that if attempts at change, transformation and reconstruction are imposed on the public destructively and from the top down, neglecting people's demands leads to their reclamation of space through resistance to protect values, meanings, memories and identities.

## Discourses of resilience in the reclaiming of public space

In many parts of the world implementation of neoliberal policies have made cities places of social and economic conflict (Hammami and Uzer 2018). Istanbul as a whole is an example of the process of urban growth and gentrification, the impact of which can be seen in the consequences of displacement and inequality. These urban public spaces have been built on social experiences. They are therefore closely associated with the lived experiences (Lefebvre 1991) of the individuals and groups who develop memories there and attach values and meanings to them. Development and gentrification thus heavily impact on identity formation. As Lefebvre points out:

These form part of the social imaginary of 'inhabitants and users' of space through which complex symbols are linked to non-hegemonic forms of creative practice and social resistance.

(Lefebvre 1991)

Although Taksim Square and Gezi Park have different claimants and stakeholders, as they have different meanings and representations for different people, the diverse participants in the demonstrations prove that public space has great significance for people, even if from different backgrounds. The demonstrations and occupation were politically diverse, with both left and right wing, secular and conservative, majority and minority ethnic groups attending. In addition, the protests were also demographically diverse, with participation of different age and gender groups (Baydar 2014).1

Such diversity of protest participants emphasises the significance of urban public spaces for people – something not only linked to political meanings and heritage. The diverse structure of the protests showed that rights over urban public spaces should be equally divided between the state and the people for social justice to flourish (Harvey 2009). Having pointed out that the main reason for resisting through demonstrations and occupation was to protest at top-down decisions and an authoritarian approach, the question still remains: 'what were the embedded discourses of resistance from a public space and heritage perspective?'

In his concept of a 'right to the city', Harvey emphasises that people cannot easily leave their desires, social relationships, values, nature and lifestyles (Harvey 2009, 315). In this framing, the right to the city is not about access; it rather affirms its people's right to change themselves for the better by changing their environment and public space. I argue that these five aspects – social relationships, values, nature, lifestyle and rights – were the embedded reasons for the participation of so many people in resistance at Gezi Park; they are both crucial for protecting public space for heritage-making and also represent basic human rights, highly correlated and interlinked.

Social relationships established between individuals and groups within one or more communities – communities here defined as being divided across certain boundaries (for example, economic, political and ethnic) from each other (Cohen 1985) – create social values. Social values are obviously complex, subjective and difficult to define as they differ across communities. However, they are mostly related to identity, attachment and a sense of belonging (Jones 2017; Byrne et al. 2003). In heritage studies, heritage has been widely discussed as a social process, implying a process of social production by individuals and groups through social interactions with one another. Within this process, public space is without doubt the most important location for heritage-making. This particularly applies to common or public space where people socialise and interact.

Interaction and socialising provides ground for social production, such as the creation of memory and identity that shapes everyday life. From their construction, the public spaces of Taksim Square, Gezi Park and the Ataturk Cultural Centre have been significant places for social interaction, establishing social relationships and, most importantly, constructing memories of personal significance for members of the public. As the diversity of communities involved in resistance to changing these spaces proves, these locations have a large role to play in reconciliation and peace-building between groups and communities from different backgrounds. While heritage can be a divisive element within society, the various demographics, ethnicities and economic standing of participants in the resistance to the demolition of Gezi Park showed that these places are valued and have meanings for many groups from different backgrounds.

The impact on the physical environment must also be considered. It is often acknowledged that the environment has a large impact on identity construction and plays a role in developing memories (see Clayton and Opotow 2003). This acknowledgement mostly focuses on the landscape and natural environment. However, Gezi Park, as the only green space in Taksim Square, has long been considered part of the area's natural environment by the public.

A further consideration is that Taksim Square and its surrounding area is one of the busiest parts of Istanbul for social life; people attend bars, pubs and night clubs here and it is popular with tourists. The development of a shopping mall in a reconstructed Ottoman barracks would not only have destroyed public space, but was also going to destroy people's ability to enjoy this kind of lifestyle. Article 8 of the Human Rights Act clearly explains that 'everybody has the right to live their private life without government interference'. This is unquestionably one of the basic human rights. According to a poll conducted during the demonstrations by Bilgi University, over 91 per cent of the protestors attending demonstrations included in their reasons for participating the breach of their democratic rights2 by the government's authoritarian approach.

As a whole, social relationships and value, nature and lifestyle are the main foundation for identity, memory and a sense of belonging. They serve as tools for community survival. These aspects are also features of the basic human rights for every individual, group and community, giving them the right to protect and preserve them if necessary. Therefore heritage and space are closely interlinked with human rights (see Silverman and Ruggles 2007), and can be a positive force to overcome injustice created by powerful elites.

## Conclusion: right to change and transform

In his substantial book *Social Justice and the City*, David Harvey demonstrates the strong relationship between human rights, social justice and the city and heritage. He emphasises that rights in the city are not only about the freedom of individuals to access resources but also, and most importantly, about their having the right to change the city by themselves. He goes on to say that this process, the transformation of resources, is not about the individuals; it is part of an exercise of collective power to reshape resources (Harvey 2009, 315). Gezi Park has become one of the great examples of resistance against authoritarian approaches and top-down decisions that aim to transform and destroy public space and heritage. However, while the importance of heritage has been discussed widely from the perspective of identity, memory and a sense of belonging, the question of 'who has the right to change and transform heritage?' and its corollary, 'what is the ethical way of achieving this?', have not received sufficient attention.

Using, constructing and reconstructing cultural resources is such a complicated area that it is a nearly paradoxical concept. Harvey suggests that the right of exercising cultural resources should be led by the public, as it is a source of collective power. What I argue here is that, one way or another, the vital issues of how to consume cultural resources, and of how to change and transform cultural heritage and public space, must be led by the public concerned. The people should have priority in developing, changing and transforming cultural heritage. Giving the right to change and transform heritage to people can in fact make heritage more sustainable for future generations – rather than erring too much on the preservationist side, which can prohibit growth.

In the case of Gezi Park heritage, transformation and change have actually never ceased since it was established. New meanings were added and new memories developed, with the area providing a resource for different identity constructions for over a century. Change and transformation is surely inevitable for heritage, as Holtorf has suggested (Holtorf 2018). Gezi Park and other heritage sites and public spaces will continue to change; they will gain new meanings and new memories as people ascribe them. However, in heritage studies, we need to focus on the ethical sides of the transformation and change process of heritage rather than its conclusion, and to discuss how this process can be made more ethical, bottom-up and essentially more democratic.

### Notes


## References


Baykan, A. and Hatuka, T. 2010. 'Politics and Culture in the Making of Public Space: Taksim Square, 1 May 1977', *Istanbul, Planning Perspectives* 25:1, 49–68. DOI:10.1080/02665430903421734.

Bevan, R. 2006. *The Destruction of Memory: Architecture at War*. London: Reaktion Books.


Kohl, C. and Fawcett, P., eds. 1995. *Nationalism, Politics, and the Practice of Archaeology*. Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press

Lefebvre, H. 1991. *The Production of Space*. Oxford: Blackwell


Smith, L. 2006. *Uses of Heritage*. London: Routledge.


## 6 Amnesia by design: building and rebuilding in a Mediterranean small island-state

Reuben Grima

The Republic of Malta is a small island-state in the central Mediterranean, 90 km south of Sicily. Three basic characteristics define the conditions that make it an interesting case of contestation over space, place, heritage and memory. First, it is an extremely small country, with a land area of 316 sq. km, mostly accounted for by the two main islands of Malta and Gozo. Second, the islands have been inhabited for most of the past eight millennia, resulting in a rich archaeological and architectural patrimony across the archipelago. Third, Malta's population is currently estimated at around half a million inhabitants, making it one of the most densely populated territories on Earth. Taken together, these three factors have resulted in a situation where space and land use are hotly contested issues and where, inevitably, the protection of cultural heritage is also under severe pressures and bitterly contested.

This chapter is divided into three parts. It will first trace the evolution of some key developments leading up to the situation today. The present-day pressures that the construction industry is creating on cultural heritage, how these are being managed and the consequences for the historic environment are then examined. Some of the underlying dynamics, discourses and other factors that are determining decisions today are then discussed.

## A brief genesis of contestation of place, heritage and memory in Malta

The presence of deep natural harbours, combined with the islands' position between the eastern and western basins of the Mediterranean, have given the islands a strategic value out of proportion to their miniscule size. Fleets and garrisons of different powers have been stationed here, in turn creating a demand for more services. One consequence has been the growth of the population, whose food requirements have long since outstripped the archipelago's productive capacity; dependence on imported staples, such as grain from Sicily, is well documented at least since the fifteenth century. Over the past two centuries Malta's population has witnessed an exponential growth, roughly doubling every hundred years. Standing at *c*.100,000 in the late eighteenth century, it was past 200,000 by 1900; a century later, at the turn of the millennium, it was well over 400,000 (Cassar 2000, 33). During the second decade of the twenty-first century the archipelago has witnessed one of the most rapid surges in population in its history, mostly driven by immigration. Official figures put the population in 2017 at 475,000 (National Statistics Office 2018), but the actual figure may be higher.

In parallel with the increase in population, the archipelago has also witnessed an exponential increase in built-up areas. Since attaining independence from Britain in 1964, a succession of building booms has made Malta one of the most densely built-up countries on Earth. According to one source, 'between 1956 and 1997, the percentage of built-up area on the Maltese Islands increased from 4% to 22% of the total land area' (Ministry for the Environment 2001). In recent years, a renewed building boom has continued this trend. By 2015, 23.7 per cent of Malta's land area was under artificial cover, by far the highest proportion in all the countries of the European Union, for which the average is 4.2 per cent (Eurostat 2018). Far from abating, this trend has become more acute. In 2015 alone, the number of permits registered an increase of 34 per cent with respect to the previous year, far outstripping the rate of increase in the rest of the European Union (National Statistics Office 2016, 80–2). At time of writing, in 2019, an unprecedented number of major infrastructural projects, aimed at creating high-rise blocks of luxury apartments that promise lucrative profits, are being planned and executed.

Against this backdrop, the protection of architectural and archaeological resources, and of the cultural landscape more generally, has had a slow-moving and painful history. During the period of British colonial administration (1800–1964), the first legislation to protect architectural and archaeological monuments came only in 1910, after decades of complaints that the patrimony of the archipelago was being neglected and irretrievably damaged (Mallia 1985, Bugeja 2011, Grima 2011). The fact that the protection of cultural heritage was enforced under the aegis of a foreign power helped to instil the perception among some sectors of the local population that heritage was fundamentally an alien interest. Oft-repeated cautionary tales of forced expropriation when archaeological discoveries were made during building works appear to have entered popular consciousness during the course of the twentieth century – reinforcing the attitude that such discoveries on one's property were bad news and an excuse for unwarranted interference by the state. Stories abound of discoveries that were left unreported and quickly destroyed or reburied, particularly during the second half of the twentieth century.

The advent of independence and the end of the British colonial administration in 1964 saw no sudden change in these deeply-rooted attitudes. In many ways, the new national administration found itself inheriting and stepping into the shoes of the British administrators. The protection of cultural heritage was to prove no exception. The same pragmatic resentment of any measures to protect architectural or archaeological heritage on one's property persisted as part of the post-colonial popular mindset. An amoral familism not dissimilar to that observed and described by Herzveld in the historic urban centre of Rethimno on Crete (Herzveld 1991) is also evident in Malta. In Rethimno, Herzveld describes how unauthorised works on historic buildings would be undertaken overnight to delay or avoid detection and enforcement, a manoeuvre not unknown in the Maltese context. In both contexts, regulations to safeguard the historic fabric have been widely perceived as a burden imposed by alien interests.

Against the above backdrop, successive governments in the fledgling state have found themselves threading a tightrope between demagoguery and appeasement on the one hand, and efforts to establish a planning, protection and enforcement system adequate to the immense challenges of sustainable development of such a densely inhabited and densely built territory on the other. One important milestone in 1992 was the Planning Development Act; this consolidated and updated planning legislation with the aim of regulating land use and better protecting the cultural and natural landscape. The same year, the Council of Europe Convention on the Protection of the Archaeological Heritage, also known as the Valletta Convention, was launched during a meeting in Malta.

Less than a decade later, Malta was to witness one of the darkest moments in the history of the management of its heritage. In April 2001 a serious case of vandalism on the prehistoric megalithic monument of Mnajdra provoked national outrage. Thousands of citizens joined a protest march in Valletta in an unprecedented and forceful show of popular concern about Malta's cultural heritage. In 2002 the 1925 Antiquities Protection Act was finally replaced by a new Cultural Heritage Act, which created distinct bodies for the protection of cultural heritage and for the management of public museums and monuments. Hopes ran high that the protection of cultural resources and the cultural landscape in Malta had entered a new chapter of increased public awareness and more responsible stewardship. This optimism was further reinforced by Malta's accession to the European Union on 1 May 2004.

The same decade witnessed a series of landmark decisions on major projects to commercialise large tracts of some of the most scenic landscapes in Malta and Gozo. Between 2002 and 2004 three separate proposals for golf courses were put forward, two on Malta and one on Gozo. Each of these met with sustained, widespread and well-organised protests by NGOs and civil society, encouraged by the stricter environmental protection regulation that Malta was now expected to follow as a member of the European Union. The final outcome was that by 2007 each one of the proposals was either refused permission or withdrawn, as reported by the press at the time ('MEPA throws out Rabat golf course proposal', *Times of Malta*, 10 September 2004; 'EU wants more protection for Ta' Ċenċ', *Times of Malta*, 30 August 2006; 'Nature park instead of golf course', *Times of Malta*, 13 May 2007).

In two cases, the landscapes in question were accorded an improved protection status. Another major proposal put forward during the same period was for a coastal marina at Ħondoq ir-Rummien, Gozo. A prolonged campaign of public protest lasting more than a decade led to the refusal of planning permission in 2013 ('Tribunal rejects latest Ħondoq plan', *Times of Malta*, 3 May 2013).

Other key decisions taken during the same period gave less reason for optimism. In 2006 the painstaking efforts of the previous two decades to contain the sprawl of construction activity suffered a major reversal when, under the guise of a rationalisation exercise (a misnomer if ever there was one), the boundaries of the areas where building was allowed were extended by 86 hectares – even though there were still over 300 hectares (3 sq. km) of unbuilt land within the development zone boundaries (SPED 2015, 9).

The global crash of 2008 appears to have slowed down construction activity. It became less lucrative as the prices of property in other European countries took a dive, while construction expenses increased as a result of the rising price of oil and steel. Five years later, however, the global economic recovery had set the stage for a renewed building frenzy on Malta.

## The perfect storm

Since 2013 a combination of global and local factors has brought about one of the most intense, rapid and destructive chapters in the long history of Malta's cultural landscape. A new government was voted in. Although nominally left-wing, it has turned out to be the most laissez-faire, neoliberal government that Malta has ever had, ruthlessly prioritising freemarket capitalism above any other consideration. Riding on the wave of a global economic recovery, it launched a series of incentives to attract foreign businesses and investors. At the heart of these incentives was the attraction of investment in real estate. Demand for property was boosted by firms setting up their offices in Malta, particularly in the gaming sector. Thousands of employees and their families relocated to Malta in a short space of time, resulting in one of the most rapid surges in population in the islands' history.

A lucrative scheme to sell Maltese passports to wealthy individuals keen on obtaining a European Union passport was introduced in 2014. It artificially added to existing pressures on the availability of property because of the condition that all prospective passport buyers are required to '… lease property in Malta for a minimum value of €16,000 per annum, or purchase property for a minimum value of €350,000' (Malta Individual Investment Programme Agency n.d.). A related concern is the risk that the purchase of expensive properties in Malta may also serve as a vehicle for money-laundering on an international level.

In parallel with the policies that, as noted above, are pushing up the demand for more properties, there have also been a series of measures aimed at reducing the regulation and control of the construction industry. In Malta the construction industry is an extremely powerful lobby, with the resources to fund political parties, and consequently to influence their policies when returned to power. Since 2013 the dismantling of planning control has been openly embraced by government, and even flaunted as a positive, 'pro-business' measure. Planning procedures and the planning regulatory framework have been considerably diluted. In 2014 a new 'floor-area ratio policy' (FAR) to encourage high-rise buildings came into effect. Parts of the document were not subjected to proper public scrutiny before the policy came into force. The Structure Plan that had guided land use planning since the early 1990s was replaced in 2015 by a rather flimsier 'Strategic Plan for Environment and Development' (SPED 2015). In 2016 new Development Planning Regulations streamlined the planning permit procedure by reducing the time allowed for consultation and evaluation before issuing a permit (Legal Notice 162 of 2016).

The factors outlined above are shaping supply and demand for real estate, to create a mutually reinforcing loop. Policies pushing up demand for property have also pushed up the price of real estate, making it more lucrative for the building industry to meet this demand. The more lax approach to planning control is also facilitating the ever-increasing tempo of this vicious circle. The preservation of the historic environment is caught in a pincer between these two forces, and has suffered a succession of mutilations which were hardly imaginable only a decade previously. The full impact of this dangerous cocktail of policies is becoming increasingly evident, as more applications for building works are submitted and, more often than not, approved. Ironically, this activity is not required to create employment for the local population. On the contrary: the building industry is experiencing a shortage of skilled labour, which is being addressed by a large immigrant workforce, which in turn is making further demands on the property market. Nor is this building activity necessitated by the housing needs of the existing population. Many properties are being traded as a form of investment, often owned by foreigners who only use them for a short period of the year.

The main motivation, the gain resulting from this building frenzy, is the quick financial gain made by property speculators and building contractors. It is not simply a motivation, but a driving force that is dictating government policy. At the heart of this crisis is the fact that the government has openly declared that it should not and cannot interfere with market forces, but should let itself be driven by them. This position is largely rhetorical because the present situation is evidently the result, arguably even the purpose, of the policies that have been outlined.

The unprecedented scale and speed of the construction activity is engulfing more and more neighbourhoods, obliterating historic landmarks and transforming neighbourhoods beyond recognition. Since 2018 mounting concerns about the irreversible impacts of this transformation have been voiced by a wide cross-section of NGOs, professional bodies, industrialists and individuals. In April 2018 a public declaration about the importance of safeguarding Malta's historic environment was co-written and signed by no less than 22 organisations, including practically all the country's heritage and environmental NGOs as well as the Chamber of Architects ('NGOs plead for protection for the nation's heritage in stone', *Times of Malta*, 18 April 2018). In a reaction to such concerns, the Prime Minister memorably quipped that 'there is no pause button in economics'. This was arguably a tacit admission that while policies had helped to engineer the growing crisis, there was no plan in place to slow this down or reverse it ('Economy has no pause button – Muscat', *Times of Malta*, 4 June 2018).

At the time of writing (October 2019), an ever-widening sector of society is becoming increasingly worried about the impacts and consequences of this perfect storm of unbridled construction works. The social costs of the policies that have led to this situation have continued to become increasingly evident, and the negative impact on the quality of life of more people and more neighbourhoods increasingly clear. As a result, more voices than ever before are publicly voicing their alarm at the degradation of their built heritage and the quality of their environment, and at the rate that the landscape is being altered beyond recognition.

Public dissent has had mixed results. In November 2017, after years of protests by NGOs and local community groups, a government proposal to allow the building of a new university campus on one of the more pristine stretches of coastline at Żonqor was put on hold ('AUM should not build Żonqor campus yet – Education Minister', *Times of Malta*, 17 November 2017).

In March 2018, after a campaign lasting several months was led by a local heritage NGO, the government decided to drop plans for the extension of an industrial estate on agricultural land in the limits of the village of Żejtun ('Wirt iż-Żejtun heartened by government's Bulebel assurance', *Times of Malta*, 7 March 2018). In May, almost two years after planning permission had been granted for the Townsquare skyscraper, the permit was annulled as a result of an appeal championed by cultural heritage NGOs ('Townsquare back to square one – Tribunal sends plans back to the PA', *Times of Malta*, 3 May 2018). The skyscraper would have had a severe visual impact on the World Heritage City of Valletta. Following the annulment, project proposals were revised to reduce the height of the skyscraper, in a fresh attempt to obtain a building permit.

An even more gargantuan mega project has been proposed for the coastal area between Saint George's Bay and Pembroke, on Malta's northeast shore. Incorporating a hotel, retail space and luxury apartments, the project entails the dismantling or destruction of a series of nineteenthand early twentieth-century historic buildings, including the earliest examples of British military barracks surviving in Malta, dating from around 1860. The proposal mobilised public protests and formal objections on an unprecedented scale. Concerns were voiced by many opinion leaders, from across the political spectrum. In September 2018, notwithstanding the objections received from a record 4,000 individuals and organisations, the Planning Authority Board voted to grant permission.

The decision to grant permission for the mega project in Saint George's Bay unleashed a fresh wave of public outrage. A number of characteristics of this project, and of the reactions it has provoked, suggest that it may represent a new watershed in the galvanisation of public opinion and resistance. Apart from its enormous impact on historic landmarks and on the character of the bay, the project would, if realised, severely impact the quality of life in the nearby residential neighbourhoods. A large swathe of these would be permanently cast into the shadow of the proposed buildings. Traffic impact, congestion and increased pollution are also areas of major concern. The impacts on the historic environment were therefore inseparable from the impacts on the quality of life of the residential community.

The net result was that objectors have not been limited to NGOs and isolated individuals, as had often been the case in other instances. Here, instead, an entire community has been mobilised, while politicians from the whole range of political persuasions have spoken out against the project, and against how the decision to approve it was reached. The sheer scale of the project has made the impacts it would have more evident, and more readily appreciable by the general public. As a result, the discourse used in objections and protests has also undergone an interesting shift. References to equity, social justice and solar rights have become increasingly prevalent, the most memorable being '*tidfnuniex ħajjin'* ['do not bury us alive']. An appeal against this planning decision was jointly lodged by a number of individuals and NGOs ('Protesters make another attempt to stop db Group project', *Times of Malta*, 2 November 2018). The decision to grant planning permission was upheld in the initial appeal process. The protesting NGOs and citizen groups then took the matter to court, where a landmark ruling annulled the planning permit in June 2019 ('db Group project permit cancelled in "huge" court decision', *Times of Malta*, 19 June 2019).

Another monster project which began to dominate public debate in 2018 was the proposal of a tunnel some 13 km long. It would run beneath the seabed to connect the main island of the archipelago, Malta, to the second island, Gozo, which has a population of *c*.30,000 ('Public calls for Malta-Gozo tunnel works being prepared', *Times of Malta*, 7 November 2018). The proposal is being presented by the government of the country as a fait-accompli to which it is already committed, in spite of widespread concerns about its economic viability and environmental impact – even doubts about whether it is the most effective solution to improve connectivity to the main island for the population of Gozo. Other issues are involved too. As an EU member state, Malta is bound to respect the European Union's Strategic Environment Assessment (SEA) Directive, which requires states to ensure that major planning strategy and policy decisions are subjected to an impact assessment of the various alternatives that may be available. No such SEA was made public before the declarations by government that it was committed to the project going ahead.

### Discussion: amnesia by design

The policy changes and planning decisions considered above have caused a drastic transformation of Malta's landscapes and are eroding the qualities of the historic built environment. Some of the underlying discourses and dynamics that have made this transformation possible deserve closer scrutiny.

The first point to note is the manner in which measures to encourage the construction boom are being justified, and even vaunted, by deploying a rhetoric of progress and economic improvement. The widespread use of the blanket term 'development' to refer to all construction activity obfuscates the issue, by making no distinction between building interventions that improve the quality of life of the people impacted and building interventions that fail to do so. On closer scrutiny, the claims of progress and economic improvement do not appear to be well substantiated. As already noted, these projects cannot be justified by any need to generate employment, because current labour requirements in the construction industry and in the hospitality sector already far exceed what the locally available workforce can provide. The type of infrastructure that is being created, and the contribution that it will make to the country's future wellbeing, also raise questions. It consists largely of luxurious apartments and hotels, driven by private entrepreneurship and speculation. State-driven social housing and affordable housing projects, meanwhile, have proceeded at a much slower rate. A further concern is that the cost of public assets – such as open spaces and historic streetscapes, which are being degraded or obliterated to make way for new buildings – is not being quantified and accounted for. The loss of these nonrenewable resources is divesting present and future generations of some of the country's scarcest assets. From a long-term economic perspective, it represents a permanent impoverishment of present and future citizens and of their quality of life.

In light of the above considerations, the prevailing rhetoric that unrestrained construction activity leads to economic improvement appears highly questionable. Huge profits are evidently being made by private individuals investing in speculative property 'developments', often aided and abetted by grants of public land at prices widely considered to be a fraction of its actual market value. However, this private accumulation of wealth is happening at the price of permanently stripping away irreplaceable public assets, and an incremental public impoverishment.

A second key point is that, in the context under discussion, the erosion of the historic environment is not the result of any deliberate strategy to erase the memory of the past; it is rather a side effect of the model of economic progress outlined above. In the rhetoric of this paradigm of economic progress, the loss of elements of the historic environment, at the successive scales of individual buildings, historic centres and the wider cultural landscape, is the necessary price that must be paid for that progress to happen. This line of reasoning is also embedded in popular discourse and is widely accepted as pragmatic and sensible; concerns about the preservation of the historic environment, particularly in urban contexts, are dismissed as unrealistic nostalgia, which may stand in the way of economic progress.

The erasure of different elements of Malta's historic cultural landscapes has progressed steadily during successive building booms since independence. As already noted, during the first decade of the new millennium, proposals for four major projects that were going to degrade large areas of some of the country's most scenic landscapes were thwarted by national public outrage. At the same time, however, demolition and building activity in and around the historic urban cores did not provoke any comparably widespread or consistent popular outrage. Such activity had more often been met by token resistance from NGOs, widely held to represent a minority fringe opinion. The preponderant public sentiment was more often resignation or even apathy in the face of these necessary changes. The resulting erosion of historic urban landscapes and of the accumulation of memories associated with those places has been a form of elective amnesia, in which the majority of the population has been a consenting and even active accomplice.

The instances during the first decade of the millennium, when public protest was widespread, sustained and organised enough to halt a proposed construction project, considered earlier, were concerned with relatively pristine areas, widely cherished for their rural and natural beauty. A number of distinctions may be drawn between the protest movements that preceded the 2008 global economic crisis, which brought about a brief interlude in such pressures, and the public reactions that have been witnessed in the second decade of the millennium. As already noted, the scale and intensity of building activity in recent years has been unprecedented. These new pressures are also changing the anatomy of the citizen protest movement in Malta. At the heart of this change is the growing realisation that what is at stake is not just a notion of 'heritage' or 'landscape' which needed to be safeguarded for public enjoyment and leisure. What is at stake now is the very liveability of the daily environments in which most people spend most of their time on a regular basis. The result has been a significant shift in the readiness of citizens to engage with environmental issues, and with the planning process itself. This brings us to another key point: the growing realisation among members of the public that proper care of the historic environment is inseparable from the responsible stewardship of the places they inhabit, and consequently inseparable from their quality of life. As argued by Baldwin and King, planning can only succeed in creating sustainable environments that respect quality of life if it is informed by community-based values (Baldwin and King 2018).

The close relationship between the safeguarding of a historic environment and the quality of life of the people who inhabit it is a central tenet of two Council of Europe conventions. The European Landscape Convention (Florence 2000) and the Council of Europe Framework Convention on the Value of Cultural Heritage for Society (Faro 2005) both spell out that the foremost reason why cultural heritage and landscapes matter is because they affect the quality of people's lives. The European Landscape Convention explicitly embraces ordinary and degraded landscapes in its scope, as well as outstanding or pristine landscapes. Places matter, because people live there. The centrality of the citizen is further underlined in the Faro Convention, which declares that the right to enjoy cultural heritage is a fundamental human right. Although at time of writing neither of these conventions have been ratified by Malta, they are nonetheless extremely relevant to the contestations being played out over Malta's landscapes.

Public attitudes to the historic built environment in Malta are shifting in ways that reflect the new paradigm encapsulated in these two conventions, as demonstrated by a recent study (Sausmekat 2018). The protection of historic buildings and landscapes has moved from being the preserve of idealistic individuals and NGOs to become a much more mainstream concern. The daily reality of demolition and replacement of elements of the historic built fabric has been a grim and unforgiving education for the entire public, which has been brought face to face with the practical consequences of these transformations of their living environment. Practical experience is repeatedly showing that negligence of the historic built fabric often goes hand in hand with a neglect of the needs and wishes of local communities. On the other hand, careful stewardship of the historic values of a place is integral to the holistic care of places to improve the quality of the lives of the people who inhabit them.

With this spreading realisation, the environmental issues that members of the public are engaging with are changing, and so is the discourse that they are using. This was very evident in the build-up to the decision to grant planning permission for the mega-complex at Saint George's Bay in September 2018, and in its aftermath. The local press was awash with reports, opinion pieces, individual letters to the press and online comments. They combined to express outrage and concern at the loss of the historic character, features and fabric as part and parcel of the wider impacts on the quality of life of the surrounding neighbourhoods.

## Conclusion

Malta today may be at a watershed moment. The mantra that an unfettered building industry is the key to securing the country's economic wellbeing, which was until recently tacitly accepted by a large part of the Maltese public, is at the time of writing being questioned more critically and more widely than ever before. The growing realisation that it is only making rich people richer, at the cost of public impoverishment in terms of quality of life, is becoming a stark reality for more and more people impacted by the scale and ferocity of the changes being wrought by the construction boom. There is also a growing realisation that the loss of public assets and quality of life is much more permanent than any benefits spilling over from the construction boom, and that the decisions being taken today will have serious negative impacts on the next generation.

By the last quarter of 2018, a new factor that entered the equation was the concern expressed in various quarters of the building industry that the sheer amount of new property being built could end up flooding the market. The result might be a glut of property that could not be sold. Such market forces are likely to play a part in slowing the current rate of construction, but not in time to prevent the ongoing degradation of the historic environment.

Concerns about the range of negative impacts on health being caused by these changes are also becoming more widespread. The requirement for Health Impact Assessment for major projects has generally been brushed aside in recent years. However, isolated voices have continued to raise concerns about the negative impacts that these fast changes may have on the physiological, mental and psychological wellbeing of resident communities.

As these realisations spread, so does the perception that caring for the features and fabric of the historic built environment is not an exotic and inconvenient minority interest, but rather an essential pillar to good living, for present and future generations. The extent of the historic environment that will be allowed to be lost in the coming years will depend on how quickly this shift in perceptions spreads, takes hold and galvanises public opinion.

### References


## 7 Vanishing heritage, materialising memory: construction, destruction and social action in contemporary Madrid

Jaime Almansa-Sánchez and Nekbet Corpas-Cívicos

These *lieux de mémoire* are fundamentally remains, the ultimate embodiments of a memorial consciousness that has barely survived in a historical age that calls out for memory because it has abandoned it.

(Nora 1989, 12)

This chapter is not a defence of neocapitalism and its effects on archaeology and heritage. However, it reflects on the results of this model and its consequences for the construction of new memories and realities. Within a context of constant change, development has become one of the main characteristics of recent years. The destruction of the built environment in late modernity has been recognised as closely related to the loss of memory within our society (Connerton 2009). Meanwhile the reactions to the destruction of archaeological heritage argue for creating these *lieux de mémoire* (Nora 1989) in Madrid as a form of memory materialisation within a clear context of destruction.

Much has been written about commercial archaeology and the loss of archaeological heritage (for example, Aparicio 2015; Gnecco and Schmidt Dias 2015). However, we begin with the question: what is the generative dimension of this destructive process? Although far from perfect, current (commercial) management models have saved some archaeological sites from destruction. And although we cannot assume that those sites were the most valuable, either for science or for the general public, both those sites saved and those destroyed constitute the basis for the future construction of – at least – the official collective memories of regions and countries.

In considering this approach, this chapter tackles these issues from different perspectives. First, it explores the development of archaeological heritage management in Madrid through its legislative development and some examples. Subsequently, it addresses two significant foundations of archaeological heritage management: values and discourses. The chapter concludes with what we recognise as a positive turn in the understanding of the dynamics of archaeological heritage management, value and memory.

## Archaeological heritage management in Madrid

Spain suffered a traumatic dictatorship since the uprising and consequent Civil War of the 1930s. After years of isolation, the backing of the United States and the *Stabilization Plan* of 1959 led to an economic boom that eventually had tremendous consequences for archaeology. Urban and peri-urban spaces were deeply affected by new developments (industry, housing and infrastructure), which started the beginning of rescue archaeology in the 1960s (Rodríguez Temiño 2004).

The *Law of Urban Planning* of 1956, and associated instructions approved by many cities in the early 1960s (for example, Madrid in 1964), collided with a still working republican law, amended only by a decree of 1958 that allowed the administration to be aware of any works conducted near registered monuments. Nevertheless, there was still a lack of resources and planning actually to record everything that appeared during construction works and was not already registered under the 1958 decree. Weeks before the death of dictator Francisco Franco in November 1975, Spain ratified the *London Convention* of 1969, and the Transition to the new regime saw deep legal changes. A first draft in 1981 considered the regulation of urban archaeology (Fernández Miranda 1980), but the law finally passed in 1985, the LPHE (*Ley 16/1985 de Patrimonio Histórico Español*), set a different scenario. The State decentralised and autonomous competencies emerged, being the Culture ones for Madrid granted weeks before the approval of the LPHE. These fresh competencies meant that the new law just passed had to be applied regionally, in a process where each region took a different path – although all led to a very similar destination (Querol 2010).

A new model for managing archaeological heritage in Madrid emerged in the late 1980s. This model, known as the *Modelo Madrid*, sowed the seed of preventive archaeology (for example, Querol and Martínez Díaz 1996); it opened the door to commercial practice similar to the British model started by RESCUE (Rahtz 1974). *Modelo Madrid* was based on the identification of large archaeological areas, in which interventions should be conducted only when building work was taking place (Velasco 1992). *Modelo Madrid* was theoretically useful to enforce the law, but it led to a management model in which the regional government merely overviewed private intervention in an administrative manner.

Commercial archaeology grew rapidly after Spain joined the European Economic Community (as it was then named) in January 1986. It subsequently adopted the basic principles of European policy, such as the *Polluter pays principle* and a wider attention to heritage in the planning process. This responded to the *Council Directive 85/337/ EEC of 27 June 1985 on the assessment of the effects of certain public and private projects on the environment.* This in turn forced the approval of the *Real Decreto Legislativo 1302/1986, de 28 de junio, de evaluación de impacto ambiental*, which enforced the need for environmental impact assessments (including on cultural heritage) and opened the door to the implementation of the *Polluter pays principle* in Spain.

Some major construction works illustrate how the management model in Madrid evolved. During the 1990s the construction of a tunnel and an underground parking space in the centric *Plaza de Oriente* unveiled remains of the medieval city. The threat of destruction to these remains led to some protests and deep concern over the way in which the process was managed (for example, Caballero Zoreda 1996). Dozens of comprehensive interventions have affected the surrounding area over the last 30 years, thus making the remains visible in many cases – whatever the conditions – thanks to the social and professional impact of the events at *Plaza de Oriente*. Soon after this occurred, the construction of a new terminal for Barajas airport projected major archaeological works (Aena 1999). The media reported the biggest archaeological survey in Spain's history, involving almost 12,000 pits and several excavations. There is no trace of the results of this survey in Barajas, nor in the collective memory of the capital.

However, it is possible that the biggest intervention in archaeological heritage (mis)management started in the early 2000s. The terraces of the Manzanares river are one of the main protected archaeological areas in the region, and a series of tunnels crossing them were proposed. The developers decided to split up the project into small sectors to avoid obligations regarding environmental impact assessment – a dodge that resulted in sanctions from the European Court of Justice and the Superior Court of Madrid. The works did not stop, however, and hundreds of

archaeologists tirelessly recorded all sites affected. The investment in archaeology was unprecedented, but the outcome for society was not substantial. After a temporary exhibition of ten months duration, along with its catalogue (Rus and Domínguez 2008) and several scientific publications, all the archaeological work was plunged into oblivion until now. Meanwhile new underground lines (Trabada et al. 2006), or the so-called *Túnel de la Risa* ('Tunnel of Laughter') between Chamartín and Atocha stations, managed to commit vast sums of money to relocate and display archaeological remains, such as those on Ópera station or the one of *El Buen Suceso* in Sol, the centre of Madrid (Fig.7.1).

While those examples show the darker side of commercial archaeology, they also resulted in the beginning of new interests such as Modern and Contemporary Archaeologies in Spain (Bengoetxea 2017: 66). Examples like *Casas del Canal* in 2000 (Morín de Pablos et al. 2002) set the starting point of a crucial period for the development of an archaeology of the Spanish Civil War. In this instance commercial archaeology has been key – not only in terms of research, but also of public outreach and policy shaping (with a new plan to document, study and protect all the remains of the period in Madrid, being heavily funded by the regional government).

**Figure 7.1** Remains of *El Buen Suceso* in Sol train station. The outcome of the display is questionable, but the investment had no precedent in Madrid. Photograph © the authors.

The panorama remained mostly unchanged. *Modelo Madrid* was out of effect after many interventions in protected areas, and the new models of preventive archaeology fomented more flexibility. However, the reality was far from optimistic and the predation of developers appeared to have no limits. Madrid had approved its own regional heritage law in 1998, under consensus, but had not included many advances in comparison to the national frame law. In 2011, following Spain's ratification of the Valletta Convention, a professional association of archaeologists, AMTTA, posted several parliamentary questions regarding the law's regulatory development. The written answer on 24 November stated that the law was sufficiently regulated and there was no need for further changes (PE 195/11 R 3049). This was ratified in a sectorial committee on 11 February 2012. Only 12 days later, however, the press office of the regional government announced an imminent new law whose draft was ready by the end of May. Why? Maybe the forces of neoliberalism.

The legal fight against this new law was fierce. Firstly, AMTTA made some amendments (AMTTA 2012) while different statements and news were released (for example, Ansede 2012; Querol 2012; Torija López 2012). That summer AMTTA integrated into MCyP, a civic platform already fighting for many heritage sites in the region, and so pushed ahead the protest against the law (Fig.7.2). A working group of experts was set up

**Figure 7.2** During a protest against the new law and for the protection of cultural heritage in front of the main building of the regional government (2012). Photograph © the authors.

to advise on a sensible reform of the draft. Nonetheless, the majority of the government party in the regional parliament passed the law with minor amendments1 in June 2013 – contrary to the advice of their own legal team and over 6000 signatures from professionals opposed to it. Finally, after an appeal to the Constitutional court, 20 per cent of the law was suspended only a year after its approval. Today the new reform has been slowed down by the daily affairs of the current government, but the process has made several public – and professional – movements for the protection of cultural heritage in the region more visible.

### Do citizens dream of archaeological sites?

Considering that the destruction of archaeological remains occurred in the context of neoliberalism, one might wonder whether what is protected from economic ravage is a matter of public interest. Measuring the real impact of archaeology in society requires recurrent comprehensive sociological studies, which have yet to be done. Current surveys (ranging from the classic work in the USA by Ramos and Duganne [2000] to other regional attempts such as the one by Castillo et al. [2016]) show a great deal of public concern about archaeological heritage and their values (European Commission 2017; Marx et al. 2017). Yet, looking at the data of the last survey on cultural habits in Spain (MCU 2019), only 21.8 per cent of the population has visited an archaeological site in the period of the study; in the same time 45.3 per cent of the total population has visited a museum, with 22.5 per cent of them visiting archaeological museums. Maybe it is popular culture that moves the appeal to archaeology (Holtorf 2005, 150), with the likes of Indiana Jones and Lara Croft inspiring the public.

Similarly, in the process of approval and appeal of the new heritage law in Madrid, media coverage was scarce. Public involvement was limited to MCyP members with few other colleagues, and only the political support of the opposition parties in the region seemed to legitimise the struggle (see Almansa-Sánchez 2017 for a larger analysis of these power/politics relations). Compared to other social movements fighting for better pensions, education or health in the last months, the real impact was low.

Although capable of lobbying governments and mobilising public opinion, associations are faced with several challenges. From a sociological perspective, there are factors that influence people's involvement in them. Financial means, educational attainment, time available or social skills constrain or enable participation (Van Ingen and Van der Meer 2011). Additionally, studies of associative patterns in Spain indicate that middle-aged and pre-retired people are the largest groups involved, while the number of younger people tends to be lower (Ariño 2007, 270). One could thus reasonably question the representativeness of associations to reflect public values regarding cultural heritage.

Value is a core concept in archaeological heritage management. In his classic book *Valuing Ancient Things*, Carman explored how archaeological heritage was managed, including the conformation of its sounderstood intrinsic value (Carman 1996). Drawing on Thomson's *Rubbish Theory*, in which the way that rubbish is treated defines its invisibility or its recognition (Thomson 1979), Carman analyses the process of designation and protection by means of law. Heritage laws accord public value to ancient remains, thus removing them from the sphere of ordinary objects and the rules affecting these objects (for example, market laws) – at least in theory. Simply put, then, our decisions and interventions on elements of the past (for example, through law designation) very much affect their social valuation, and may set new ways of understanding and valuing them in motion. However, it should be stressed that the values that are publicly created and sanctioned through this process do not exclude other possible readings and valuations. In fact, official recognition does not necessarily have any particular resonance in ordinary people's lives due to its top-down nature.

As we mention below regarding Madrid's regional network of archaeological sites, the public does possess a genuine if vague interest in these sites. Arguably, however, intervention may be variously defined. Via raising questions about a specific site and carrying out research, archaeologists may attach a series of diverse values to the place under scrutiny (Carman 2011, 496). Following this thread, then, academic and professional archaeological interest in a site has contributed to shape some of its values.

The *Plan de Yacimientos Visitables de la Comunidad de Madrid* is a case in point of how, broadly speaking, decisions made on what should be cultural heritage and how to deal with it scarcely resonate with ordinary people. This network, started in 2003 by the regional government, includes 21 sites already open and 17 still under analysis (Fig.7.3). Any new addition to the network is based on 'scientific and technical criteria' in order to 'provide the citizenry with elements for self-identification with their past and their territory' (Comunidad de Madrid n.d.). But it also answers to a homogeneous territorial distribution in which the different sub-regions must be represented.

**Figure 7.3** Distribution of archaeological sites in the Plan de Yacimientos Visitables. Source: Comunidad de Madrid.

Nevertheless, the relationship of the public with these spaces is not assessed nor taken into account. Moreover, some of the activities to promote the sites are undertaken by an entirely different department (for example, the dramatised visits conducted by the tourism directorate). The Visigoth sites of Navalvillar and Navalahija provide scenarios of a community archaeology project originally conducted from a commercial unit (*Equipo A de Arqueología*). Local citizens had the opportunity to participate in the excavations (ABC 2012) and to become involved in a long-term relationship with the sites in a research project backed by the local council.

As much as this project, which can be understood as a pseudo bottom-up initiative, has been positive, other sites have been more controversial. For example, the Roman road of Galapagar was a target of the critiques made to the regional government for failing to protect the site correctly (García Flores 2017), although at the same time the project aims to serve as a catalyst for economic development within the region (Terc3ra Información 2017). As for the Spanish Civil War bunker Blockhaus 13, in Colmenar del Arroyo, questions were raised about the type of narratives promoted by the site. Was it supporting only one side of the war? Would it become a focus for militarism and war, rather than an opportunity to criticise past conflict and violence (Colectivo Utopía Contagiosa 2017)? While a huge economic effort has been made on the archaeology of the Spanish Civil War and its enhancement, the regional government's silence is of little help in addressing these public concerns. Management of the sites is also controversial, as problems of access and abandonment of the sites (not directly managed by the regional government, but left to the local councils or private hands) are common. As mentioned, poor public involvement in this network of open archaeological spaces highlights the low impact that some interventions may have on the wider public consciousness.

Notwithstanding these shortcomings, for many people some of the best well-known archaeological sites of their town are, apparently, those affected by controversy (Castillo et al. 2016, 305). However, the value of all these sites is officially taken for granted, while only a few examples can be labelled as successful.

## Chinese whispers

Critical Heritage Studies have until recently focused on analysing the discourses of heritage experts. Although it is clear that we have witnessed the emergence of new approaches to Cultural Heritage exploring materiality, performance, emotions and affects since Smith's (2006) Authorised Heritage Discourse (AHD), it is clear that discourses are a significant part of research into heritage. They can be understood as 'ways of representing aspects of the world – the processes, relations and structures of the material world, the "mental world" of thoughts, feelings, beliefs and so forth, and the social world' (Fairclough 2003, 124). Not only do they describe the world, but they also have a material impact upon it as they naturalise and create particular ways of understanding it. The idea of one single monolithic heritage discourse should be dismissed (Pendelbury 2013), yet the official discourses about cultural heritage have stressed the pre-eminence of experts in speaking for it. Furthermore, terms such as 'cultural heritage' are not even part of the general public's way of speaking in some scenarios (Sánchez-Carretero 2012). In other non-rural areas, these discourses have been mobilised by non-experts to resist political decisions threatening the landscapes they live in (De Cesari and Herzfeld 2015), forming at least part of people's vocabulary in contexts not threatened by development (Castillo et al. 2016, 299). We should turn now to consider the effects of archaeological heritage destruction at other levels.

The case of Alcalá de Henares, a World Heritage town close to Madrid, is quite significant. This town, along with many others located alongside the Henares river, suffered an intense pressure of development over the 1960s and 1970s as part of the area's industrialisation. The town grew in an uncontrolled way around the historic city centre. Many new residential areas associated with Alcalá's industrialisation lacked adequate living infrastructure and standards (Vallhonrat and Rascón 2011, 12–13), although the city centre remained largely undisturbed by these changes. In 1998 this historic precinct and the university of Alcalá were inscribed in the World Heritage List as a first example of medieval urban planning and a university town (ICOMOS 1998). However, Alcalá is more than its city centre. Four archaeological sites lie outside the core protected area: the Roman villa of *Complutum*, the Roman villa of *Val*, the Visigoth necropolis of *Camino de los Afligidos* and the Calcolithic site of *La Esgaravita*. Only *Complutum* has been included within the regional network of open archaeological sites, yet all four archaeological sites have been subject to intense civic surveillance regarding their protection and care.

*Complutum* was discovered in the 1970s as the result of a series of construction works in one of the emerging quarters of the western part of Alcalá, designed to provide accommodation for the town's industrial workers (Fernández-Galiano 1984). It could safely be said that the discovery and works carried out in this archaeological site raised awareness of the relevance of protecting the town's archaeological heritage (Castillo 2012, 52), as described below. From 1972 to 1976 a series of Roman mosaics were unearthed. Their size and beauty meant that they were removed and sent to the National Archaeological Museum in Madrid. This archaeological intervention was organised by the central government (Almagro Basch 1974), as the works took place before the competencies were transferred and the LPHE passed (p. 112). Despite this discovery, the construction works still continued and most of the site was built over.

The area had long been significant for the local population. It contained the place where, according to a local legend, two young shepherds – *Los Santos Niños* ('the two sainted children') – had been tortured to death due to their Christian faith. There was a visible Roman wall in the area, later identified as part of *Complutum*'s basilica (Fernández-Galiano 1984, 270); it was believed by local people to be where the children had been bound and tortured. In the 1960s the owners of the land where the wall was standing decided to build a small church to house it (García Saldaña 1986, 65–6) – a decision that finally protected the wall from destruction.

Due to the poor planning of the construction works, the local council decided in 1984 to buy this land to create a public park. Aware of the archaeological findings, they arranged for an assessment of the archaeological potential of the area to be carried out, resulting in the identification of the remains as the town of *Complutum*. It was then decided that comprehensive archaeological campaigns should take place in the area, and an archaeological school was set up to excavate and restore the remains. At this point archaeological heritage was the responsibility of the regional government, a situation that changed the scope of events.

Considering these interventions, it is understandable that these archaeological works remained in the memory of the neighbours. They raised an awareness among local people that the rescue of these archaeological sites helped to foster. Some of them still remember the works and the associated discoveries, and recall how works were halted (albeit temporarily) whenever materials appeared:

There were many times when workers were digging trenches to introduce wirings … archaeologists were right there to monitor what was there, and all of this [area] is full of archaeology, actually even this [the point where we are right now] is full of archaeology […] Many people have found things and have hidden them … Stones and columns were unearthed at the end of the street and of course the archaeologists were there waiting and if they saw a tile they stopped everything.

> (Resident 1 of the residential area closest to *Complutum in Alcalá*, speaking in March 2017)

The new neighbours mobilised to defend *Complutum* and the materials unearthed on the site (see below). Some of them could recall how the landscape looked at that time:

Look, there was a construction work around here, in fact I have got some work done in my apartment block and we had to divert it a bit, but around here there were a pair of Roman conduits of the sewerage system that converged here, they are beautiful, Roman, and the end of it is around there [pointing to the distance], close to the river and discharging waters to the river […] and between those three trees there was another conduit, they were wonderful […] even the sewerage system was beautiful … I saw them at the beginning because they [the archaeologists] carried out a lot of excavations and they were really interested because it was the beginning …

> (Resident 2 of the residential area closest to *Complutum in Alcalá*, speaking in March 2017)

It would be safe to say that people were – initially at least – influenced by all these changes, and the local council became increasingly sensitive to protecting archaeological heritage. In fact, as a result of the findings made in the area during the 1970s, both residents and archaeologists supplied information on archaeological findings, and any intent to hide or destroy them, to the city council (Alcalá Hoy 1984). The local elections held in 1983 saw victory by the left-wing political party that put forward an electoral programme focused on the 'recovery of Alcalá' (the programme's actual title). This programme emphasised the importance of the past for the future of the town; it was believed that the past could serve as a uniting force for Alcalá's increasingly diverse population (in the words of Alcalá's mayor from 1983–7, speaking in July 2016). Sensitivity towards the past of Alcalá was reflected not only in the recent archaeological excavations in *Complutum*, in the land owned by the city council, but also in the organisation of an exhibition to display some of the findings made in 1984 (Fundación Colegio del Rey 1987).

*Complutum*'s discovery triggered public surveillance of the site over the 1980s and 1990s, while the different regional and local governments got to grips with their new responsibilities. In October 1988 *Complutum* was designated as *Bien de Interés Cultural,* the highest level of protection for cultural heritage. A month later, one of the early associations that had sprung up at that time, CODEPHAM, demanded specific measures to protect the archaeological site of *Complutum* (*Diario 16*, 1988). Further criticisms of *Complutum*'s preservation described how the site was being progressively abandoned, worsening the quality of life in the neighbourhood. In the 1990s people living close to *Complutum* were complaining about the insecurity in the area, with *Complutum* at its centre. The whole neighbourhood had become affected by drugs and alcohol while unemployment rates escalated (Castillo et al. forthcoming). Residents of the area and the local civic association asked the city council to fence off the archaeological site, then heavily used by drug addicts with consequent damage (*Diario de Alcalá* 1994; *Puerta de Madrid* 1995). *Complutum* was eventually fenced off with a stone wall, rendering the site isolated (Fig.7.4). While today many of Alcalá's people do know about this archaeological site (Castillo et al. 2016, 305), a significant number of residents in the adjacent residential area to *Complutum* have never visited it (Castillo et al. forthcoming).

Overall, we encounter several realities regarding the different stakeholders involved. First we have the professionals, unearthing the past under the pressure of development. Their voice is hardly heard, but the remains were made visible and triggered a public response. Second we find the people of the area, concerned and committed in many cases, but silent and even indifferent in many others, a situation that has increased over time. Nowadays, for example, many are no longer interested in the site.

**Figure 7.4** A view of *Complutum*. © Asociación de Vecinos Cervantes, Alcalá de Henares, 1998.

While the Roman past of Alcalá de Henares became a feature of local politics, relevant Neolithic sites such as *Las Matillas* were silently destroyed by development. All of this suggests that we still do not fully understand why some spaces are valued and fought for when threatened and others left to oblivion and destruction. This all happens in a public sphere where media and discourse are highly relevant (Habermas 1989), playing a fundamental role in shaping ideas and actions. Last but not least, institutional stakeholders are usually perceived in a negative light by all the other actors (Torcal and Montero 2006). Undoubtedly, administration is the easiest scapegoat to blame for the failures of archaeological heritage management – by people who do not appreciate the constraints of public procedures nor, in many cases, the scarce resources available that usually restrict officials' capacity for action.

Construction has been a key industry in Spain, and the development of Madrid has been a radical example of it since the 1960s. First with rescue interventions, then with preventive schemes – whatever their outcome – archaeology has come into being within the society of Madrid; it has created significant memories of a past, regardless of how glorious, painful or indifferent that past may be. This is now part of the collective knowledge publicly available about the region. Trying to find the silver lining in what was, and still is, a dark episode for the management of archaeological heritage, its destruction had a price, but also a (small) reward.

## Discussion: the future that never happened …

As we have seen, what remains of the past emerges from a complex process in which different actors get involved. No single actor should be fully blamed for all the failures to preserve the archaeological past. Like the threads of a single ball of yarn, each episode, decision, action and counter-action affected the total picture, resulting in a very different outcome. We may have ultimately all failed in the final goal of making archaeology relevant, but along the way we dragged in many people and many stories that made the attempt worthwhile. Today probably more people have a clearer idea about archaeology and our responsibilities to the past in Madrid. Maybe this would have never been possible without the destruction of archaeological heritage.

Following the draft law of 1981, everything might have been different. Article 63.1 established agreements between owners and the administration, while Article 68.3 set the standards of authorisation that we still do not have today. Imagining an alternative future, the passing of this law would have entailed a wholly different scenario for the development of archaeology in Spain. However, it is not the only possible scenario. Depending on where we set the Jonbar hinge, an infinite number of outcomes is possible. Clearly, a different regulation would have fostered a different management model with different outcomes, although not necessarily better. A more restrictive legislation, able actually to protect all archaeological heritage from destruction, would surely have raised other conflicts. Ultimately people might have not valued archaeological heritage above a desire for better infrastructure or amenities. Probably legislation would have not been able to solve all problems related to the management of archaeological heritage, such conflicts normally requiring more creative and flexible approaches than the law permits. This analysis does not intend to be deterministic. It seeks rather to highlight the complex social fabric in which archaeological heritage is only a small part – but one relevant in constructing sites of memory.

Have we not sufficiently regretted and deplored the loss or destruction, by our predecessors, of potentially informative sources to avoid opening ourselves to the same reproach from our successors? Memory has been wholly absorbed by its meticulous reconstitution. Its new vocation is to record; delegating to the archive the responsibility of remembering, it sheds its signs upon depositing them there, as a snake sheds its skin.

(Nora 1989: 13)

This quote stands on the basis of current archaeological heritage management. It can explain initiatives such as the *Plan de Yacimientos Visitables* or the social concern for the protection of certain archaeological remains. Acting as *lieux de mémoire*, those sites saved from destruction and the processes that have given them birth define landmarks: remainders of memory as a resort to remember our past, to shape our identity or, more simply, to archive our history, even as the records from the interventions of the last decades that rest in the stores of the museum do.

Construction work has destroyed hundreds of archaeological sites in Madrid. Sometimes, indeed on most occasions, this destruction took place unnoticed by the people around it. On other occasions this destruction provoked a backlash in the form of public protest, somehow raising concern about archaeological heritage and creating memories out of the endangered remains. Overall, however, archaeological heritage management recorded the past and archived it as a form of rematerialising the memories of a vanishing heritage. We delegated to these archives some responsibility of remembering, as Nora has pointed out, but nevertheless we still have them.

### Acknowledgements

We would like to thank Dr Veysel Apaydin for his kind invitation to contribute to this volume, and for his patience as we completed the text. We are also grateful to the neighbours of Alcalá de Henares, whose memories are an essential part of this work, and to Prof. Alicia Castillo, leader of the project in Alcalá de Henares, for providing access to the data collected. Nekbet Corpas-Cívicos would also like to thank the Spanish Ministry of Education, Culture and Sports who have funded her research with a FPU grant (FPU-16/06440).

## Note

1. The main amendments to the law were two articles – as additional provisions – for the construction of new casinos in the region, confirming the relationship between the law and the 'Eurovegas' project. This (ultimately unsuccessful) project aimed to develop a huge area in the southwest of the capital for a casino compound managed by a major international company. During the process the negotiators asked the government to create special provisions for the project, such as permission to smoke, within the compound (Marcos 2013). In terms of heritage, the overall aim of the new law was to facilitate bureaucracy for developers and 'relax' the protection of certain properties. As the first law passed during the negotiations, the aforementioned provisions ensured the goodwill of the regional government towards the casino project.

## References


Nora, P. 1989. 'Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire', *Representations* 26, 7–24.


## Part III Indigenous Heritage and Destruction

## 8 Considering the denigration and destruction of Indigenous heritage as violence

George Nicholas and Claire Smith

Beyond the sphere of lethal violence lays a much broader domain of destruction, fear, insecurity, vulnerability, and harm.

(Isaac 2012: 235)

Heritage matters. It is cherished and celebrated, but also frequently contested. It is a touchstone to the past, both individual and collective. It connects cultural memory to particular places or events and defines expectations about, and responsibilities to, the connections that people have between generations, over centuries if not millennia. Heritage, and the benefits that flow from it, is such an essential part of people's lives that a person's unfettered access to their heritage should be considered a basic human right.

Yet this is problematic. While heritage is important to all peoples, and everyone's cultural legacy is worthy of respect and protection, Indigenous peoples historically have had the least control over their heritage. Their history, identity, worldview and wellbeing are intrinsically tied to heritage, both tangible and intangible, in ways that are significantly different from the dominant society. In a world that aspires to be post-colonial, the challenges associated with state-controlled heritage legislation are acute and often a source of conflict, with substantial social, political and economic consequences. The limited ability of Indigenous peoples to make decisions concerning the control of their own heritage and welfare is a continuing affront to human rights. In addition, the persistent denigration of their intangible heritage and the destruction of ancient sites, burial grounds and sacred places constitutes a form of structural violence (Bernbeck 2008; Smith 2007).

To date, there has been only limited discussion of the ways in which cultural heritage informs the human rights of Indigenous peoples (for example, Baird 2014; Langfield et al. 2010; Lenzerini 2016a; Schmidt 1996; Silverman and Ruggles 2007). There is recognition in principle, most notably in the United Nation's Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP), but little consideration in practice – and even then only incompletely in terms of what is actually protected (for example, tangible vs. intangible heritage [Nicholas 2017]). The question of who benefits from other people's heritage requires careful consideration (Anderson and Geismar 2017; Harrison 2010; Murphy 2016).

There is also the larger question of the responsibilities of, and opportunities for, academics and others whose careers have long profited from research on Indigenous cultures. In her frank discussion of challenges faced in her research on the human rights of children born of war, Charli Carpenter writes 'The choice of human rights subject matter is one of the first moments in which human rights intellectuals exercise power over the global rights agenda' (Carpenter 2012, 365). Carpenter's statement resonates with the intent of this paper, which is situated at the nexus of community engagement, academic discourse and political change regarding the nature of – and indeed the future of – Indigenous heritage protection.

We argue two points in this chapter. The first is that access to, and benefits from, one's heritage are basic human rights, and that the appropriation, denigration or destruction of that heritage is a denial of these fundamental needs. The second is that the cultural harms that occur when Indigenous peoples' heritage is lost or threatened through intentional actions, inaction or ignorance by others constitutes a form of structural violence; it is, to use Deborah Kapchan's phrase, 'an abrogation of human rights' (2014, 4).

Our orientation focuses on Australia, Canada and the United States, but extends in a more limited fashion to other settler countries. We intentionally foreground Indigenous heritage, but many of our comments also apply to other populations.

### Human rights and Indigenous peoples

Human rights are the fundamental rights and freedoms that belong to all people, regardless of factors such as race, sex, nationality, ethnicity, language or religion. They are based on shared values such as dignity, fairness, equality, respect and independence. The United Nation's International Bill of Human Rights includes the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, passed in 1948, and the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights. As outlined in these documents, human rights include the rights to life and liberty, freedom from slavery and torture, freedom of opinion and expression and the right to work and to receive an education. Though the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights highlights the right of benefits of cultural freedom and scientific progress, it stops short of including the right to protect and enjoy cultural heritage as a human right. However, the rights of Indigenous peoples in regards to their cultural heritage are outlined in the Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (United Nations 2007). In this chapter we discuss anthropological and archaeological practice in terms of the following articles in this declaration:

#### Article 11

1. Indigenous peoples have the right to practise and revitalise their cultural traditions and customs. This includes the right to maintain, protect and develop the past, present and future manifestations of their cultures, such as archaeological and historical sites, artefacts, designs, ceremonies, technologies and visual and performing arts and literature.

## Article 12

1. Indigenous peoples have the right to manifest, practise, develop and teach their spiritual and religious traditions, customs and ceremonies; the right to maintain, protect and have access in privacy to their religious and cultural sites; the right to the use and control of their ceremonial objects; and the right to the repatriation of their human remains.

## Article 31

1. Indigenous peoples have the right to maintain, control, protect and develop their cultural heritage, traditional knowledge and traditional cultural expressions, as well as the manifestations of their sciences, technologies and cultures, including human and genetic resources, seeds, medicines, knowledge of the properties of fauna and flora, oral traditions, literatures, designs, sports and traditional games and visual and performing arts. They also have the right to maintain, control, protect and develop their intellectual property over such cultural heritage, traditional knowledge and traditional cultural expressions.

What is missing here is an acknowledgement of the consequences of governments and others ignoring or acting contrary to those listed rights – resulting in what is often termed 'human rights abuses'.

For governments, this may be an act of convenience. However, there are consequences, often severe, for those whose rights are abused or ignored.

We also challenge the conventional emphasis on tangible expressions of heritage, which are foregrounded in the Hague Convention for the Protection of Cultural Property, as well as in the majority of those state, provincial and national policies drafted to protect archaeological sites and materials. Weighting the tangible over the intangible results in a skewed and incomplete means of acknowledging, respecting and protecting the intangible aspects of heritage (Anderson and Geismar 2017; Antons and Logan 2018; Smith and Akagawa 2009), which for Indigenous peoples tend to be the most important, as discussed below.

## The intangibility of Indigenous heritage

'Heritage' can be defined as the objects, places, knowledge, customs, practices, relationships with other species, stories, songs and designs, passed between generations, that define or contribute to a person's or group's identity, history, worldview and wellbeing (Nicholas 2017, 214). Indigenous peoples have always made it clear that their heritage is an integral element of their lives and wellbeing, and that their conceptions of, and engagement with, the world may be fundamentally different from that of the dominant society. Yet historically they have had limited and generally very ineffective participation in matters concerning their own heritage in colonial contexts. Those concerns have been broadcast both widely and loudly, speaking to the social, spiritual and economic harms they have suffered in the past and still endure today. Government responses to these concerns have generally focused on consultation, rather than obtaining consent. The recent emphasis on reconciliation in settler countries is notable, but too often is a 'feel good' exercise, with no real effort to change fundamentally how things are done.

Worldwide a growing number of archaeologists, anthropologists and other researchers (often themselves Indigenous) have been working to achieve meaningful inclusion of, and collaborations with, Indigenous communities in projects related to their heritage. However, there remain tremendous challenges in establishing and enacting more respectful, ethical and effective policies to protect objects, practices and places of significance, especially when fundamental differences exist between Western1 and Indigenous societies over how heritage is perceived or defined. For example, familiar dichotomies that define a Western worldview – people/nature, natural/supernatural, and so on – may be absent in Indigenous perspectives, meaning that ancestral beings may be part of this existence, not some other realm. This necessitates a more inclusive definition of 'heritage' that is framed within some Indigenous worldviews as *hishuk ish tsawalk* (Nuu-chah-nulth for 'everything is one and all is interconnected' (Atleo 2011).

Fully recognising, respecting and protecting Indigenous cultural heritage is more than an issue of academic interest. It is bound up with challenging questions about consent, sovereignty and jurisdiction, social justice and human rights, and about how all descendant groups can most effectively control access to, and benefit from, their own heritage. Professional associations, government agencies and international bodies are increasingly joining with universities and Indigenous organisations to develop solutions to these challenges. For its part, the United Nations has set a broad mandate with the Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, but it is another matter to put this, and the recommendations of various Truth and Reconciliation Commissions, into practice. Thus, despite recognition of the need for change to achieve greater equity, making the transition from theory to practice to policy requires significant effort and understanding, as well as systemic level changes.

The task of protecting heritage objects and sites, of whatever cultural affiliation, falls primarily within the realm of provincial or federal laws and policies, with some protection afforded by intellectual property law. In Canada heritage legislation provides only limited protection of ancestral heritage. In some cases, there is unequal protection under the law for settler vs. Indigenous human remains, with the latter often considered to be scientific specimens (for example, Zimmerman 1989). Additionally, heritage policies are strongly influenced by economic pressures. Protecting heritage sites may thus pit Indigenous peoples against private landowners and other interest groups. Finally, the most powerful manifestation of heritage site protection is largely via the domain of professional cultural resource management, which is today over a \$1 billion-a-year industry. However, some critics note that this profession, which ostensibly serves to aid commercial endeavours in complying with heritage laws, effectively facilitates development more than it protects Indigenous peoples' heritage.

The current situation is complex. The actions that heritage practitioners take are often situated at the nexus of debates over such topics as open vs. restricted access to data, knowledge vs. justice and universal access vs. culture-based rights. There is also uncertainty about what a nation's acceptance of UNDRIP really means, and what the steps for implementation should be.

For example, only months after Canada officially removed its objector status to the Declaration, 'Justice Minister Jodi Wilson-Raybould called its adaptation into Canadian law "unworkable" in a statement to the Assembly of First Nations'. In Australia, Aboriginal people have raised concerns about its slow implementation. And in the United States, there is much uncertainty about what will happen under the Trump administration. What is also problematic with some UNDRIP signatories is that the appearance of governments acting ethically and responsibly towards human rights obscures the reality of the continuing loss of heritage sites.

The result is that in settler countries there is increasing acknowledgement that (a) Indigenous heritage must be protected more fully and effectively and (b) protection of heritage needs to be discussed in relation to human rights and social justice. This is reflected by discussions of heritage matters at the state, provincial or territory level (for example, Borrows 2017; Hunt and Ellsmore 2016; Soderland and Lilley 2015), the national level (for example, Truth and Reconciliation Commissions), and beyond (for example, UNDRIP). However, there is currently too little sense of direction, too much inertia or too little incentive by many of the parties who have a major role to play here. At the same time, in Canada and the United States, the public sees tax dollars being spent to rectify poor, ad hoc decisions made regarding heritage preservation when threatened Indigenous burial grounds or sacred sites slated for destruction and development are eventually purchased by the government.

#### Threats to heritage as acts of violence

For many archaeologists, one of the darkest moments in memory was the globally publicised destruction of the Bamiyan Buddhas in Afghanistan in 2001. That was until that event was eclipsed by the far wider destruction of artefacts and heritage sites by ISIS at Palmyra, Syria and elsewhere (for example, Newson and Young 2018). The impact of such events is especially vivid because participants often filmed the events. Such actions are not unique; Wikipedia's 'List of Destroyed Heritage' provides examples of intentional heritage destruction in almost 60 countries. These are but a sample of a much larger and longer-term history of such destructive acts.


**Figure 8.1** Basic sources of harm to heritage sites and values. Courtesy of the authors

The loss of archaeological sites daily is staggering – the result of development, erosion, conflict and looting. The sale of antiquities, both legal and otherwise, continues seemingly unabated, feeding a seemingly insatiable market (Barker 2018). This is exacerbated within conflict zones, where site looting and artefact sales by insurgents are used to fund weapon purchases, at the same time that explosions destroy sites and objects (for example, Hardy 2016; Weiss and Connelly 2017). Highlighted in such instances of wanton destruction is the loss of history and scientific potential, which can be interpreted as violence against history.

Below we discuss cases where Indigenous heritage sites, burial grounds and sacred places have been lost through intentional denigration, destruction or appropriation. We argue that this constitutes a form of both violence and human rights abuse. To understand why requires an understanding of how Indigenous conceptions of heritage across the world can be fundamentally different from those found in Western society. Identifying the wider scope of potential sources of harm (Fig.8.1) is of vital importance in developing more inclusive and effective heritage protection practices.

## What constitutes violence?

The World Health Organization defines violence as 'the intentional use of physical force or power, threatened or actual, against oneself, another person, or against a group or community, that either results in or has a high likelihood of resulting in injury, death, psychological harm, maldevelopment, or deprivation'.

Without wanting to detract attention from more explicit forms of harm, the loss of access to or, more obviously, the destruction of heritage sites is a form of violence that has significant adverse effects upon Indigenous peoples. For them those sites are considered necessary not only to their historical continuity and world-views but also to their physical and psychological wellbeing, as well as their survival as distinct societies. This is articulated well by a First Nations community member in British Columbia:

Ruby Peters believed that the disturbance of the ancient burial ground at Somenos Creek not only offended and disrupted relations with the deceased but also resulted in physical danger for the living. Only by conversing with the deceased and using her ritual knowledge could she at least partially restore the requisite balance of relations between the world of the living and the world of the dead.

(McLay et al. 2008, 155)

When used to describe harms resulting from disturbing heritage sites, 'violence' is seldom in the vocabulary of archaeologists, except when it involves (in an abstract way) acts of violence against 'their' (shared worldly) heritage, such as the Bamiyan Buddhas (also see Hamilakis 2003; Lenzerini 2016b). Yet by looking at this through the lens of indigeneity, we must acknowledge that real harm occurs to people in these situations. The loss of less spectacular ancestral sites in settler countries occurs largely unnoticed every day.

Even when the threats are known, legal efforts may fail or existing protection be removed, as evidenced in cases such as these:


sites, burials and sacred places (Doelle 2017). While all US federal lands require compliance with the National Historic Preservation Act and the National Environmental Policy Act, the oversight of these acts is not as stringent as the overarching cultural and environmental protection afforded to national monuments. Cultural harms are considered inevitable, including threats to the archaeological record of ancient habitation areas and activities across the landscape. But even more disturbing will be the weakening of protection of places of great historical or spiritual importance fundamental to the beliefs and world-view of the Hopi, Navajo, Ute and Zuni peoples.


Do the types of harms evident in these examples – denigration, destruction or cultural appropriation of heritage sites – constitute a form of violence? For the Ktunaxa, Qat'muk is not a 'place' or 'spiritual focal point' but a living presence; for the peoples of the Big Ears National Park, that landscape is literally alive with their history. Such connections to the land, and their importance, are well documented. Yet economics continues to take precedence over heritage values. Today the salvage ethnography of nineteenth- and early twentieth-century colonial Australia, the Americas and elsewhere has been replaced by heritage management companies seeking to salvage (and sometimes preserve) the material record of past lifeways for posterity – although this is being countered by activist archaeology in aid of protecting the interests of living peoples.

### Case studies

We identify three sectors where violence occurs in heritage contexts: objects, places and information. Each of these has been subject to appropriation, denigration or destruction of heritage that is a denial of Indigenous human rights and a source of significant trauma.

#### A. Objects


notes that 'people are vulnerable if their body parts, including fluids, fall into malicious hands'. Underlying that fear is a widespread conviction that the mistreatment of body parts, including even a human shadow, can result in mental or physical harm to an individual. This contributes to concerns expressed by Indigenous peoples worldwide about bio-cultural research done by archaeologists, geneticists and others, and the consequences thereof (Kowal et al. 2013).


different interpretations of bifurcated sticks found in caches in certain caves. In a recent presentation (McArthur and Robinson 2017), archaeologists contended that these pieces of wood were 'multi-purpose sticks used in variety of ways', contrary to the contention of the local Native American tribe that these were 'spirit sticks' and thus religious artefacts. The denial of the veracity of the religious beliefs of a person or group causes consternation; so does the position that proof is needed to verify a claim that an object has a religious rather than a utilitarian purpose.

#### B. Places

Denigration can also occur through a failure to treat important sites and places with the respect and dignity that is accorded comparable sites and places in the wider society, as these three examples indicate.


#### C. Information/Intellectual Property

The right to 'maintain, control, protect and develop their intellectual property over their cultural heritage' is enshrined in Article 31 of United Nation's (2007) Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People. These rights can be threatened or traversed, however, when Indigenous cultural knowledge is improperly disseminated or used.

#### 1. Australia

Moorcroft and Byrne have pointed out that 'the mass of documentation on Indigenous people in libraries and archives has been collected, analysed and discussed by government officers, anthropologists, historians and others but sometimes not even seen by the indigenous people it covers' (Moorcroft and Byrne 1996, 87). In 1989 Henrietta Fourmile, a Yidinjdji woman and researcher, lamented that 'The information collected about us is simply not owned by us' (Fourmile 1989, 4). Today many researchers work on the basis of informal agreements, and appropriate protocols for collecting and sharing Indigenous knowledge have been developed for a number of contexts (for example, Jackson and Smith 2005). The approach advocated emerges from a number of polemical disputes.


to address archaeological – or, increasingly, community-raised questions – it is often provided without context (Pullman and Nicholas 2012). There is also a long and unfortunate history of scientific and medical studies conducted on Indigenous populations without free, prior and informed consent (see TallBear 2013 for one review). Participation in such studies, whether self-initiated or not, makes an individual's genetic profile (usually anonymised) available to others. In addition, a person's decision to go ahead with DNA testing might bring others into the conversation, whether they want to be present or not.


about anything associated with relatedness' (Bolnick 2016, 13). This can result in biological indicators being used to deny culturally defined affinity and to upset long-held religious beliefs or oral traditions.

Writing of the Beothuk identity, Pullman argues that the common narrative of colonial oppression, which all Indigenous peoples share, should figure prominently in particular discussions about repatriation – whether or not a definitive biological or cultural link or unbroken lineal descent can be established to specific remains (Pullman 2017, 18). Accordingly, we would argue that Chief Mi'sel Joe has the moral authority to speak on behalf of the Beothuk based on this shared historical narrative and on his current role as an Indigenous leader in the continuing story of the Aboriginal presence in Newfoundland. Biology and culture are not irrelevant to this discussion, but neither are they determinative.

## Respecting Indigenous rights

How do notions of heritage protection change when we shift to a human rights-based model that also acknowledges Indigenous conceptions of responsibility? What can be done with, by and for Indigenous peoples to give them increased control and support in reclaiming their heritage and traditional practices? Developing practical and achievable strategies for protecting Indigenous heritage needs to be pursued via three specific goals:


## Indigenous rights and national interests

In Canada recent developments in constitutional and international human rights law have set the stage for a much-needed reassessment and reformulation of ineffective heritage laws and policies. The shift from thinking about heritage as property to viewing heritage as an essential aspect of human rights in international law is supported by the findings of Canada's Truth and Reconciliation Commission and the UN's Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP), which includes the right to self-determination. While governments are being challenged for their ineffective and unequitable heritage protection policies, scholars and practitioners from many sectors can provide the intellectual leadership and evidence base to support this shift. At the same time, the government's support for Indigenous rights continues to be uneven in the face of government-supported economic initiatives (for example, Coastal GasLink Pipeline [Temper 2018]). Similar seemingly contradictory government and/or legislative challenges continue to play out in the United States (Bears Ears National Park), Sweden (MacNeil 2017) and elsewhere, as well as the legal standing of Traditional Knowledge.

It is also a one-step-forward and one-step-back situation in Australia. Positive developments include an increased recognition of the role of Indigenous peoples in managing heritage and greater acceptance of the nexus between cultural and environmental heritage, including widespread recognition of the cultural values of water. In Victoria the use of traditional fire knowledge as a land management tool is being developed in a partnership between land care groups and traditional custodians – in part a response to devastating bushfires in recent years. A major development in shared responsibility is the Kungun Ngarrindjeri Yunnan (Listening to Ngarrindjeri People Talking) Agreement between the South Australian Government and the Ngarrindjeri Regional Authority. This ensures that the Ngarrindjeri have an active role in caring for lands and waters, and benefit from the management of parks and reserves within their native title claim.

Overall, however, heritage legislation in Australia is seriously defective, due to both state and federal governments prioritising development. Across Australia developers are able to seek ministerial consent to 'disturb' any Aboriginal site in the state and have the right to appeal such ministerial decisions, while the traditional custodians and/or native title holders have no such right. There have been some notable backward steps as well: the once world-leading Australian Heritage Commission was replaced in 2003 by the Australian Heritage Council, with severely curtained powers and minimal budget. More recently the Western Australian government have changed the criteria for classifying heritage sites so that they have to show current 'religious activity' to qualify for listing. This has resulted in the delisting of many sites, and a dramatic reduction in the number of eligible sites in the face of expedited development.

Worldwide, assessment and development decisions continue to engender the cumulative, incremental destruction of Indigenous cultural heritage. It is difficult to determine the overall impact as there is no nationally co-ordinated data about the condition and integrity of Indigenous heritage places. Situations such as this are contrary to a key provision in the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples – the requirement that governments obtain Indigenous Peoples' 'free, prior, and informed consent' before embarking on any development project or action that affects territory.

## Indigenous rights and academic institutions

Responsibility has to be borne by institutions as well as researchers. All too often, research focusing on Indigenous peoples is seen by them as yet another form of colonialism – a mining of their culture, their knowledge. Their heritage is often viewed as public domain, free for the taking or the researching of, especially in archaeological contexts. Today universities require ethics approval for research involving living peoples, which is an important development. Yet university-based Indigenous research seldom adequately addresses the significant power inequalities that exist between researchers and communities, especially in terms of providing fair and equitable benefit flows and of data ownership.

One of the clearest examples of an institution denigrating the rights of Indigenous people is the dispute between the University of Western Australia and Aboriginal groups in relation to the field notes of anthropologist Ronald Berndt, which are under a 30-year embargo. This embargo includes interviews with a senior Ngadjuri man, Barney Warria, collected by Berndt between 1939 and 1944 (Berndt 1987, 15; see also Gray 2014). The Ngadjuri have attempted to gain access to the field notes since the early twenty-first century. They argue that there is no legal basis for the current embargo as the field notes are rightfully the shared intellectual property of both Berndt and Warria. However, Barney Warria's biological grandson, Ngadjuri Elder Vince Copley, contends that the field notes could not have been produced by either Berndt or Warria by himself. This is shared intellectual property since one shared his specialist knowledge while the other recorded it (see Smith et al. 2018). Moreover, much of Barney Warria's knowledge was recorded 'verbatim' in Berndt's field notes (Berndt 1987, 27).

Today the University of Western Australia is the responsible body, but it takes the position that it is required by law to maintain the integrity of Catherine Berndt's will. The University has rejected numerous and repeated attempts by Aboriginal groups to access the field notes, other than on two occasions when directed by court order in relation to native title claims. As it stands, the embargoed material – held in the Berndt Museum at the university – will not be accessible until 2024. One of the most confounding aspects of this is that the situation has not changed since the lament of Henrietta Fourmile in 1989 (p. 144) and the observation of Colin Tatz in 1979: 'For Aborigines the ultimate indignity is the sovereignty of those who control the gathering and dissemination of the written and spoken word concerning their situation' (Tatz 1979, 86).

### Conclusions

We have both worked with and for Indigenous communities for decades in aid of heritage protection, sometimes as facilitators, sometimes as conduits. Our approach is grounded in the rights of Indigenous peoples to control their cultural and intellectual property (see Nicholas and Bannister 2004; Smith and Jackson 2008), and also our sometimes-activist stance. One statement we have frequently encountered is 'We are tired of talking; we want action'. To many Indigenous people, the loss of heritage objects and places is not a matter of academic discourse about 'the loss to science', or 'how our understanding of the human past is diminished'. It is, instead, the destruction of burial grounds and sacred places. For them, the appropriation and misuse of intangible Indigenous heritage constitutes a form of violence and an abuse of human rights that directly and detrimentally affects their wellbeing and identity. It is death, or at least serious damage, by a thousand cuts.

At a global level, there is some recognition that heritage loss affects more than just objects. In 2017 the UN Security Council unanimously approved a resolution condemning the destruction of cultural heritage. Irina Bokova, head of UNESCO, stated: 'Heritage is identity – it is belonging,' she told the Council after the vote. 'The deliberate destruction of heritage is a war crime – it has become a tactic of war, in a global strategy of cultural cleansing.' Bokova went on to explain that this is why defending cultural heritage 'is a security imperative, inseparable from that of defending human lives' (Lederer, *Times of Israel*, 25 March 2017). As with UNDRIP, action is needed, not just words.

But real action requires real commitment on the ground. We urge researchers to undertake their responsibilities in such a way that they comply with human rights principles and, where possible, place major human rights issues on political and public agendas:

One cannot help but exert an agenda-setting effect simply by calling attention to under-served categories of people and contrasting their circumstances to the allegedly universal standards to which human rights advocates claim to subscribe. In this sense, my methodology was inevitably political.

(Carpenter 2012, 377)

## Acknowledgements

We thank Veysel Apaydin for his kind invitation to contribute to this volume and Carl-Gosta Ojala for his assistance. Catherine Bradley provided thoughtful copy-editing. We thank the Elders and communities who we have worked with over the years for their teachings, and the students who contributed to our fieldwork.

### Note

1. Our focus in this chapter is on Western contexts, but we are well aware of comparable tensions in Asian (i.e. Eastern) contexts with Indigenous Ainu, Taiwanese, Hmong-Mien, Uyghurs and others.

## References

Anderson, C., ed. 1995. *Politics of the Secret*. Sydney: Oceania Monograph 45, University of Sydney. Anderson, J. and Geismar, H., eds. 2017. *The Routledge Companion to Cultural Property*. London;


Baird, M. 2014. 'Heritage, Human Rights, and Social Justice', *Heritage & Society* 7(2): 139–55.


Berndt, R. 1987. 'Panaramittee Magic', *Records of the South Australian Museum* 20, 15–28.


Gould, R. J. 1969. *Yiwara. Foragers of the Australian Desert*. New York, NY: Charles Scribner's Sons.


Nicholas, G. 2017. 'Touching the Intangible: Situating Material Culture in the Realm of Indigenous Heritage Research', in J. Anderson and H. Geismar, eds, *The Routledge Companion to Cultural Property*. London; New York: Routledge, 212–31.


## 9 Indigenous Latino heritage: destruction, invisibility, appropriation, revival, survivance

Paul Edward Montgomery Ramírez

The stories and images that non-Indigenous people have of Indigenous pasts frequently and prominently feature conflict and loss. Before the 1980s many of these spoke of 'primitive' people who impeded progress and needed to be civilised and brought into modernity, or as savage beings who needed to be subdued. The active force in these stories is, inevitably, the settler-colonist and their violence (be it their heroic triumph over savagery or collateral damage in the benevolent effort of bringing civilisation). Some civil servants may have considered colonial violence to undermine the 'civilising mission', but until recently questioning the mission itself was less often expressed (see Smits 2008).

Even as these narratives became untenable, and depictions of Indigenous peoples became more sympathetic, they still focused largely on settler violence located in the past. Popular media depictions of Indigenous peoples are mostly framed in a time in the colonial past, or just on the cusp thereof, for instance the critically acclaimed films *Dances with Wolves* (1990) and *La Otra Conquista* (2000). These narratives play a role in advancing the notion of vanishing people. The recent photographic collection, *Before They Pass Away*, features images of Indigenous people who are depicted as under threat of the effects of globalisation (Nelson 2013). This, however, is still a projection of the Western or settler perspective onto what is 'Indigenous', as will be addressed in more detail later in this chapter. Stephen Correy, director of Survival International, has described Nelson's photographs as fantasy which exoticises Indigenous peoples and 'echo[s] a colonial vision which remains deeply destructive of peoples who try and reject its domination' (Correy 2014). The vanishing of Indigenous peoples in instances such as this is linked with a perception that these groups are reserved to an unchanging and 'pristine' existence, namely one which exists only in the past tense. Both the view of lionisation of colonialism and the mourning of the disappearance of 'the Native' provide narratives which are less about Indigenous peoples and more about lessons in morality for settler-colonists and other non-Indigenous groups. And keeping Indigenous people uncentred in narratives allegedly about them serves only to do harm.

Not only are Indigenous bodies at risk from their marginal positions, and from discrimination, but so is their heritage – tangible and intangible. Destruction and theft of heritage do play significant roles in the existences of modern Indigenous peoples. Despite the position of Central America as marginal in the already subaltern world of Latin America, Indigenous populations have endured – and continue to endure – yet a third layering of marginalisation. Indigenous heritages in Central America face not only physical destruction; even their cultures are not free from being taken from them and repurposed, drawing power towards the states that marginalise them. These repeated damages inflicted upon colonised people compound further damages, which lead to very real issues of mental and physical health and serve only to maintain cycles of systematic harm against Indigenous people.

## 'Si sos puro indio'

From the beginning of the colonisation of Central America, Indigenous people have been targets of systemic and casual discrimination. The destruction of sovereign prehispanic societies and their ways of life is well known from a historical stance. The physical abuse and enslavement of Indigenous bodies is also known, though to a lesser extent (see Whisnant 1995, 14–27; Gould 1998). The purpose of this work is not to, yet again, place Indigenous people in the past.

Modern populations endure substantial marginalisation and discrimination within Central American states. While the region itself is economically disadvantaged, its Indigenous populations suffer from far higher poverty rates: 5.9 times and 2.8 times higher in Panama and Guatemala respectively (UNPFII 2009, 27–8), with 79 per cent of Indigenous Guatemalans falling below the poverty line in 2000 (McEwan and Townbridge 2007, 61). Not only is poverty a major issue facing Indigenous peoples, but health is also a significant concern. In Panama and Guatemala Indigenous people average lives that are 10 and 13 years shorter than those of non-Indigenous people (UNPFII 2009, chapter 5). An estimated 50 per cent of Indigenous people suffer from diabetes and in Honduras malnutrition affects 95 per cent of young people under 14. In addition, access to and completion of education disproportionately affects these groups. In Guatemala under 50 per cent of Indigenous teenagers have completed primary education; in Nicaragua only five per cent of Indigenous people complete secondary education (UNPFII 2017, 121).

More alarmingly, surmounting barriers to education has not led to significantly greater incomes nor to better health (UNPFII 2009, chapter 1). The stigma against Indigenous people has not only been systemic, but is also reinforced in casual society. The title of this section is one of many Nicaraguan idioms that disparage Indigenous people, reducing them to animals or maintaining that they are incapable of doing anything good (García Bresó 1992, 126). Little value is placed on the lives or knowledge of modern Indigenous people by outsiders. And these devaluations fit into the languages and practice of continued genocide against Indigenous peoples.

Genocidal practices of the destruction of cultural items – built, natural or intangible – have negative impacts on the wellbeing of Indigenous people: so much is commonly understood. Among Indigenous Latin@s, traumas experienced by individuals also link into health in deeper ways. The ailment *susto* (terror) is a cultural disease wherein a single traumatic event leads to the onset of an illness. A study among Indigenous communities in Guatemala found that individuals identified specific events, and the ensuing *susto*, as the cause of their diabetes (Chary et al. 2012). Bearing this Indigenous understanding of illness in mind, it becomes clear how harm from cultural theft and destruction compounds with very real concerns for health.

While the UN Declaration on the Right of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) was adopted in 2007 to help safeguard communities and their people from genocidal practice – with each Central American state voting in favour – and specifically affirms the right to cultural heritage, the Declaration has been often ignored: Indigenous heritage continues to be destroyed and appropriated in numerous ways.

## Destruction of tangible heritage sites

Indigenous peoples have the right to practise and revitalize their cultural traditions and customs. This includes the right to maintain, protect and develop the past, present and future manifestations of their cultures, such as archaeological and historical sites, artefacts, designs, ceremonies, technologies and visual and performing arts and literature.

(UNDRIP 11.1)

The devastation of prehispanic Central American heritage began almost immediately after European contact. As is the case in much of the world which has been subjected to imperialism, the ransacking of tangible heritage – objects, buildings, monuments – in Central America has been, and is, endemic: a matter that has been attested to in academic literature (see Whisnant 1995, 273–312; Yates 2015). That being the case, this chapter will not place great focus on looting and repatriation issues themselves, but rather on the impacts of looting through other topics herein.

Locations designated as archaeological sites, be they petroglyphs or building complexes, often retain significance in the cultural and spiritual lives of Indigenous peoples in the region. These sites also have been counted among available resources for the heritage tourism industries of many Central American states. At these sites developed for consumption, the interpretation and management is seldom done with modern Indigenous people in mind – nor do they tend to receive much in the way of economic benefit (Arden 2004; Johnson 2006, 186–92). Rather, the connection of modern Indigenous people to the sites is often ignored. Nor is free access often a guaranteed right, with outright exclusion not being unknown.

Archaeological sites not developed for tourism sometimes meet a different fate. The Uxbenká site in Belize is held to be sacred to the Mopan-Maya people of Santa Cruz. On 20 June 2015 a non-Indigenous man, Rupert Myles, was detained by members of the village when he interrupted a *fajina* (traditional meeting) and threatened them with violence (Humes 2016). Myles' actions were a result of the community issuing him a final eviction notice for the house he had constructed on Uxbenká and for having allegedly bulldozed a portion of the site to make a driveway. Previous appeals to local authorities and the country's Institute of Archaeology to remove Myles had been ignored, despite Santa Cruz holding customary rights to the site, meaning that the land is acknowledged to belong to Indigenous communities and should be admininstered according to their customs. The customary rights were made legally binding by a Belizean Supreme Court decision in 2007 (Cultural Survival 2015).

Subsequently 13 members of Santa Cruz, including Cristina Coc, a Q'eqchi' Maya land rights activist, were arrested by the police on charges of unlawful detention and assault, regardless of the fact that two of them had not even been present when Rupert Myles was detained. Criminal charges against Myles, for the partial destruction of Uxbenká, were later dropped by the Institute of Archaeology, which instead reached an 'amicable solution' with him (Humes 2016). During this case non-Indigenous Belizeans voiced negative views of Maya people, claiming that the Maya feel superior to the 'national' identity and seek to have extra rights over them (Cultural Survival 2015).

Tourism as an industry makes up a substantial portion of Belize's GDP, and archaeological sites make an important contribution to this. With no apparent sense of irony, Indigenous people are excluded from the development and economic benefits of culturally significant sites – even as non-Indigenous people hold negative views of 'indios' for protecting those very sites from which they themselves benefit. The desires of Indigenous people are often framed as being acts of selfishness or of wanting special privilege over others. Indigenous people are still often branded as impeding progress, to the harm of the 'nation'.

## Destruction of biocultural heritage, landscapes and communities

Indigenous peoples have the right to manifest, practise, develop and teach their spiritual and religious traditions, customs and ceremonies; the right to maintain, protect, and have access in privacy to their religious and cultural sites; the right to the use and control of their ceremonial objects; and the right to the repatriation of their human remains.

(UNDRIP 12.1)

The UN Economic Commission for Latin America and the Caribbean specifically detailed that processes of extracting natural resources should be carried out in a way that results in 'more inclusive' development and notes that in this process there would be 'inevitable' conflicts (ECLAC 2013, 8 and 14). Often the rhetoric of development in states such as those in Central America – not limited to the extraction of natural resources – is framed around lifting people out of extreme poverty.

The per capita income of Central American states, with the exception of Panama and Costa Rica, falls below the average for Latin America (US\$ 8342.20); the lowest, Nicaragua, averaged US\$ 2151.38 in 2016 (World Bank 2018). It is from this position that projects are spoken of, with the promise of increased incomes and access to resources and/or energy. This is sometimes framed using the language of self-sufficiency and resistance to imperial powers, as in the case of Nicaragua's Inter-Oceanic Canal project (Cupples and Glynn 2018, 1–10). While the goal of being able to alleviate poverty and build sustainable and self-reliant economies is not in itself a negative one, many projects clothed in such language are not what they seem to be on the surface. In fact, they can be in direct opposition to the interests and wellbeing of Indigenous peoples.

The creation of a canal linking the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans has held a place in the social and political climate of Nicaragua since the eighteenth century. Control over the production (and ownership) of this project brought about military interference by the United States throughout the first half of the nineteenth century. Goals of the influential revolutionary leader Augusto Sandino included the withdrawal of US Marines and the guarantee of Nicaraguan sovereignty over the proposed canal (de Nogales 1932, 12–20). Most recently, the Ortega regime controversially conceded land to the Hong Kong Nicaragua Canal Development Investment Company (HKND Group) for US\$50 million in 2013, despite objections on financial, environmental and sovereignty grounds, and Indigenous rights concerns.

The proposed route not only cut through archaeologically rich areas, but it would also have gone through lands in an autonomous region of Nicaragua, displacing some 80 per cent of the Indigenous Rama population and endangering the lifeways of neighbouring communities (see Cupples and Glynn 2018, 44–8). Throughout the consultation process, however, the Rama communities maintained that they had never been consulted (save perhaps for a selected few), nor would they have agreed if they had been.

Details on the beneficial economic impacts of this construction were somewhat nebulous from the onset. However, the risks to prehispanic heritage were likely to have been significant (even with the government's stated commitment to support the creation of museums to house artefacts that the project would uncover). Such risks would certainly have been negative to the cultural existences and heritage of Indigenous peoples in the east of Nicaragua.

Similarly, in Honduras, the construction of a 22-megawatt hydroelectric dam on the Río Gualcarque, called Agua Zarca, was met with Indigenous resistance. The project was a collaboration, starting in 2006, between the companies SinoHydro, The World Bank International Finance Corporation (both until 2013) and the Honduran company Desarrollos Energéticos SA (DESA). When the plans for this construction were announced, the Lenca people filed complaints with the government and began to stage protests, claiming not to have been consulted during the process. For the Lenca, the Río Gualcarque constitutes a site sacred to their cultural beliefs. Berta Cáceres, the co-founder of the Consejo Cívico de Organizaciones Populares e Indígenas de Honduras (COPINH), stated that:

In our world-views, we are beings who come from the Earth, from the water and from corn. The Lenca people are ancestral guardians of the rivers, in turn protected by the spirits of young girls, who teach us that giving our lives in various ways for the protection of the rivers is giving our lives for the wellbeing of humanity and of this planet. (Goldman Environmental Prize 2015)

Anti-dam protests were met with violence: 101 protestors were killed between 2010 and 2014 and four COPINH members were murdered: Tomás Garcia in 2013 and Berta Cáceres, Nelson García and Lebia Yaneth in 2016 (Watts 2016). The public outcry over this violence eventually led to the withdrawal of funding bodies from the project, and by 2018 no fewer than nine arrests had been made for the murder of Berta Cáceres. Among those were employees of the company DESA (including the then executive president, Roberto David Castillo Mejia) and members of the Honduran military (*New York Times* 2018). In 2017 the organisations financing DESA withdrew their funding amid charges of human rights abuses.

## Appropriation of intangible heritages

Indigenous peoples have the right to maintain, control, protect and develop their cultural heritage, traditional knowledge and traditional cultural expressions, … oral traditions, literatures, designs, sports and traditional games and visual and performing arts. They also have the right to maintain, control, protect and develop their intellectual property over such cultural heritage, traditional knowledge, and traditional cultural expressions.

(UNDRIP 31.1)

More insidious than the outright destruction of Indigenous landscapes and tangible heritage are the processes of seizing cultural trappings and expressions – many of which exist as a form of resistance against genocide – and turning them into a product which promotes nostalgia and patriotism connected to 'national' state identity. Such appropriations serve, regardless of intention, to erase Indigenous cultures and peoples. Central America has a history of rendering Indigenous people invisible by delegating them to the past. This is often framed through the language of *mestizaje*, wherein the 'indios' have vanished and been transformed into modern people: the *mestizos*.

Unlike the narratives of Anglo-settler states, much of Latin America attached their foundations on this story of the mixing of Indigenous and European (while usually ignoring African factors) to create a 'more perfect' race. From 'los indios' came passions and fierce independence. And, as Augusto Sandino (the symbolic inspiration for the more recent Sandinistas) declared:

I used to look with resentment on the colonizing work of Spain, but today I have profound admiration for it. … Spain gave us its language, its civilization, and its blood. We consider ourselves the Spanish Indians of America.

(cited in Field 1998, 437)

This logic came with several consequences. Firstly it allowed people in Central America (and in wider Latin America) to build identities which, while indebted to European inheritances, were not the same, nor lesser, and were not beholden to European imperial control. This was a foundation to anti-imperial nation-building in Central America. At the same time, this concept is also a weapon against Indigenous peoples themselves. It placed the Indigenous in a time which no longer exists, but of which the modern inhabitants of whichever state – be it Costa Rica or El Salvador – are the inheritors. Social engineers and historians spoke matter of factly of the 'complete disappearance' of Indigenous peoples, either by disease or by the rise of the *mestizo* (de Peralta 1893, xvi–xvii; Cuadra 1981, 209), regardless of the fact that the people they referred to continue to exist to this day. In so doing they denied the existence of Indigenous peoples outright, dismissing their claims to tradition and identity.

The models of *mestizaje* did not foster 'a new hybrid or mestizo culture that marries the best of two different civilizations [but] plainly and simply … a Western model' (Bonfil Batalla in Field 1998, 436): one that Indigenous people were labelled with, regardless of acceptance or not. Within this construct, then, *pueblos indígenas* (Indigenous communities) became considered as social classes (*campesino*: peasant; *artesano*: artisan), rather than as being of different ethnicities. To the view of dominant society, those people ceased to be 'real Indians'. Historians and anthropologists seemed to agree with this approach well into the nineteenth century. How could these *campesinos* be considered Indigenous if they mainly spoke Spanish and did not look like as an 'indio' should?

Not only did the construction of a myth of vanished 'indios' structurally undermine Indigenous resistance by silencing communities, but it also did so by removing markers of identity from them – recasting Indigenous people into moulds that dominant society deemed more useful. Numerous Indigenous performances in Pacific Nicaragua and in Northwest Costa Rica were marked for their uses of masks and as spiritual covenants with saints, characteristics that were acknowledged even into the 1960s (Borland 2006, 112). However, in both states these customs of Mangue-Chorotega people were branded as 'lo típico' culture and placed on display as such, both locally and abroad (Stocker 2013, 160). One such masked performance, El Güegüense, from Mangue-Chorotega *pueblos indígenas* in Nicaragua, was inscribed as World Intangible Cultural Heritage in 2008. This performance revolves around an Indigenous trickster figure (Güegüense, whose name means roughly 'The Wise One') and his dealings with colonial authorities. Within the play, Indigenous language and wilful misunderstandings are used to mock and resist colonial power, while appearing to co-operate with it.

The origins and meanings of El Güegüense have been debated and used to prove agendas of both the 'inevitable triumph' of *mestizaje*, or a class struggle in line with revolutionary ideologies of Sandinismo (see Field 1999). Both of those uses of El Güegüense take for granted *mestizaje* and *pueblos indígenas* as classes (not cultures), but ignore Mangue-Chorotega understandings of it as being performance of Indigenous resistance to colonisation (Field 1999, 169–212). Under the lens of *mestizaje*, the very instruments of survival could be altered into one altogether changed – one with a memory of the past and present far different from the realities of the marginal people who needed them in the first place.

In the political world that came into being in the 1970s, Indigenous resistances and the people who carried them out were further worked into the revolutionary narratives and identity construction of the FSLN (Frente Sandinista de Liberación Nacional) in Nicaragua. Sandinista orators tapped into anti-colonial pasts and lionised Indigenous figures. Many people from *pueblos indígenas* felt that '[t]he fact that the Frente could respect our history kept our relationship with the Frente very close for a long time' (de la Concepción cited in Field 1998, 438) – so close, indeed, that *pueblos indígenas* took up arms against the Somoza dictatorship in co-operation with the FSLN (even though they did so as a continuation of a long series of Indigenous rebellions).

At the same time, in Costa Rica, a legal process recognised eight Indigenous groups and established *territorios indígenas* (Stocker 2013, 154), now numbering 24. One community in Guanacaste, Matambú campaigned for the designation under the understanding that the government would purchase land owned by recent settlers and redistributed to Chorotega (ibid). Reservation status was eventually given to them in 1980.

Despite political shifts seemingly in favour of Indigenous people in the late 1970s and 1980s, however, benefits to those who had been tied into state identity did not manifest. The Monimboseño (Mangue-Chorotega) intellectual Flavio Gamboa remarked on the post-Revolution relationship in Nicaragua:

The Frente recognized the rights of Indians only on the Atlantic Coast; the costesos were against the revolution, but they got autonomy. The Indians of the Pacific were always in favor of the revolution, but they got nothing.

(Field 1998, 439)

And, indeed, despite leading revolts which sprang life into the Nicaraguan Revolution, the compass of 'real' Indigenous pointed to the Atlantic coast shortly after the FSLN victory.

For Chorotega in Costa Rica, designation of Matambú was fraught with problems. Some community members resented it, either because of a wish to avoid social stigma or out of the implications that Chorotega communities in the rest of Guanacaste would not be legally respected as being Indigenous. Despite having everything but geography in common, according to the language of the Reservation Status only Chorotega already within the *territorio indígena* could be called Indigenous and own land in the territory. As a direct result of the contrived establishment, the indigeneity of all Chorotega people was called into question. Due to their similarities with allegedly non-Indigenous neighbours, the narrative of *mestizaje* reared its head again. As a result:

In the case of the Chorotega … history denied Chorotega identity, law imposed it and delimited it within specific places and social science decried its authenticity.

(Stocker 2013, 160)

The myth of *mestizaje* and the co-option of Indigenous heritages have rendered Indigenous people invisible in plain sight. Not only are identities trivialised and diminished, but the stigmas and negative impacts that are placed on 'indios' remain, regardless of dominant society's acceptance of them as being 'real' indios or not. The community of Matambú still suffers from the humiliations placed on them for being Indigenous, and yet the questioning of their authenticity by social scientists has disqualified them from receiving an equal portion of government funding which is provided to *territorios indígenas* (Stocker 2013, 157). And for the *pueblos indígenas* that fought alongside the Sandinistas, part of their repayment was to again be rendered into classes of *campesinos* or *artesanos*. All the while, the intangible heritage of Indigenous peoples such as the Chorotega continues to be *lo típico*.

## 'Sí, soy puro indio'

Stories about Indigenous people are almost always about destruction, loss and tragedy. I refuse to tell only those stories.

The situation for Indigenous people in Central America (and the rest of the world) is a difficult one. Those qualities of loss and inequality are very real and should never be trivialised. However, to colour the entire existence of Indigenous people in this way is to feed the lie that we are destined to extinction. This ignores the vibrancy and resilience of Indigenous bodies and cultures, even in the face of forbidding difficulties. *Pueblos indígenas* in Central America have survived for five centuries, producing beautiful expressions of their cultures along the way.

That Indigenous people fight to safeguard and maintain control over their tangible heritages is a familiar subject to both academic discourse and to journalism. Examples from Central America have been used in this chapter to highlight the ways in which this region fits into the wider picture of struggle and defiance. But the appropriation and weaponisation of the intangible is a less straightforward matter. The force of *mestizaje* has entangled the Indigenous with dominant societies which have long been in opposition. Assertions of Indigenous identity have come in many forms, in response to this force.

Denial of the authenticity of certain Indigenous identities fall on those cultures which 'appear' to not be the tropic images of an 'indio'; the ones who have had aspects of their cultures seized for the settler-state nation-building projects. Settler images and understandings of what constitutes being 'really' Indigenous are often degrading, and their colonial definitions (sometimes offered as an 'olive branch') may be met with outright rejection, deemed to be both patronising and meaningless to the lives of the Indigenous peoples being so 'defined' (Field 1995; 1998, 432). In other contexts the very images which are stereotyped have made their way into Indigenous performance as a wilful signal to outsiders of staking an Indigenous claim to intangible heritage. It would be misleading to consider actions of 'playing up' tropic, colonised understandings of the 'Indian' as accepting of coloniality or as a cynical pandering for the sake of attracting tourist income. Rather, as Stocker has observed:

It is a product of history in a place that denied Indigenous existence for centuries, followed by a legal system that recognized it, encapsulated it in reservations, and sought to assimilate it. The 'success' of such assimilation projects is evident in the fact that in order to present Chorotega Indigenous imagery today, it must be done through artefacts left over from a past when Indigenous existence was undeniable, or it must follow stereotypes plain enough to be recognized as Indian in a nation whose appropriation of Indigenous traditions has rendered them ineffective at evoking recognition of their Chorotega origins.

(Stocker 2013, 152)

Evoking ancestral images, those of the prehispanic past, is a tool for modern Indigenous peoples in Central America. The objects left behind by those who came before continue to find relevance for survivance of their descendants. One of the criteria of Indigenous identity which Matambú listed in their bid to become a *territorio indígena* was an 'abundance of prehispanic artefacts in the area' (Stocker 2013, 154). Elsewhere, art styles from prehispanic artefacts have found their way into the works of modern artisans – connecting themselves and their work with that of their ancestors, and bringing recent archaeological interpretations into their conversations (Weil 2004, 245).

Revivals in products using prehispanic designs may be recent in some places; in others they may have been maintained for a much longer period, as they are passed from people to people. And while the entanglement with state identities and Indigenous artistic creation facilitates the appropriation of designs for their use in tourism industries (retail and marketing), engagement with intellectual property laws and adoption of trademarks is becoming increasingly prevalent to enforce Indigenous claims to their cultures (Aragon 2012, 273). An example of this is the communities engaging with Costa Rica's Ministry of Culture to reach an agreement of a trademark for Chorotega Ceramics, specifically aimed at reproductions for sale in museums and heritage sites (WIPO 2016, 26).

The very mechanisms which were used to assist in the advancement of *mestizaje*, the historic writings of conquistadors and legal documents appealing to colonial powers for the award of non-Indigenous social standings, are now the basis from which individuals and communities assert their indigeneity (Romero Vargas 1988, 490 cited in Field 1998, 437; Stocker 2013, 151). The Indigenous characteristics of some organisations in Central America have been questioned by historians and social scientists, because of their adaptations under colonial power (Field 1998, 434). While institutions among Indigenous communities may have suffered partial dismantling, or disruption, the understanding of their authenticity, and their importance to communities themselves, should not be trivialised. Even if they have been 'latinised', these organisations can be 'powerful predictors of present-day measures of socioeconomic development' (Angeles and Elizalde 2017). Nor should the actions of these communities in fostering relationships with dominant political parties and their state officials be dismissed as co-option or collusion, as such interactions can make the 'creation of local knowledge in the struggles against extractive capital more explicit' (Savino 2016, 406). Even the appropriation of Indigenous culture, such as El Güegüense, into state identity and constitutional language can undermine neoliberal and colonial authorities (Cupples and Glynn 2018, 11).

Through remembering and using the past, while adapting to the present, Indigenous peoples have survived genocides – and will continue to do so. Many of the people who identify as *mestizo* do so to avoid anti-Indigenous abuse and to ensure their family's survival. There are those who are yet asleep, dreaming of the Indigenous, unaware that *mestizaje* is something that can be rejected. As images of 'los indios' are navigated and used to raise Indigenous voices and combat social stigmas, some of those 'mestizos' may awaken. The power of *mestizaje* is one that can be grappled with, taking back intangible heritage from state power and becoming an instrument for Indigenous survival.

Just like The Wise One would have done.

### References


Cultural Survival. 2015. 'UN Special Rapporteur Vicky Tauli-Corpuz on Maya Land Rights in Belize', Indigenous Rights Radio, 9 September 2015. Available from: https://tinyurl.com/y8lwromt. Accessed 3 April 2018.

Cupples, J. and Glynn, K. 2018. *Shifting Nicaraguan Mediascapes: Authoritarianism & the Struggle for Social Justice*. Cham: Springer.

de Nogales, R. 1932. *The Looting of Nicaragua*. London: Wright & Brown.


## 10 'Rescuing' the ground from under their feet? Contract archaeology and human rights violations in the Brazilian Amazon

Bruna Cigaran da Rocha

The Tapajós river basin is inhabited by several Indigenous peoples and traditional communities, collectively known as forest peoples. The cultural heritage of forest peoples includes sacred places as well as day-today locations where significant events occurred within the lifetime of community members. Archaeological sites dating from the late Pleistocene to living memory integrate this heritage, as do areas with no visible cultural remains. The specific ways of life of forest peoples are intimately related to the territories they occupy, and also form part of their heritage.

The Brazilian Federal Government and a number of private companies have been building 43 large (i.e. producing over 30 megawatts) hydroelectric dams along the Tapajós and its tributaries (Fearnside 2015; 2016), Fig.10.1. This equates to transforming vast, free-flowing rivers into a series of lakes by flooding extensive areas. Despite the inclusion of archaeologists to carry out related studies and assessments, the construction of these dams is leading to the irreversible destruction of humanised landscapes and, consequently, to forest peoples' heritage. To make matters worse, the work has been conducted in a wider context of human rights violations, where local opposition to the dams has seen the state employ military force to protect private interests. The 'salvaging' of archaeological remains in such contexts – undertaken without the free, prior and informed consent of the forest peoples affected – is paradoxical, since these projects are in fact leading to the discontinuation of unique and irreplaceable ways of life.

**Figure 10.1** Dams and projected flooded areas along the Tapajós basin. Map by Maurício Torres.

On the Tapajós, the dams that could destroy forest peoples' heritage have not yet been built, but they are already leading to processes of territorial expropriation and to human rights violations. On the Teles Pires river the four dams already built have led to the irreversible destruction of heritage of the utmost importance to forest peoples of the region. This chapter considers both contexts, focusing particularly upon the Munduruku people and Beiradeiro communities – both of whom have been at the forefront of resistance to hydroelectric (and related) projects.

## Places of history and culture treated as another open vein of Latin America

As they descend from the Brazilian shield towards the Amazon river, the waters of the main tributaries of the Tapajós, the Teles Pires, Juruena and Jamanxim rivers, as well as the upper course of the Tapajós river itself, pour over numerous falls, rapids and cascades (Fig.10.2). These geological features are intertwined with the basin's millennial human past (for example, Honorato de Oliveira 2015; Simões 1976). The areas surrounding Amazonian river rapids can be understood as persistent places (as defined by Bowser and Zedeño 2009) that have acted as spaces of interaction between Amerindian peoples in the ancient – i.e. prior to AD 1500 – Amazonian past (Almeida 2013). At the lowermost rapids of the Tapajós, 'hybrid' ceramics suggest ancient interactions between the speakers of Tupian and Carib languages (Rocha 2017; forthcoming).1 Following the European invasion of the Americas, the difficulty of navigating the Tapajós' rapids and tributaries meant they acted as a buffer, delaying Euro-Brazilian incursions and colonisation of the river's upper reaches in contrast to its lower course (Rocha 2017) (Fig.10.3).

The geological characteristics of the Upper Tapajós and its tributaries – comprising relatively narrow and deep watercourses – mean that dam builders see these river stretches as propitious for the generation of hydroelectric power. In addition, because of the geographical location of the Tapajós, Teles Pires and Juruena, agribusiness sees these rivers as an ideal route to connect centres of grain production in central Brazil with an exit to the north of the country (Alarcon et al. 2016), leading into the Amazon river and so to the Atlantic. The construction of the Tapajós basin dams and related infrastructure is being undertaken through partnerships involving the Brazilian state energy company and consortiums of national enterprises from countries including China, France, Portugal and Spain.

The aims of dam construction are to supply the mining industry with subsidised energy to exploit the area's vast mineral reserves and to create a vast industrial waterway to move commodities (i.e. soy) cheaply from the nation's interior to the coast (Alarcon et al. 2016; Branford 2016). Ultimately, dam construction advances the frontiers of industrial

**Figure 10.2** The waters of the Upper Tapajós, Jamanxim, Juruena and Teles Pires rivers are characterised by a large number of rapids, making navigation hazardous. Photograph by Bruna da Rocha.

**Figure 10.3** The lower course of the Tapajós, in contrast, is wide and accessible to large watercraft, including industrial barges. Photograph by Bruna da Rocha.

**Figure 10.4** Cargill's terminal at the town of Santarém, on the lower Tapajós, from where soy is shipped off down the Amazon river and into the Atlantic Ocean. Photograph by Vinicius Honorato de Oliveira.

civilisation into traditionally occupied territories. To secure the passage of large barges, the turbulent rapids of these rivers must be submerged or dynamited for the construction of locks. This project for the Tapajós river basin – to supply highly concentrated industries with energy, or to provide a channel for commodities – entirely disregards the perspectives of the region's forest peoples (Fig.10.4).

## The forest peoples of the Tapajós

The ethnographic composition of the Tapajós is diverse, including different Indigenous peoples and traditional communities. Arawak, Tupian, Carib and Gê language stocks are represented and isolated languages, belonging to the Iranxe and Nambiquara language families, are also spoken. Traditional communities do not necessarily see themselves as Indigenous, but they also live collectively and in close relation to the surrounding environment. Both Indigenous peoples and traditional communities live in *traditionally occupied territories*. This concept relates to the construction of specific identities alongside the construction of specific territories (Almeida 2004, 29).

To these forest peoples, the rivers are a source of vital sustenance and transport. Not only this: their unwritten histories have taken place along these many river rapids. Their collective memories are based on oral transmission and are anchored upon specific geographical markers within their territories – something that is fundamental to their identities. These markers are meaningful places that dot the Tapajós river and its tributaries. They may or may not be defined strictly as archaeological 'sites', in the sense that they may or may not contain material vestiges from past human activity (Munduruku people 2013a; Pugliese Jr and Valle 2015; Torres 2008; 2014; Rocha 2017). As such, however, these places – and their significance – tend to be imperceptible to outsiders.

Among the Indigenous peoples, speakers of Tupian languages are prevalent. Their presence stretches far back into the past: linguistic research proposes that the Tupian language stock is between 4000– 6000 years old and originated along the headwaters of the southern Amazonian tributaries (Rodrigues 1964; 2007; Urban 2006 [1992], 92).

#### The Munduruku

The Munduruku are Tupian speakers who today number around 13,000 people, constituting the most numerous Amerindian collectivity in the basin (Fig.10.5). Their rapid expansion from the upper reaches of the Tapajós river into the Lower Tapajós and adjacent areas began in the latter half of the eighteenth century, leading the entire river to become 'Munduruku country'. Following this great expansion, from the second half of the nineteenth century Munduruku territory would begin to fragment as the frontiers of national society pushed into the Upper Tapajós and Lower Teles Pires and Juruena rivers. Currently, the Munduruku are distributed among 14 Indigenous lands in different stages of the recognition process by the Brazilian state. In accordance with their long occupation of the region, however, what they understand to be their territory goes far beyond these delimited areas (Loures 2017, 179; Munduruku people 2013a).

Among the areas that the Munduruku inhabit is the Sawre Muybu Indigenous Land, known to them as Daje Kapap Eïpi. This is located near the limits between the Upper and Lower Tapajós, but official recognition of this territory has been hampered by a series of setbacks. According to the Brazilian constitution, officially recognised Indigenous territories cannot be flooded by dam construction, nor can their occupants be forcibly relocated. Because of the federal government's interest in building dams on the Tapajós – as the then president of the National Indian Foundation, FUNAI (to give the Brazilian acronym) would later admit to the Munduruku – this

**Figure 10.5** Munduruku General Assembly at Sai Cinza village in early 2013. The sign in the background reads 'We want the Tapajós alive forever'. Photograph by Vinicius Honorato de Oliveira.

recognition process is not yet complete. It has resulted in a state of land insecurity for the Munduruku of Daje Kapap Eïpi.

A fundamental heritage category for the Munduruku consists of sacred places. These can be potent features in the landscape, archaeological sites or more discreet locales; access can be restricted except to the initiated. They are often salient topographical features and may house supernatural entities, such as spirit mothers of fish or game animals, or they may be where significant mythical-historical events occurred. In the 1950s anthropologist Robert Murphy observed that to the Munduruku, 'The single most important class of supernaturals believed to be active in the world are the spirit mothers of the game animals' (Murphy 1958, 13).

#### The Beiradeiros

The Beiradeiros live along the western bank of the Upper Tapajós in a territory called Montanha and Mangabal.2 They are one among the many communities of forest dwellers scattered throughout the region, having inhabited the area for at least eight generations. In addition to being descended from the migrants who came from the arid Brazilian northeast to tap rubber, the Beiradeiros are also descended from Amerindians – particularly Indigenous women – who married or were made to marry the rubber tappers (Torres 2008, 99–102).

Like the Munduruku, the Beiraderos have also suffered a significant reduction of their original territory. The map produced by Col. Raymundo Pereira Brazil, a rubber baron of the Tapajós in the early twentieth century, shows the upper course of the Tapajós lined with place names given by the rubber tappers who then occupied its eastern and western banks; many of these names are still used today. In the 1940s the Beiradeiros moved en masse to the river's west bank after attacks by Kayapó Indians; authorities expelled them from within the limits of the newly created Amazon National Park in the early 1970s (Torres and Figueiredo 2005). Yet the places the Beiradeiros left behind remain charged with memories. Such is the case of cemeteries where their ancestors were buried (Fig.10.6), but there are less obvious instances, too. Torres (2014, 239–40) explains:

Memory is referenced through and in space. A *seringueira* (*Hevea brasiliensis*) tree [where, 60 years ago, Dona Clarinda savoured animated amorous encounters with Alvarês, which she claims twisted the tree's trunk] or the *buriti* (*Mauritia flexuosa*) forest, where Seu Chico Caititu narrates a fantastical confrontation with two jaguars at the same time; the beach where, when still a girl, Dona Tereza Lobo was washing dishes when she was caught by a *sucuriju* (anaconda) snake, but was then saved by her father; the place where once a tree trunk of an old rubber boss stood, where several rubber tappers were tortured and killed, and where, still today, apparitions can be seen and heard.

**Figure 10.6** At a protest against logging concessions, Beiradeiros make reference to the fact that they have ancient cemeteries on the eastern bank of the river. Photograph by Barbara Dias.

In 2006 the Beiradeiros won an historic judicial victory that recognised their collective land rights over those of landgrabbers who had forged documents denying their protracted presence in the area. They then began to campaign for recognition of their territory by the state as an Extractive Reserve (RESEX), to help them guarantee their way of life and their collective ownership of the territory. However, the government decided that the RESEX process should not go ahead because it would interfere with the plans to build hydroelectric dams.3 Following years of insecurity, the Beiradeiros finally achieved official recognition of their collectively owned territory (in a modality known as an Agroextractivist Settlement Project) in 2013. This does not enjoy the same level of protection as an Extractivist Reserve, however.

The very identity of the Beiradeiros is inextricably linked to their relationship with the river; the term itself means 'those who live on the riverbanks' (in this case, of the Tapajós). If the São Luiz, Jatobá and Chacorão dams are built, this landscape will be transformed beyond recognition.

## The importance of territory

The land rights of both the Beiradeiros and the Munduruku were therefore impacted by the Tapajós dams even before construction got underway. Torres (2008) explains the close relationship between territory and the identity of the Beiradeiros:

They would not only lose the place they lived in and from which they drew their livelihoods, because … that form of life structures itself around the *land* – but further, of *that* land, specifically. The education of the children, the organisation of work, the structure of the family, sociability – ultimately, all the many spheres of that population's life are articulated around and mediated by the territory they occupy. The loss of this territory means the extinction of *that* way of life and of *that* culture, unique and exclusive to that place.

(Torres 2008, 313, italics in original)

This analysis can also be applied to the Munduruku: as Rozeninho Saw Munduruku once stated, 'We are nothing without [our] land'.4 Researchers working within such contexts participate – inadvertently or not – in projects that openly violate the right to land of forest peoples and, fundamentally, to their historically constructed, unique ways of living in specific places that are far from being virgin forest.

## Environmental licensing: a 'bureaucratic ritual of territorial occupation'**<sup>5</sup>**

Since 1986 Brazilian legislation requires studies to analyse the ways in which infrastructure projects can affect the environment or society during or after their construction. This involves the production of Environmental Impact Studies and Reports (Portuguese acronym, EIA-RIMA). In theory, this should allow for both the evaluation of the probable impacts of planned construction and later evaluation of the actual impacts on society, the environment and the local and regional economy, as well as on cultural heritage. Studies related to environmental licensing are organised into phases, which relate to the different stages and licences given to the construction project (i.e. prior to construction, during construction and finally in operation).

One of the legacies of the construction of the Balbina hydroelectric dam in the state of Amazonas in the 1980s, however, was to turn the environmental licensing process into an exercise in rubber stamping (Fearnside 2016, 38–9).

Environmental licensing brings together a complex network of state and private actors. The former comprises various state agencies with different missions: FUNAI, for instance, is supposed to protect the constitutional rights of Indigenous peoples, while the Ministry of Mines and Energy (which yields far more clout, in terms of power and resources) advances the interests of the mining sector, closely allied to private interests. Private actors range from Brazilian and multinational energy corporations to specialised consultancies (including archaeological/cultural heritage outfits), which are paid by the dam consortiums to carry out the environmental assessments. Social and cultural elements are subsumed within these 'environmental' assessments. Here they receive substantially less attention and tend to be treated as 'subjective', in contrast with elements related to the so-called 'hard' sciences (Folhes 2016, 146–8).

The marked expansion of archaeological licensing work, particularly from 2007 when the government launched its 'Growth Acceleration Program', has led to the commodification of the archaeological discipline in Brazil and has acted to legitimate dam and infrastructure projects, portraying them as enablers of the 'discovery' of archaeological remains (Bezerra 2015, 823 and 824). From 2002 'Heritage Education' became a further requirement of archaeological licensing work. Through such projects, the state has advanced its preservationist discourse and promoted the standardisation of the perception of material culture and the past (Bezerra 2015, 823). On the execution of Heritage Education projects, Bezerra writes:

Ideas, activities and results from dozens of projects are known only to the people directly involved. The materials produced in these projects reveal many problems, such [as] inadequate languages; the extreme simplification of contents; a total disregard of local histories; and the lack of a critical perspective (Bezerra 2010). Local communities suffer the collateral effect of HE [heritage education] programs, purportedly alleviated by a number of booklets and by senseless educational kits. The main collateral effect is the idea that HE programs serve, indeed, to educate otherwise uneducated people, in this case about their own heritage.

(Bezerra 2015, 826)

A further – and fundamental – problem is that there is no clear framework for implementing the right of Indigenous peoples and traditional communities to be consulted in relation to infrastructure projects that will impact their territories and ways of life. The Brazilian Constitution of 1988 recognises the right of Indigenous peoples to their own beliefs, customs and traditions; since 2002 Brazil has also been a signatory to the 169 Indigenous and Tribal Peoples' Convention of the International Labour Organisation (ILO). This stipulates that Indigenous peoples should have the right to free, informed and prior consultation regarding projects undertaken in or near their territories. The Convention constitutes an important mechanism to guarantee the rights of ethnic minorities within democratic systems (Camões Boaventura 2018).6

Although environmental licensing programmes foresee moments of 'public meetings' that should in theory allow members of the public to question projects that will affect them, these are often more of a 'PR exercise': information presented is not impartial and procedures for participation tend to exclude local people. Such meetings operate more as a tick-box exercise than as a real opportunity for the public to voice their opposition – and for this opposition to be incorporated into the project design, or even to lead to the cancellation of projects. Two journalists who witnessed a public meeting held for the São Manoel dam (built on the Teles Pires river) in September 2013 reported that zero participation from local people was permitted (Branford and Fernandez 2013).

## Guns and reports: Operation Tapajós

In 2005–6 scientists began travelling to the Upper Tapajós river to conduct the studies required by Brazil's environmental licensing legislation for the Jatobá and São Luiz do Tapajós dams. These were undertaken for the first stage known as 'Inventory Studies', which involves widespread surveys of the area to be impacted. A few years later, with the political decision to build the dams already taken, researchers would return for the next phase, known as EIA-RIMA.

In 2012 an initiative called 'Diálogo Tapajós' ('Tapajós Dialogue'), set up by the Tapajós Study Group,7 began to fabricate a consultation process with the Beiradeiros. This ironically named initiative 'informed' the Beiradeiros that the São Luiz do Tapajós and Jatobá dams would inevitably be built, and that the Beiradeiros' 'options' were to be relocated, compensated or to receive credit (Monteiro and Rodrigues 2012). In this attempt psychologically to undermine the Beiradeiros' resistance, cancellation of the dam projects was simply not put forward as an alternative open to them.

By 2012, however, the Munduruku resistance movement Ipereğ Ayũ, 8 which had the Tapajós dams as its principal target, had begun to demonstrate its opposition to dam projects in the region. Ipereğ Ayũ had realised that if they allowed environmental impact studies to proceed, it would be impossible to halt dam construction. They began to demand their right to be consulted in accordance with Article 231 of the Brazilian Constitution and with the ILO's 169 Convention. The Beiradeiros followed suit. In 2014 both the Munduruku and the Beiradeiros drew up their own 'consultation protocols'; these specified the manner in which they could be informed and the ways in which they could take collective decisions in conformity with their cultural specificities. However, members of the government stated that the Beiradeiros did not have the right to be consulted like the Munduruku.9 They also claimed that the outcome of consultations would in any case not have the power to stop the continuation of projects.10

In response to the Munduruku's protests, on 25 March 2013 the government launched Operation Tapajós. This saw heavily armed personnel drafted into the area to accompany researchers tasked with conducting technical studies for the EIA-RIMAs of the São Luiz and Jatobá hydroelectric dams. The government justified this by claiming the armed personnel were there simply to protect researchers because the region was 'dangerous'.

For the Munduruku, this brought back vivid memories of the 'day of terror' they had experienced on the Teles Pires river in early November 2012. On that occasion the Brazilian Federal Police and National Security Guard had descended with full force upon the Munduruku village of Teles Pires in the state of Mato Grosso, resulting in the death of Adenilson Kirixi Munduruku (Rocha, Valle et al. 2013; Branford and Torres 2017a; b).

At the end of March 2013, the Munduruku of Sawre Muybu were terrified by a military incursion into their territory. A helicopter repeatedly circled over the village of Sawre Muybu, at times flying so close to the houses that the palm thatch roofs were blown off. The Munduruku did not feel safe to leave village areas to go to their manioc gardens, to collect wild fruits or to hunt, lest they come across researchers accompanied by heavily armed guards. The danger – particularly to hunters who normally carried rifles – was evident, and people went hungry as a result (Valle 2013).11 A similar sense of fear and intimidation affected the Beiradeiros at Mangabal, where another contingent of armed guards had been drafted to accompany researchers working to produce the Jatobá dam studies.

On 16 April 2013 a Federal Appeals Court finally suspended the operation. Researchers, including archaeologists working for consultancies, continued to conduct studies for the São Luiz and Jatobá dams. By then the word *pesquisador* (researcher) had acquired extremely negative connotations among forest peoples of the region, having become synonymous with outsiders working for the dam consortium.

A few months later, in June 2013, members of Ipereğ Ayũ detained a group of 25 researchers employed by a construction company called Concremat, which was funding environmental impact assessment studies related to the Jatobá dam (Loures 2017, 178–85). The Munduruku found them in an area containing rock art considered sacred by the Munduruku (Munduruku people 2013a). They confiscated the flora and fauna collected by the scientists and held three researchers captive for two days. In an open letter entitled 'Researchers, do not enter our lands', the Munduruku forbade researchers from entering their lands (see Munduruku people 2013d).

The Munduruku released the hostages upon receiving a guarantee by representatives of FUNAI that they would be consulted about the dam projects and the continuation of impact assessment studies. Less than a month later, however, researchers working for Concremat had returned – this time under armed escort, provided by the country's National Security Guard (Loures and Torres 2017).

The Munduruku and Beiradeiro strategy of resistance related to environmental licensing on the Tapajós river proper eventually met with some success. On 4 August 2016 the Environmental Impact Studies of the São Luiz do Tapajós dam were considered insufficient by IBAMA, the Environment Agency responsible for conceding the licence, and the project was suspended. One of the principal elements leading to this decision was that the dam's construction would lead to the forced relocation of the Munduruku of Daje Kapap Eïpi (officially known as Sawre Muybu) – something that is unconstitutional under Brazilian law.

## On the Teles Pires, ecocide and ethnocide are two sides of the same coin**<sup>12</sup>**

Meanwhile, as the eyes of the world were focused on the Belo Monte dam on the Xingu river, the Brazilian Environment Agency, IBAMA, issued the licences authorising the construction of the Teles Pires and São Manoel dams. These duly went into operation in 2014 and 2017 respectively,13 in spite of the fact that the dams did not fulfil all the requirements of FUNAI and IPHAN. The Environmental Impact Studies of both these dams repeatedly downplayed the impacts and risks associated with their construction and implementation. There was no proper consultation of Indigenous peoples and traditional communities, as required by the ILO 169 Convention. Nor were specific impacts upon Indigenous peoples given due attention – indeed, the 'Indigenous component studies' focused upon specific impacts to Indigenous peoples were not even undertaken for the Teles Pires dam (Fórum Teles Pires 2017, 4–6).

Though a series of rulings were issued that should have paralysed the construction and subsequent operation of the dams, these were repeatedly overturned through the deployment of a mechanism called 'security suspension' (*suspensão de segurança*) (see Oliveira and Vieira 2016; Trindade et al. 2016). Created during the Brazilian military dictatorship, this mechanism was employed in conjunction with allegations that dam construction was justified in terms of 'national security'.

The Teles Pires dam destroyed the Sete Quedas Rapids, a sacred place of paramount importance to the Munduruku, Apiaká and Kayabi peoples. For the Munduruku, this was where the spirits of the dead travelled to:

… Paribixexe: this is a beautiful waterfall with seven falls in the form of a stairway*. This is the place where the dead are living, the heaven of the dead, which is to say, the world of the living, the kingdom of the dead.* It is a sacred place for the Munduruku, Kayabi and Apiaká people, and also where diverse species and sizes of fish procreate, where the mother of the fish resides. On the walls can be seen rock paintings left by Muraycoko, father of writing, inscriptions left for the Munduruku since remote times by the hand of Surabudodot. There are also funerary urns buried at this place, the graveyard of our ancient warriors. There is also a portal there that cannot be seen by ordinary men, but rather is only visible to spiritual leaders, shamans.

(Munduruku people 2013a)

Because these rapids have been dynamited and submerged, the spirits of the dead no longer have a place to go. They also housed spirit mothers of the fish. Migratory fish spawned at Sete Quedas every year – meaning that these rapids played a fundamental role in regional ecosystems and in the food supply of dozens of communities.

In the Environmental Impact Study for the Teles Pires dam, the cultural importance of the Sete Quedas Rapids was reduced, being referred in generic terms as 'symbolic' for the inhabitants of the *municipality* of Parnaíta. No reference was made to the specific significance of the rapids for the Apiaká, Kayabi and Munduruku peoples (Usina Hidrelétrica Teles Pires, 2010, vol.4, chapter 5, 270). The importance of Sete Quedas to the Indians had been widely known. Yet studies related to the cultural heritage of the area were still able to proceed (Pugliese Jr and Valle 2015).

The archaeological consultancy conducting the environmental licensing of the Teles Pires dam excavated 12 vessels that the Munduruku claim to be funerary urns belonging to their ancestors. When the Munduruku discovered that whole vessels had been excavated, they lodged a formal complaint with the Public Prosecution Service because of what they understood to be a violation of an ancient cemetery. During their occupation of the Belo Monte dam site in 2013, the Munduruku wrote on separate occasions that 'You steal the bones of the ancients that are buried in our lands' (Munduruku people 2013b) and 'On the Teles Pires, the bones of our relatives, which are very ancient, were found. You are destroying a sacred place' (Munduruku people 2013c).

In 2017 the Munduruku twice attempted to visit the excavated funerary urns and sacred places that have been destroyed on the Teles Pires river by travelling upstream to the São Manoel dam site (Fig.10.7). On the second occasion, in October 2017, they were met with the National Security Force and tear gas as they arrived.14 For the Munduruku, the implications of the destruction of these sacred places are deadly:

It is a time of death. The Munduruku will start dying. They will have accidents. Even simple accidents will lead to death. Lightning will strike and kill an Indian. A branch will fall from a tree and kill an Indian. It's not chance. It's all because the government interfered with a sacred site.

(Valmira Krixi Biwūn, interviewed by Sue Branford and Maurício Torres, November 2016)

The dynamiting of the sacred site is the end of religion and the end of culture. It is the end of the Munduruku people. When they dynamited the waterfall [rapids], they dynamited the Mother of the Fish and the Mother of the Animals we hunt. So these fish and these animals will die. All that we are involved with will die. So this is the end of the Munduruku.

> (Eurico Krixi Munduruku, interviewed by Sue Branford and Maurício Torres, November 2016).15

On 2 December 2016 the 5th Session of the Federal Appeals Court of the 1st Region (for which the Brazilian acronym is TRF1) unanimously ruled that the free, prior and informed consultation of the Kayabi, Munduruku and Apiaká peoples impacted by the construction of the Teles Pires dam should have been undertaken in accordance with the ILO's 169 Convention. The appeals court judges also considered the operating licence for the Teles Pires dam to be invalid. The dam has already been built, however. A ruling is also to take place regarding the failure of the state to obey the ILO 169 Convention in relation to the São Luiz do Tapajós dam, which would impact both Munduruku and Beiradeiro territories.16

**Figure 10.7** Munduruku visit the São Manoel dam on the Lower Teles Pires river. Photograph by Fernanda Moreira.

## Closing remarks

Perhaps seeing themselves as 'neutral', scientists working for the Tapajós basin dams' environmental licensing studies have been working within contexts of human rights violations and territorial expropriation. By continuing to work in these circumstances, these scientists have been complicit in the oppression of the forest peoples of the Tapajós basin.

The construction of the Teles Pires and São Manoel dams has inflicted irreversible destruction upon the cultural heritage of the region's Indigenous peoples. The dams on the Tapajós river threaten to aggravate this scenario, also affecting the Beiradeiros and other traditional communities. In these contexts, archaeological 'rescue' operations have become part of a machinery employed to legitimise the partial or complete destruction of traditionally occupied territories, and the concomitant expropriation of forest peoples living in them. Thus, while 'salvaging' archaeological samples from destruction, archaeological 'rescue' work paradoxically comes to integrate a process that will result in the discontinuation of traditional ways of living and the annihilation of places vital to forest peoples. The responsibility for this is clear: 'The thoughtless actions of archaeologists in development projects can turn them into kidnappers of the past, of history, and also of the fate and rights of the communities impacted' (Bezerra 2015, 830).

### Acknowledgements

I am grateful to Ageu Lobo Pereira, Barbara Dias, Brent Millikan, Fernanda Moreira, Francisco Stucchi, James Fraser, Jan Rocha, Maria Leuza Kabá, Rosamaria Loures and Vinicius Honorato de Oliveira for their various contributions with regard to this chapter. I would also like to thank Veysel Apaydin for the invitation to contribute to this volume. This research was partly funded by a doctoral grant ceded by the CAPES Foundation, Brazil (Processo BEX 1034/12-0).

## Notes


<sup>5.</sup> Cf Folhes 2016.


## References


## 11 Order and disorder: Indigenous Australian cultural heritages and the case of settler-colonial ambivalence

Amanda Kearney

This chapter is a study in order and disorder, creation and destruction, viewed as separable but contingent events. Taking Indigenous Australian cultural heritages as the point of engagement, here configured as ancestral land and seascapes, this chapter explores the reflexive responsibility that defines Indigenous relationships with heritage – in contrast to a broadly configured settler-colonial ambivalence to such heritage. It also discusses a series of events that led to the destruction of an ancestral dugong maintenance site in the Gulf of Carpentaria, northern Australia – a place of cultural significance to the Marra and Yanyuwa people.1

In considering how dispositions of responsive reflexivity, retreat and ambivalence co-exist within this context – and, more broadly, in relation to Australian Indigenous cultural heritages – this chapter lays bare the competing ontics that underscore and undermine heritage value, as well as efforts at safeguarding and ongoing sustenance of important heritage places in settler-colonial contexts. In the context of this chapter, ontics are those aspects of everyday life that take on physical, real or factual elements of existence; this may take the form of human action or place features.

Framing the discussion of heritage and destruction through a discourse of order and disorder, which aligns with the theme of local empiricism, this chapter then examines how it is that competing axiologies, or theories of values, have emerged in relation to Indigenous cultural heritages in Australia. The primary argument presented here is that axiological retreat, as a form of ambivalence or 'failure to care' exhibited by the state and neoliberal economies, is a destructive ontology that can lead to the decline and loss of cultural heritage. Destructive ontologies rely upon the refusal to recognise one domain as made up of self-affirmed, legitimate, understandable and ordered elements and presences.

In Australia this translates to a denial of the integrity and empiricism of Indigenous land and seascapes as made up of ancestral beings. Finding ways to shift this destructive ontology is a prevailing challenge in settler-colonial contexts. What is needed is an axiological return, made all the more urgent by Heider's caution that '[d]estruction is easy and can be very swift, while construction often involves a long and difficult process' (Heider 2005, 11).

I begin this discussion with some reflection on the principles of 'order and disorder'. An ordered state of being, in this context, occurs when heritage prevails and maintains a continued presence and relevancy in a cultural group's life at present. A disordered state is where this process is compromised, due to heritage being destroyed or erased – not only in a physical sense, but also in terms of censure around the social memories that support and sustain the ongoing health of cultural expressions. When these begin to decline or to face opposition, due to lack of opportunity to engage with heritage (through legislative alienation, physical alienation and cognitive erasure), then heritage itself is compromised and rendered disordered. It becomes out of sync with the people and cultural worlds that render it meaningful.

The view adopted here is that something has order as long as it is capable of self-restoration and relational pronouncement (in that it is known and declared). In those instances where incoming cultural agents impact negatively upon heritage – as witnessed, for example, in the colonial history of settler Australian interactions with Indigenous peoples' cultural heritages – disordering occurs among an otherwise ordered, known and meaningful phenomenon: that is, the living heritage, as the country of Aboriginal Australians.

## Order and disorder in place

Order and disorder, creation and destruction are brought together often in discussions of cultural heritage, reflecting situations whereby heritage that has endured is subject to threat and loss. Destruction, precipitated by ontologies of harm or ambivalence, is an ongoing reality for Indigenous people. A ledger of ruination and obliteration marks an expanding physical and political presence of the settler-colonial state across Indigenous homelands. This process began in 1788 and is accompanied by the creep of its neoliberal economies of extraction (amplified in more recent decades by a nationwide booming resource industry); see Stoler for a discussion of ruination as a political project that 'lays waste to certain peoples, relations and things that accumulate in specific places' (Stoler 2012, 11).

Disorder in such contexts relies upon the existence of states of integrity – that is, an ordered cultural world in which people recognise and take inspiration from expressions, habits, practices and presences that verify their place in the world. Only that which is ordered can be disordered. In Australia this has been witnessed in the alienation of people from their ancestral homelands, the physical loss of place through extractive industries, the demolition of rock art sites, the erasure of landmarks as the bodies of ancestral beings and the desecration of sacred sites (see Burke and Smith 2010 and Smith and Ward 2000 for discussions of the broader conflicts regarding heritage).

For the purpose of this discussion, Indigenous cultural heritage is defined broadly as the geographical and spiritual cosmos within which the lives of Indigenous people take place and the context into which ancestral presences are etched. Places and the world of meaning through which an Indigenous people move are therefore expressions of cultural integrity and autonomy. Writ large across this heritage is an emotional geography – a world that triggers emotion as an affective state of consciousness, experienced in relational encounters with social memory, ancestral beings and contexts for identity projection. Places can make people feel healthy, relevant, happy, content and nurtured (see Davidson et al. 2005, Davidson and Milligan 2004, Kearney 2009, Seamon 2012, 2014). These contexts locate human life in a nested ecology. In this the human position is that small, central, nested domain from which individuals perceive the world through their own subjective experiences (Wimberley 2009, ix).

In settler-colonial and intercultural spaces, place is endlessly reinterpreted in power struggles and through informal negotiations over their meaning and representation. In this vein, places can serve as powerful tools for furthering the political vision of certain groups or institutions; but they can also be destroyed. Cultural heritage that takes the form of important places is one way of anchoring cultural identities, verifying existence and ensuring tangible and intangible points of gathering and affection for cultural constituents. The creation of heritage is multifaceted and may rely on human or nonhuman agency. Creation precedes destruction: the latter obliterates the former. As such they are related states, yet require ontologies that are diametrically opposed. Disorder and destruction compromise existence through the collapse of local empiricism. They make regeneration difficult, if not impossible.

Order is understood here as a series of interactive states that lead to prospering, survival and ongoing interactions. Order evokes integrity in particular structural and functional properties, a concept that ensures the survival of functional properties for as long as they are called upon to support life. Disorder, on the other hand, invokes states of decline, disarray, damage or loss of elements important to the whole. Where cultural heritage is taken as our point of reflection, ordered states allow for the integrity of heritage to prevail. They ensure ongoing human relations (as creation, maintenance and safeguarding), while disorder brings about destruction in physical forms. It results in the erosion of social memories attached to heritage and generates conditions in which the wholeness of heritage, as held in webs of social, cultural and political meaning, begins to fall away.

Destruction rarely takes heed of creation's deep time, nor makes any concession to the complex tangible and intangible conditions that give rise to human cultural heritage. It brings rapid decline and erasure to vital parts of human existence. Creation, by contrast, is often a long and difficult process, whether involving human labour and physical effort to construct or requiring generations upon generations of people sharing the orality of ancestral connections.

The distressing reality of disordering actions and the ontologies that facilitate the decline of cultural heritage is that its creation is often steeped so deeply in time that it evades a temporal stamp. Too often cultural heritage is simply understood as 'having always been there'. The destructive ontologies explored throughout this chapter, both as ambivalence and as a failure to care, distinguish settler-colonial engagements and treatments of Indigenous cultural heritages. While a generalising statement, a case is made for this ambivalence as a condition of deep colonising.

The concept of ambivalence is introduced by Rose (Rose 1996a, 6), then expanded by Seton and Bradley to distinguish the process of conquest that remains embedded within the institutions and practices of the settler-colonial state (Seton and Bradley 2005, 33). Claiming the continent, under the British Crown and by dint of the Doctrine of Discovery in 1788, required the creation of a 'ground zero': a designification of what was in place and in turn a resignification of desirous imaginaries on to the landmass (Rose 2004, Kearney 2017). Bearing in mind this land mass is also configured as distinct Indigenous nations using more than 250 surviving Indigenous language groups, with many more at the point of initial colonisation, there are bound to be competing and contesting ontologies that exist in relation to heritage.

## Local empiricism and law

Place is distinguished by local empiricism and order: inherent sets of relations that distinguish the meaning and substance of a place (Kearney 2017, 157). It is through incremental decline or the rapid assault of this order that it is prevented from enacting its own agency and liberties of rhythm are compromised. The local empiricism that gives rise to place is expressed through induction, causation and causal explanation, as grounded in place itself.

Induction – as the processes or actions that bring about or give rise to place – is a multifaceted concept. It may have tangible or intangible qualities, as processes of physical becoming or ancestral enlivening shape and inspire the place world. The induction of place order is an expression of how the world comes to be as it is; its ability to sustain and thrive is embroiled in relations of cause and effect, into which human life is recruited as kin, relational other, co-presence or agent of harm. The nature and effect of these relations are powerfully expressed through communicative events in place. These in turn articulate not only the character of place but also its biography, as populated by multifarious co-presences.

According to kincentric ecology, which distinguishes many Indigenous conceptions of place and cultural heritage as linked to land and seascapes, human life is one part of place's local empiricism; it plays a role in the experience, rhythm and distinctiveness of place (see Salmón 2000). As co-presences and kin, this role is vital to maintaining the integrity of place order. When local empiricism is upheld, then integrity – defined as a form of coherence, holism and durability – converges into an order of resilience.

Resilience as a capacity to sustain or adapt in the face of adversity, when bound to a kincentric view of life, requires both people and place to experience life simultaneously. The linking of resilience with kinship is echoed by Skolimowski's concept of living in 'right relations' (Skolimowski 1993, 7). As an extension of this integrity, to be in a critical intimacy with place is to live in reverence, or 'empathy fused with reverence' (Skolimowski 1993, 7). He has further noted that 'Living with reverence on the earth is to watch, notice and live in heightened contact' (Skolimowski 1993, 7), conditions which support a kincentric ecology as well as the health of the land and sea as heritage.

Indigenous Australian cultures and heritages are grounded in the importance of country – that is, the land, seas and waters that hold the ancestral Law for Indigenous language groups. The land and sea form a canvas on to and through which ancestral activity is always present and moving. It is the action of ancestral beings that shapes the very terms of existence for Indigenous groups. Rose writes of Indigenous homelands as country – that is, a 'nourishing terrain' and 'a place that gives and receives life. Not just imagined or represented, it is lived in and lived with' (Rose 1996b, 7). Many Indigenous people talk about country in the same way that they would refer to a person: they speak to country, sing to country, visit country, worry about country, feel sorry for country and long for country. People say that country knows, hears, smells, takes notice, takes care and is sorry or happy.

Country is therefore not a generalised or undifferentiated type of place. Rather, it is a living entity with a yesterday, today and tomorrow: it possesses a consciousness, and an enduring will towards life (Rose 1996b:7). Country is fathomed in equal parts through an understanding of tangible and intangible cultural expressions. Yet the act of separating these two forms is futile. It is at once both and all that is in between. Country is kin, language, Law, human and nonhuman; it is past and present; it is land, water, resources, elements and sentiency.

Country is the socially constructed and culturally delimited presence and scene for the everyday life in which Indigenous Australians – and, in the context of the following case study, Marra and Yanyuwa peoples in the Gulf of Carpentaria – find themselves operating. Local empiricism is found in country, and is expressed as the processes or actions that bring about or give rise to place. In this case such actions are those carried out by ancestral beings as they walked, crawled, slithered, climbed, flew and stopped on country; some left their mark, others their story, their bodies or remnants of their activity (Rose 2000, 104).

This is, in the first instance, a process of physical becoming and an enlivening of the world. It also contains vital knowledge and information, referred to by Marra and Yanyuwa as 'Law' – that is, an empiricism relating to how things sustain and thrive through relations of cause and effect. What follows is a description of such heritage and its destruction. This anchors the discussion within Marra and Yanyuwa country, and also within the wider scene of the settler-colonial state. It scopes out the very act of destruction as something that disregards the local empiricism of place and introduces disordered states.

#### Heritage destruction

This discussion takes its lead from Heider, who describes destruction as an action in which 'one replaces an order with a lower degree of order, or lack of order [disorder]' (Heider 2005, 9). Destruction entails transformation to nothing (Heider 2005, 9–10), or equally the ruin of power and function and a consequent breaking into pieces (Heider 2005, 10). As noted above, Heider believes that 'Destruction is easy and can be very swift, while construction often involves a long and difficult process' (Heider 2005, 11). He has further observed that:

One can easily make disorder out of ordered entities; one can wreck them even if one has no idea what makes them work. For destruction the energy can be undirected and haphazard, for building up, it has to be guided.

(Heider 2005, 11).

To expand on this further, I now move to Marra country in northern Australia.

Marra country occupies the Limmen Bight in the Gulf of Carpentaria, northern Australia, while Yanyuwa country lies to the southwest of the Gulf. Both groups identify as saltwater people. Their respective countries are shaped by the acts and actions of ancestral beings who gave form and substance to their territories. Marra and Yanyuwa are distinct Indigenous language groups, although they share a long history of intermarriage and cultural exchange. This is often expressed in shared ceremonies, shared ancestral narratives and Dreaming pathways, travelled by spirit ancestors who moved through one territorial estate into the other. Dreaming, in the words of Indigenous Australian people, is a subtle and complex term (see Wolfe 1991). Dreaming pathways and places are often the travelling and stopping points for ancestral beings as they moved through country; they may often be distinguished by physical markers that are either the bodies of the ancestral beings, the objects they carried or the result of their actions (Hume 2000, Rose 2000; see also Griffiths 2018). According to many Aboriginal cosmologies, ancestral beings are not only responsible for shaping the land and sea: they are also what imbue it with significance and value.

The place to which this chapter turns its attention, and the instance of heritage destruction that occurred there, is important for Marra and Yanyuwa alike. This site and its features resonate potently with the saltwater sensibilities and heritages of both Indigenous groups. The place in question is Wunubarryi. It is a dugong maintenance site, located some 7 km southeast of the Limmen river, in the Northern Territory (Bradley 1997, 2000) (Fig.11.1).

Wunubarryi (referred to in Western nomenclature as Mount Young) is an important Dugong Dreaming place; Marra and Yanyuwa share in its control and use. Yanyuwa have a series of closely related

**Figure 11.1** Map of Wunubarryi, in the Gulf of Carpentaria, Northern Territory, Australia. Details are provided of the dugong herd and lone dolphin at Wunubarryi. Map design by Fiona Brady.

Dreaming places, including one for the Lone Male Dugong (*jiyamirama*) at Wungunda, on the southern bank of the mouth of the Crooked river, and another at Wirdiwirdila, a small island in the Wearyan river. Places such as these are linked through the logic and practice of a saltwater kincentric ecology. In the description of site destruction presented here, I have opted to describe the place of Wunubarryi in its fullest sense – that is, the form it took prior to destruction. This present perfect form is designed to reflect the integrity that is Wunubarryi's empiricism and law, derived from its ancestral linkages.

To the east of the hill that comprises Wunubarryi lay a number of quartzite outcrops 'which look remarkably like semi-submerged dugong with a back and snout out of the water' (Bradley 1997, 202) (Fig.11.2). These rocks are a herd of dugongs and a single dolphin, stranded on dry

**Figure 11.2** Tommy Reilly Nawurrungu striking one of the dugong at Wunubarryi with a hammerstone (from Bradley 1997, 450)

land by a receding king tide (*bambiliwa*) during the Dreaming, the time of ancestral creation.

The dugong herd at Wunubarryi includes several large rocks, partially buried, which are male and female dugongs. It is the female dugongs with which Marra and Yanyuwa engage directly in the act of maintenance and ritual engagement (Bradley 1988, 111–12, Bradley 1997, 200–1). When men wish to perform these rituals – it has traditionally been the domain of men to undertake these – they approach the Dugong Dreaming herd and brush down the body of the female dugongs with leafy branches (Bradley 1988, 111; Bradley 1997, 202).

Upon a visit to Wunubarryi in the early 1980s, anthropologist John Bradley recorded several hammerstones laying in close proximity to and alongside the female dugongs. He noted that the practice, as explained to him by Marra men, involved a hammerstone being lifted up and brought down upon the body of the female dugong. Some of the female dugongs were recorded at this time as having deep grooves and depressions across their backs, indicating that the rites of maintenance were of 'some antiquity' (Bradley 1997, 203). Marra men recalled that at the same time as the hammerstones struck the dugong's body, the names of dugong hunting localities along the coast and in the area of the Sir Edward Pellew Islands of the southwest Gulf of Carpentaria were called out by those in attendance. According to Bradley, 'every fragment of rock that comes off a dugong stone, for example, is a potential dugong' (Bradley 1997, 205). He provides a translated example of this calling out as follows:

You dugongs, listen to me, you will come out from here and you will travel to Wuthanda (McArthur River mouth), Liwujujuluwa (Crooked river mouth), Lidambuwa (Sharkers Point) and Bulubuluwiji (Wearyan river mouth). Listen to these words that I am telling you! (Bradley 1988, 112)

Another recitation, recorded previously by Bradley in 1985, conveys the relational substance of this place and the terms of human engagement:

Yes, I am here, *jungkayi* [guardian] for you dugong, listen to me, come out from here and go. Yes, go! Go from here! Arise up and go to the sea grass! To Walkanjawalkarri and Manukulungku, Munuli, yes, and eastwards to Kaluwangarra and Ngurruwirririla, Wijiwijila and Rrawali, yes, and then on to Babalungku, Aburri, Wurruwiji, Wuthuwuthari, Wumarndu, Warriwiyala, Wuburrnyarrangka and Mangurrungurru, yes, and arise and go to Kuluwurra, Wuthanda, Wanakurla, Wudambuwa, Liwujujulhuwa, Lidambuwa, yes, and Warrkungka, Lukuthikuthila, Libankuwa, Maruwanmala, Bulubuluwiji. Yes, go, I am here *jungkayi*, you dugong are my mother Go! Go! I am telling you.

> (Tommy Nawurrungu, speaking in 1985, cited in Bradley 1997, 202)

Wunubarryi is associated in the fullest sense with the maintenance and fecundity of dugongs throughout the Gulf of Carpentaria. To Marra and Yanyuwa, Wunubarryi is *wirrimalaru* – a term that denotes a status that translates to being a powerful place, one that combines the attributes of high position with spiritual, symbolic and political power. The term is used in reference to ancestral Dreamings, ceremonies, sacred objects, individual people, groups of people and places. Places considered *wirrimalaru* are of great importance to Marra and Yanyuwa, as they represent *'*country that is always strong, strong forever' (Gordon Lansen, pers. comm., 20 September 2002).

In 1976 the Dugong Dreaming at Wunubarryi was desecrated. The white leaseholders of what was then Nathan River Pastoral Station, a non-Indigenous land holding which incorporated Wunubarryi within its limits, dug out two of the female dugongs while constructing a fourwheel drive track through the area (Bradley 1997, 203). News of this destruction made its way to the Marra and Yanyuwa, and was received with great distress. People's concern was primarily directed at the effects of this desecration on the health of the dugong population in the Gulf of Carpentaria (Bradley 1997, 203).

The road being constructed also cut through a nearby Kunabibi ground. The Kunabibi is a ceremony dedicated to the celebration of ritual estates, reinforcing ancestral substance as linked to country of the Mermaid (*a-Marrarabarna*) and the Whirlwind Rainbow Serpent (*Walalu*) Dreamings (Bradley with Yanyuwa Families 2017, 117, 470). Kunabibi is a regional ceremony practised across a number of different language groups throughout Australia. Each group has their own variant of the ceremony, but groups often gathered to perform Kunabibi collectively with neighbours. In coming together, ritual practice would combine the discrete practices of each group in a large-scale ceremony involving men and women, and ceremony grounds for men and women (John Bradley, pers. comm., 20 July 2018).

Wunubarryi was a place where regional groups would come together to perform Kunabibi at a Marra-centric Kunabibi ground. The ceremony grounds of both men and women at Wunubarryi were desecrated by the road construction in 1976. This particular ceremony ground dated from the mid-1950s and represented the very last Marra-specific Kunabibi site in the region (John Bradley, pers. comm., 20 July 2018).

The Marra and Yanyuwa peoples found out about the 1976 desecration of Wunubarryi some time later, during sacred site recordings with heritage consultant Dehne McLaughlin (McLaughlin 1978). This site destruction was locally condemned, and gained public mention in the 1977 Borroloola Land Claim hearings (John Bradley, pers. comm., 20 July 2018). The Land Claim hearings marked the beginnings of a political history involving the Aboriginal Land Rights (Northern Territory) Act 1976. The Wunubarryi desecration was detailed in the Land Claim hearings, along with other cases of deliberate destruction of sacred sites across Yanyuwa and Marra country, including the desecration of log coffin burials within a cave on South West Island, in the Gulf of Carpentaria. This amounted to evidence of the harm done by White Australians to Aboriginal lands and waters throughout the region, while also conveying the roles and obligations of a kincentric ecology across these territories. Recognising the emotional harms caused by site destruction and the disregard of Indigenous cultural heritages was one part of the Land Claim process, in which the enduring nature of this kincentric ecology is the fundamental justification for the return of land rights.

The second desecration of Wunubarryi occurred in 1984. News of this reached the community much more quickly, for it occurred at a time when Indigenous people, emboldened by the results of regional Land Claims, began to move once again across their country, scrutinising the activities of pastoralists and leaseholders. In this instance the pastoralist upgraded the existing road (as cleared in 1976), again moving the already relocated female dugongs and digging further through the ceremony ground. In the case of the 1976 desecration nothing could be done, due to a lack of lawful provisions that would require the non-Indigenous leaseholders to consult with Marra over works in the area. By the time of the second violation, however, the Aboriginal Sacred Sites Authority – an independent statutory authority responsible for overseeing the protection of Aboriginal sacred sites in the Northern Territory – had come into existence. It had registered the area of Wunubarryi as a sacred site, yet no prosecutions occurred because the person who committed the secondary act was no longer in the Northern Territory, and his whereabouts were not known.

In 1984 Tommy Reilly Nawurrungu, a senior Marra man, recorded the following comments with anthropologist John Bradley:

Today when I saw those dugong by the graded road I was very sorry. We don't mind people putting a road away from the ceremony place, but we do not want the road by the ceremony. It is no use saying sorry about the place after they dig it up. They should find out first. Man comes sneaking in just like him stealing a car, as if there is no person owning this country.

> (John Bradley, ethnographic field notes, pers. comm., 20 July 2018)

In 1984 Dulu Burranda, another senior Marra man, struggled to come to terms with the events, exclaiming 'We never came from anywhere else, we come from here. How can they do this to our country?' (John Bradley, ethnographic field notes, pers. comm., 20 July 2018). Some years later, in 2002, I spoke with Yanyuwa elders about earlier events at Wunubarryi. Annie Karrakayn reflected on the social memories linked to this place:

My father would go hit the stone and dugong would go and run out all over the country. But they been killem that place, those whitefellas, they been separating the land and sea, for them it's nothing, just empty. But I think they are jealous and greedy ones, can't see all one mob, land and sea, all area belong to us people. That place is dugong, but when they killem [it's because] nobody don't do anything that's good for us around here.

(Annie Karrakayn, pers. comm., 3 October 2002)

In 2018, while travelling and working in the Limmen National Park with Indigenous landowners, discussions of site destruction at Wunubarryi emerged once again. The Nathan River Pastoral Station was converted to a national park in 2012, becoming part of the extensive Limmen National Park. In a series of conversations with the senior Marra man David Barrett, it became clear that the social memories of this destruction of place remain strong: people still express disbelief that such events were allowed to occur. David has grown up in the region and now works as an Indigenous sea ranger there, conducting regional management and safeguarding to ensure the health and wellbeing of his sea country. Now aged 32, he was not even born when either of the desecrations took place at Wunubarryi, yet his knowledge of these events, and his exasperation at the disregard shown for Indigenous people's cultural heritage more broadly, are evident when he reflects:

The problem keeps going today, charter companies take tourists all over the place, and they even come in on choppers. They pay nothing to be there and the helicopters land right there, right near that place [Wunubarryi]. Those charter people just make up stories for tourists about what's there. They don't care about the real story or anything else, they just mess it all up over and over again. I think it all started with that old pastoralist, that whitefella who dug out the dugongs at Wunubarryi. He did that just to build a fishing track. Since then nothing's really changed, same old story. But it's a beautiful place out there, yeah, really something.

(David Barrett, pers. comm., 4 July 2018)

So how is it that, in the face of ancestral importance and great cultural meaning, the desecration of the dugong herd and dolphin at Wunubarryi and the destruction of the Kunabibi ceremony ground could occur? The complications in this case are that these events took place against a backdrop of enduring settler-colonialism. The incidents were supported by white settler/leaseholder ignorance, a lack of political and legal safeguards and a condition of geographical isolation, removing any surveillance that might have helped to prevent such destructive acts. In this part of the Gulf of Carpentaria, Indigenous and non-Indigenous residents live alongside one another; their histories have been interwoven since the early nineteenth century, in a complex mix of violent and amicable terms. A pattern of resistance, accommodation and entanglement in Indigenous and non-Indigenous relations distinguishes this part of Australia, as it does elsewhere.

Yet the prevailing ontics (habits of action and expression) of everyday life have ensured white dominance and control over the lands and waters. Despite land rights legislation being instated during this time, Indigenous groups have still had to pursue their rights through the provisions of the settler-colonial state. I propose that the destruction of Wunubarryi was an act, or a sequence of actions, of settler-colonial ambivalence – part of a long chain in destructive ontics that are linked to coloniality. Such ambivalence transmutes into a form of violence in its commitment to axiological retreat that is a failure to care. Axiological retreat, as I explore it here, invokes principles of disregard and moral disengagement at a level so normalised that the question of care passes into oblivion for those who enact the violence, and for the systems that ultimately support them.

## Destructive ontologies and responsive reflexivity

Wunubarryi and the Marra and Yanyuwa kin that care for this place carry testimonies of violence. The ethnographic record of cultural wounding for Indigenous Australians (see Kearney 2014, 2017) is a densely packed account of physical and cultural harms. These include the dispossession of rights to lands, waters and heritage – and, since 1788, the tireless pursuit of rights and provisions to safeguard the cultural expressions, ways of knowing and of being. Testimonies of violence have been given in families and communities, trials and commissions, through films and even in solitude (Weine 2006, xiii). Testimonies of violence and harm demonstrate the power of speech acts for those who have lived through disordering events, and the importance of those aspects of life that have been fundamentally rearranged through destructive acts. As testimonies, speech acts that demarcate the destruction of heritage and place value are powerful; they resist silencing and emphasise remembering by retrieving and sharing memories of 'what has happened'. Marra and Yanyuwa testimonies of what has occurred at Wunubarryi are evidence of this. In this case, however, it is not only the testimony of humans that recounts the destruction of heritage, but also the testimony of the place itself.

Wunubarryi offers a non-verbal account of destruction that serves as testimony to the effects of harm. The physical evidence of destruction as scars – and the subsequent harms this caused to the dugong populations in the Gulf of Carpentaria, and to the emotional wellbeing of Marra and Yanyuwa – highlight the interconnectivity of a single destructive act in a kincentric ecology. As Salmón has noted, 'Life in any environment is viable only when humans view their surroundings as kin; that their mutual roles are essential for survival' (Salmón 2000, 1332). In a striking analogy, he adds that 'If one aspect of the lasso is removed, the integrity of the circle is threatened and all other aspects are weakened' (Salmón 2000, 1329).

Responsiveness to the testimonies of destroyed places may also express what Albrecht describes as 'solastalgia' (Albrecht 2006). Conveying the intimacy of heritage destruction and its effects on the lives of those responsible for such heritage very closely, solastalgia describes the 'pain or sickness caused by the loss of, or inability to derive solace from, the present state of one's home environment' (Albrecht 2006, 35). The enduring quality of Marra and Yanyuwa social memories born of the destruction of Wunubarryi and the harms done to this dugong herd, dolphin and the neighbouring Kunabibi ground, speak to a deeply held sadness connected to loss. As Albrecht has perceived, 'Solastalgia exists when there is recognition that the beloved place in which one resides is under assault (physical desolation)' (Albrecht 2006, 35).

In this instance Marra and Yanyuwa may not reside permanently at Wunubarryi, but their kin do: that is, the ancestral dugongs and dolphin. This is home in the broadest sense of the word that is country, a homeland within which lie all the elements of Marra and Yanyuwa Law. Albrecht has commented that 'Solastalgia is the lived experience of the loss of value of the present and is manifest in a feeling of dislocation, of being undermined by forces that destroy the potential for solace to be derived from the immediate and given' (Albrecht 2006, 35). In this instance, a form of value nihilism has fuelled the destructive ontologies of non-Indigenous place relations. This has taken hold as a failure to care for the integrity and value of Wunubarryi; in this instance decisive care is mediated only by the effect to which self-interest is under threat. The consequential harms of unearthing the female dugongs were in this case sufficiently diffused so as to restrict the likelihood of care and consequence for non-Indigenous perpetrators. Did the pastoralist know of the dugongs? Certainly these were known about in the case of the second wave of destruction in 1984, which thus represents a 'failure to care' and a willful axiological retreat. To enact harm to this place in the second instance pushes the destructive ontology into the realm of moral disengagement, expressed as ambivalence and axiological retreat in settlercolonial apprehensions of Indigenous cultural heritage.

The dispositions of responsive reflexivity, retreat and ambivalence co-exist within the context of Wunubarryi and, more broadly, of Australian Indigenous cultural heritages and the settler state. These lay bare the competing ontics that underscore and undermine heritage value, and efforts at safeguarding Indigenous places of importance. These are distinguished by two orientations towards heritage and the place world. The first is that of responsive reflexivity; the second is unresponsive reflexivity.

Responsive reflexivity involves fully engaging reflexive selfawareness, and in doing so acknowledging reflexivity beyond the self. In this case, the condition of knowing the self increases the likelihood of seeing and knowing the existences of others, human or otherwise. In the case of destruction and disorder, this reflexive awareness is extended to imagine and to witness more fully the experiences of that which is harmed. Unresponsive reflexivity stops at the self; it denies an expanding reflexive awareness to include other beings and dispositions of consequence and importance. In sum, it manifests as unwillingness to imagine the lived experience of destruction and disorder, a lack of commitment to witnessing such events and lingering encounters and, sadly, a denial of their harmful effects altogether.

In the first instance, namely responsive reflexivity, responsiveness is receptiveness to the acknowledgement of value, harm and sensitivity to their causation. This might be expressed as an empathic response or a drive to remediate and mitigate against further harm. Responsive reflexivity heavily involves and implicates the human in the causation of harm, even as it draws on human witnesses (or kin) to acknowledge and therefore through response alleviate the suffering of place. In contrast, unresponsive reflexivity – as characterising the non-Indigenous protagonists' orientation in this case study – is characterised by passivity, even in the face of exposure to or knowledge of place harm.

As an act of choice, this unresponsive reflexivity represents a distant form of witnessing. A person may avail themselves of it to recognise harm to a lesser or greater degree, but he or she will opt out from a dialogic encounter as one that prompts reflection. The witness may be unmoved to care or act in response, instead availing himself or herself only to the position of 'knowing about' place harm. Such a position may cause an individual or group of people to locate place harm as secondary to the interests of people, or as something inevitable and part of a 'modern world system'. It may be cast as an unfortunate outcome, or a necessary burden to be carried by distant cultural others.

Responsive reflexivity and unresponsive reflexivity both involve consciousness of actions, events and even change as a form of witnessing. Yet these actions and harms are processed through very different axiologies and may lead to very different ontologies in people and place relations. Where heritage destruction occurs and disorder takes hold, human life is drawn into a relational encounter in which response and non-response might appear to be two options. Responsive reflexivity is juxtaposed by unresponsive reflexivity, yet it exists as one part on a continuum of engagement. Here reflexivity is treated as that state of being in which the self is encountered as a communal actor, consistently problematised in relation to something or someone else (Finlay 2003; Gough 2003).

It is the distinction between 'having knowledge of' and 'having faith in the claim of consequence' that is pertinent to this discussion of destructive ontologies. To 'have knowledge of place harm' is akin to spectatorship; a situation in which witnessing involves the knowledge or even perhaps observation of harm, yet an enduring separation between the effects of that harm and the continuation of certain forms of life. Consequential harms may be overlooked, justified, diminished or even denied by spectators in this mode of unresponsive reflexivity.

Witnessing of the intimate kind and 'having faith' in the occurrence of harm brings an altogether different response. This may be a vivid awareness of circumstances, as is the case with Wunubarryi and the worrying effects of its destruction on the health of dugong populations throughout the Gulf, or the health of Marra and Yanyuwa kin who are connected to this place. For Indigenous owners of heritage, people come to feel and embody the harm done to places such as Wunubarryi, while seeking out epistemological frameworks for describing it. So they also are drawn to care, and thus express dissent, anger, sadness or longing at what has occurred. Intimate forms of witnessing have at their core a sense of responsibility. Such responsibility throws open the limits of obligation, care, culpability and investment in something greater than human life.

## Final thoughts on axiological return

One way of shrinking the gap, within which heritage destruction as a failure to care occurs, is to balance the concern for human rights with that of human responsibility, or radically to replace the former with the latter as a new framework for configuring rights, accountability and action. Responsibility is associated with the ways in which dependencies and interactions are mediated, on terms that not only protect and provide for the human right to life, but fully enact responsibility in the protection and caring for all life – configured here as the co-presences that culminate in a culturally distinct place world. Instead of the human right to 'do as they wish' being paramount, there is instead an overriding responsibility to support the conditions by which all else experiences its freedom as a form of internal order and local empiricism. These 'relations of interdependence' have been described by Rose as bearing responsibilities for others (Rose 2008, 110).

Emphasising responsibility is about enhancing relational awareness and recognition as to the intercultural worlds in which we exist, particularly in the settler-colonial scene that is Australia. The establishment of responsibility returns this discussion to a wider realm of kinship. Human roles and responsibility are derived from relational ontologies and awareness, and it is kinship that structures cycles of responsibility (Pierotti 2008, 185). By this we mean kinship as something pervasive, a concept greater than people's biological and social relationships to one another and inclusive of all and any elements of the place world in which humans are one element. A kincentric ecology functions in accordance with multifarious agents that extend beyond human life, thus enlarging our perceptual selves and the capacity to see other agents and presences of consequence. Kincentricity compels the awareness that other agents and co-presences possess and demand rights through their inherent character and order.

Seeking pathways to an axiological return, in which kinship between people and place is found, and inspired, is the final objective here. This requires a reflective discussion on the principles and relational commitments essential to kincentric ecology, as a heuristic and practical device aimed at redressing heritage destructions worldwide. Most importantly the challenge of how these principles can be lived and re-entered into the normative practice of everyday place interactions among cultural and ethnic groups worldwide, as inclusive of Indigenous and non-Indigenous identities, should be engaged. In concluding, it is proposed that kincentric ecology provides the most substantial epistemology for realising ontological and axiological shifts in human conceptualisations and relationships with place. In so doing they expand the scope of care to include heritage as the encompassing context into which human life is projected, reflected and affirmed.

#### Note

1. A dugong is an aquatic mammal found on the coasts of the Indian Ocean from eastern Africa to northern Australia. Maintenance sites or 'increase' sites are locations tied to a particular species or phenomena that requires 'activating'. The literature on 'increase' habits reveals a range of human practices designed to aid the increase process, including the stacking of stones, the striking or brushing of rock surfaces, painting and repainting of rock art, building of shrines or the bearing of stone objects on the body (see McNiven 2016, 197).

## References


Kearney, A. 2014. *Cultural Wounding, Healing and Emerging Ethnicities*. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

Kearney, A. 2017. *Violence in Place, Cultural and Environmental Wounding*. London; New York: Routledge. McLaughlin, D. 1978. *A Submission Requesting the Protection of Wunubari. Prepared On Behalf of the* 


Rose, D. B. 2008. 'Dreaming Ecology: Beyond the Between', *Religion and Literature* 40:1, 109–22.


Skolimowski, H. 1993. *A Sacred Place to Dwell: Living with Reverence Upon the Earth*. Rockport, MA: Element.

Smith, C. and Ward, G., eds. 2000. *Indigenous Cultures in an Interconnected World*. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press.

Stoler, Ann, ed. 2013. *Imperial Debris: On Ruins and Ruination*. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

Weine, S. 2006. *Testimony after Catastrophe: Narrating the Traumas of Political Violence*. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press.


## Part IV Conflicts, Violence, War and Destruction

## 12 Cultural memory as a mechanism for community cohesion: Dayr Mar Elian esh-Sharqi, Qaryatayn, Syria

Emma Loosley Leeming

## The destruction of Mar Elian and Palmyra

At the end of August 2015 the monastery of Mar Elian was destroyed in the town of Qaryatayn, Syria. This small settlement is located roughly in the centre of an imaginary triangle created by the three points of Damascus, Homs and Palmyra; it exists, as Palmyra does, because of an ancient oasis. In this case the town is located in the arid zone where the Syrian steppe shades into desert, rather than being at the heart of the Syrian Desert, and is therefore significantly less picturesque than Palmyra. At the time when the monastery was destroyed by *daesh* the act was overshadowed in the international media by events taking place in Palmyra, several hours drive to the east at the centre of the Syrian Desert. In fact it is arguable that this particular episode of destruction would never have reached a wider audience at all had *daesh* not elected to post one of their propaganda videos on the internet recording this event.1 Such a public performance (Harmanşah 2015, 170–7) was notably at odds with their more clandestine demolition activities over in Palmyra.

While the concentration on the destruction of a UNESCO listed World Heritage Site in the mainstream media is entirely understandable, the majority of the world overlooked the simple fact that most people are more emotionally invested in monuments that have played a formative role in their emotional and psychological development. A nationally important symbol such as the Houses of Parliament for the British or the Arc de Triomphe for the French may trigger national pride and stand as a symbol of a nation, but we must question how far people are emotionally connected to such sites in the long term. Of course there would be major shock and dismay if these buildings came to harm, but would their loss leave an *emotional* or *spiritual* void behind?

This article is not the place to pursue this speculation further. The author's intention is rather to point out that whereas the loss of the monuments of Palmyra has yet to be fully explored in emotional terms, the destruction of Mar Elian can already be said to have had an immediate impact on the mental wellbeing of the Qurwani.2 We can assert this with relative surety because the presence of the shrine marked not only the religious centre of the town for Christians and Muslims alike, but it also represented the tangible proof of a foundation myth central to their self-perception.

## The two villages: a story of tolerance and co-existence

Once upon a time, over a thousand years ago, there were two villages that stood side by side in the Syrian Desert. They were called in Syriac, their native language, *quryo tartain* or 'the two villages'. Both were Christian and they lived alongside each other peacefully. There came a time when a new religion was brought to them across the desert by the desert Arabs, and so the people of the two villages got together to decide what they should do for the best. After some discussion it was agreed that one village would remain Christian while the other adopted this new religion. At that time there was no knowing which of these two faiths would prove triumphant in Syria and so a pact was made: whichever faith became dominant, the people of that village swore to protect their brothers and neighbours from oppression and to uphold their right to maintain their religious beliefs. As we now know, the Muslims won this battle, but ever since the Muslims of Qaryatayn have respected and protected their Christian neighbours, remembering the pact made by their ancestors.3

This story is at the centre of how the people of Qaryatayn define themselves and why this relatively small community4 argued that their intra-confessional relationships were more stable and respectful than those in neighbouring settlements. One pivotal aspect of this narrative begins with what it means to be *Qurwani*. Unsurprisingly there is a range of opinions on who is, and is not, considered a fully accepted native citizen of the town, and of course there is a difference between self-perception and the perception of other people. This issue came into sharp relief in the first years of the twenty-first century, when the author was undertaking archaeological fieldwork at Mar Elian. Local people of different religious beliefs would visit the site to pray at the tomb, and to stop and chat with the interesting foreigner who had started to live in the old mudbrick tower in the semi-ruined cloister.

At the centre of this communal self-belief was the monastery of Mar Elian, specifically the Byzantine tomb at the heart of the complex. This represented for the local population the tangible historical proof of the veracity of this legend. The saint is believed by the local Christians to have been the teacher of the great Syriac theologian, poet and hymnographer St Ephrem. He is believed to have died in the vicinity of Qaryatayn as he returned from a pilgrimage in the Holy Land to his home in Mesopotamia. Dayr Mar Elian esh-Sharqi translates as the 'Monastery of St Julian of the East'. The saint was also referred to in Arabic as Mar Elian esh-Sheikh and in Syriac as Mar Yulyano Sobo, both of which mean St Julian the Old Man, with the word *Sheikh* carrying extra implications of a wise elderly leader. Finally, his 'other' identity in the town was that of Sheikh Ahmed Hauri or *Khouri*, an Arabic word used for Christian priests, and this was the designation used by the Muslim Qurwani.

It appeared to matter little to the Qurwani whether their neighbours venerated Mar Elian or Sheikh Ahmed. An easy co-existence at the shrine meant that the sarcophagus was draped not only with Christian tapestries featuring images of the Virgin underneath a pile of votive offerings, but also, beneath the other coverings, the tomb was covered with the green satin shroud familiar from the graves of Muslim Holy Men.

## Insider or outsider? The liminal role of Qaryatayn's Christian *bedu* and other outsiders

When it came to unravelling the underlying attitudes that underpinned the life of Qaryatayn, the first surprise was that the inhabitants were not all *fellahin*. This is the term applied to settled villagers who work the land or run small artisanal or commercial premises in the town. Instead it transpired that Qaryatayn also had a *bedu* population; they remained slightly apart from the majority, maintaining their own traditions and following a different domestic arrangement. Specifically this meant an entire *bedu* clan living in one village house that was sparsely furnished with little more than sponge mats, rugs and cushions for sitting on in the day and sleeping on at night, and cooking utensils in the kitchen. Whereas the inter-generational settled village families often hosted grandparents, parents and all unmarried children, whatever their age, under one roof, a *bedu* household would also include multiple married siblings, along with their spouses and children, in the same home so that uncles, aunts and cousins all lived together. The next surprise was that not all these *bedu* were Muslim. Indeed, the most numerous family to attend the Syrian Catholic Church every Sunday and to send the most children to catechism classes each Friday was *Bayt Habib,* who were Christian *bedu*.

*Bayt Habib* were easily distinguishable from their friends and neighbours by the fact that they bore a strong physical rememblance to one another;5 they also tended to use names that referred to the natural world rather than traditional Christian names.6 They were headed by the family patriarch, Abu Nasif, – one of the last generation to remember the traditional life of the *bedu* before the twentieth-century evolution of nation-states in the Levant.

Abu Nasif had been educated on the Mount of Olives by French Benedictine monks at a time when his family still roamed the desert on camelback. He said that the family, like all other Syrian *bedu,* had been forced by financial constraints to sell the camels to wealthier *bedu* from the Arabian Peninsula in the 1950s. Since that time they had followed a pattern of half the family following the herds in the summer, with the rest remaining in the family home in Qaryatayn. Transport was usually by donkey, with trucks hired to move the herds longer distances if the usual pastures proved insufficient – an increasing problem due to the droughts Syria has experienced from the 1990s onwards. During the winter all the family could live together as there was sufficient grazing around the town for the herders to keep close to home. Alternatively in the long school summer holidays almost all the family went with the herds – only the very old, the very young or sick, and those needed to care for them, remained behind. This financial model also relied on some members of the family working outside the herd by taking on more conventional paid employment. Fatlullah, one of Abu Nasif's sons, was a schoolteacher and his salary was paid into the family budget to support the costs of running the household for all the Habib clan, despite the fact that he and his wife had no children.

Until the 1980s, when a termite problem led to the collapse of the range of mudbrick buildings along the east side of the monastic enclosure,7 *Bayt Habib* had lived in the monastery of Mar Elian and acted as the *de facto* guardians of the site. This initially appeared to be evidence of how the clan were a fully integrated part of the town, but further exploration proved the opposite to be true. Abu Nasif was clear that the family were incomers, having emigrated from the village of Basireh at some point in the seventeenth century. Until then, he said, they had been custodians of a *Khan* at a crossroads on the road to Palmyra, but the combined factors of a change in routes across the desert coupled with a failure of the water supply had seen the clan relocate to Qaryatayn.8 At no point was it made clear at what time they had taken up residence in the monastery. However, since textual evidence suggests that it may have fallen into disrepair from the seventeenth century onwards (Kaufhold 1995, 48–199), and this was the period in which the family left Basireh, it is possible that their occupation of the monastery could indeed have stretched back that far.

It soon became apparent that it was the perceived *otherness* of *Bayt Habib* that would have equipped them to guard the shrine. While the official narrative of the shrine was that Mar Elian was the unifying presence behind peace in Qaryatayn, his presence had also sparked a vicious, intra-communal feud. This discord was not between Christian and Muslim Qurwani, but rather occurred as a result of Christian factionalism. In the seventeenth century the Catholic Church founded the Syrian Catholic Church to cater for Arabic and Syriac-speaking Syrian Orthodox Christians who had been converted to Rome by missionaries, but who continued to pray in their ancestral language and keep many of their ancient liturgical practices. It is unclear when Dayr Mar Elian ceased as a functional monastic community. What we do know is that so many Christians in the Qalamoun region converted to Syrian Catholicism that Syrian Orthodoxy was wiped out in the area, and the monastery of Mar Musa al-Habashi near Nabk was passed to the Catholic Church in the early nineteenth century.

Approximately 45 km to the northeast of Mar Musa, Qaryatayn was located at the faultline between places such as Nabk, which had adopted Catholicism, and the villages further towards the desert such as Sadad, which had resolutely remained Syrian Orthodox. The two village priests thus fought each other for the custodianship of the monastery which, although ruined, still housed a small chapel and the tomb of the saint. This was such a problematic issue that as late as the 1950s local people report the two priests breaking each other's limbs in a fist fight over who was the worthy custodian of the shrine. None of this impacted on the Christian-Muslim relations in the village, but it did lead some Muslims, not without reason, to question the validity of a Christian faith that appeared to have leaders incapable of forgiveness.

Given this animosity, it was therefore advantageous to have a group who, though active members of the Syrian Catholic congregation, occupied a liminal role as residents of both the desert and of Qaryatayn, as *Bayt Habib* was viewed in a number of ways as being outside the mainstream of settled village life. This impression that an outsider should be the site guardian was reinforced by the appointment of a new custodian in the 1990s. Abu Fadi is a member of the Atallah family who, although relatively populous and self-identifying as Qurwani, are also referred to as outsiders by other Qurwani. This is largely because they only arrived in Qaryatayn from Damascus in the early twentieth century and, like *Bayt Habib*, maintained a pronounced tradition of first cousin marriage. In fact any marriages conducted outside the family have favoured the bringing in of wives from outside Qaryatayn and the wider region entirely; this marks them out as not fully Qurwani to their neighbours, who marry within the town or choose to take a spouse from the nearer villages such as Sadad. In both these cases it raises the question as to whether the choice of a slightly 'alien' guardian was a mechanism employed to defuse the internal tensions simmering over which Christian faction controlled access to the shrine.

These strong views among the Christians of who was truly Qurwani and who was still perceived as an outsider, even after a century or more of their ancestors living in the town, pointed to the fact that the shared communal memory of the settlement was extremely strong, and that oral traditions relating to faith and lineage were far more important to inhabitants than conventional written modes of recording history. Part of this pride can perhaps be ascribed to the fact that the Qurwani perceived themselves to be truly 'people of the book', as Qaryatayn has been identified with the city of Hazar Enan in the Old Testament (Numbers 34:9–10, Ezekiel 47:17, 48:1) and the settlement was the centre of a kingdom in the Middle Bronze Age.9 This presumed biblical history, coupled with the narrative that argued that both Christianity and Islam were adopted early by the inhabitants of the town, meant that faith was seen as a central element of communal identity; there was great pride in the antiquity of these unbroken lines of religious transmission. With this being the case it could be argued that this 'purity' of religious lineage was what the Qurwani saw as being central to their identity, and why they were so adamant that others were not true Qurwani, even after the passage of four centuries.

## Conventional historical and archaeological discourse and their intersection with oral histories

Interestingly we have a number of accounts of European travellers who passed through the town in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. These have proved surprisingly helpful in verifying many of the oral traditions recounted by local people. These verifications relate to both people and locations, and have acted as a useful mechanism for gauging whether or not the oral memories of the town appeared to have been transmitted in a largely factual and accurate manner.

The first instance of this intersection occurred on a visit in 2001 with Fr Jacques Mourad, the Syrian Catholic priest of the town, and some of his parishioners to the substantial *tell* lying to the south and slightly to the east of the modern settlement. On the way the road passed a small rise with a substantial mudbrick building standing on the raised ground. The car was stopped for us to get out and explore the large ruins of a building. It was more elaborate than most village constructions, with the builders going to the trouble of shaping ogee arches above doors and windows. The local men explained that this had been the Ottoman police station and barracks of the town until the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire after the First World War had led to the end of the garrison and the abandonment of the building.

There were many ruined mudbrick structures in the vicinity and it was explained that the settled area of the town had progressively moved northwards over the twentieth century, leaving the earlier habitations to collapse. The presence of a significant garrison (although no details of where it was located in the town) is supported by the testimony of Isabel Burton (Burton 1875, 214ff), who visited in the early 1870s. She reports that her party was greeted by the village sheikh and an ecclesiastical representative, and that later they were introduced to Omar Beg, a Hungarian Brigadier-General, in command of 1600 Ottoman troops stationed in Qaryatayn. The location pointed out in 2001 was in the vicinity of where the nineteenth-century town had been built, with local people clarifying that new homes had been built of cinder blocks and cement throughout the second half of the twentieth century. Modern water supply networks had meant that they no longer needed to be located close to the oasis and its accompanying network of irrigation channels that directed water to a labyrinth of small walled kitchen gardens and orchards. It was explained that the drier climate of the modern town was more comfortable in the summer than the humid area near the oasis. There was also a lower risk of spreading waterborne disease if people only frequented the area as a sort of allotment: for a start, there was less chance of sewage contaminating the main water supply.

The second instance of an earlier testimony being directly supported by a contemporary inhabitant of the town occurred in 2002, when I called on Fr Jacques in his parish house in the centre of Qaryatayn. A young Muslim man was visiting him for coffee – a regular occurrence, given the generally relaxed community relations between the two religions – and they were discussing local history, the visitor being a direct descendant of the famed sheikh of the late nineteenth/early twentieth centuries, Fayyad Agha. I had read about this figure in the letters and diaries of Gertrude Bell,10 but did not admit this to the visitor. He proceeded to talk about the 'English lady who said she was an archaeologist, but we all knew she was a spy' and to ask if as another British female archaeologist I too was engaged in espionage. Despite this assertion, he was proud of his greatgrandfather's friendship with Bell, saying that the two had remained friends for many years. This is also supported by the written evidence. Bell records a journey to Palmyra by car, stopping at Qaryatayn for lunch,11 in a letter to her father of 1925. Taken together, the two letters mentioned here point to a pattern of visiting the town that lasted for at least 25 years. This echoes the testimony of Fayyad Agha's relative that Bell was viewed as a close family friend who visited often over a period of many years, rather than being somebody who had only a fleeting relationship with Qaryatayn.

Interestingly oral evidence also proved accurate when speaking to the older members of the community about vanished monastic buildings. Before excavations began at Dayr Mar Elian, Abu Nasif pointed to the areas in which the kitchen had been located and the storeroom where the parish priest had kept the eucharistic wine. Excavations in these sectors yielded a large amount of kitchen waste such as poultry and domesticated animal bones, as well as fragments of eggshell and broken ceramics and large amphorae respectively. When the residue in the amphorae was filtered in a flotation tank, it was found to contain many grape seeds; these verified the claims that it had been the area to store parish wine and other grape products such as grape molasses. Older female visitors pointed out features such as where they had lived before the collapse of the walls, and where their smaller kitchens had been built. All of these reminiscences were supported by the archaeological evidence, when features such as drains and *tannour* ovens were later excavated in the sectors indicated.

Therefore, taking all the evidence into account, it was clear that oral history was the accepted way for the Qurwani to record their past and pass it on to the next generation. While it was only possible to verify these stories as far back as the nineteenth century (the examples above), or at the most the seventeenth century (Abu Nasif's story of the *Khan* in Basireh), in each case encountered by the author the textual sources or the archaeology supported the oral testimony, whether or not the source was *fellahin* or *bedu*.

#### Shared memory as a social unifier

The collective memory of a shared historical past common to all Qurwani has always been most evident each year on 9 September. This is the feast day of Mar Elian and *eid Mar Elian* was the most significant day in the town each year, apart from Christmas and Easter for the Christians and *Ramadan*, *Eid al Fitr* and *Eid al Adha* for the Muslims. Preparations for the *eid* would begin several days in advance of the feast. A framework of metal poles was stretched across the cloister interior. This was then covered with a large tarpaulin to create an open-sided marquee so that participants were shaded from the sun during the festivities – a necessary precaution, given that the heat in early September is often still in excess of 30 degrees C. The western end of the cloister was given over to a *Bayt Sha'ar*, a traditional *bedu* tent that acted as a field kitchen. Here large cauldrons were heated over portable gas rings to prepare the desert speciality of *mansaf*, goat or mutton cooked with bulgur wheat, pistachios, almonds and mixed spices, for everyone attending the festival.

While Christians from neighbouring towns would visit for the feast – including the Syrian Catholic Metropolitan of Homs, Hama and Nabk, who would officiate at the mass – the Muslim participants in the *eid* were drawn only from Qaryatayn itself. Throughout the day those taking part in the event would pray at the tomb and light candles in the shrine, regardless of whether they were Muslim or Christian, Syrian Catholic or Syrian Orthodox. While only Christian participants took Holy Communion during the mass, the other elements of the service were open to all. This was particularly the case with the homily. In 2001 the author witnessed the late Monsignor Georges Kassab deliver an address which told the life of Mar Elian, and how modern Christians could learn from his example. Immediately afterwards Sheikh Assad, Mufti of Qaryatayn, spoke on the life and deeds of Sheikh Ahmed Hauri/Khouri. There was no controversy about these variant accounts of the life of the figure believed to be interred in the Byzantine sarcophagus in the shrine. After the service the religious leaders retired to a small reception room together while the laity sang, danced the *dabkeh* and ate *mansaf* together. This annual ritual was pivotal in underpinning the shared historical past of all Qurwani, who believed that their home was special as it had been chosen by a Holy Man as the place for his human remains to rest in perpetuity.

Therefore, even when tensions arose between the communities as they did at times – for example when younger Muslim men became too persistent in their attentions to Christian girls walking through the village in jeans and with uncovered hair – the shared shrine and the continuing presence of Mar Elian was invoked as an example to encourage good behaviour and inter-religious friendship. The *kufic* inscription that hung above the entry/exit to the monastery dated to 1473. It was a warning by a local *emir* that all pilgrims to the site were under his personal protection; any attacks on them would be severely punished. The pervasive presence of Mar Elian across the town, and his central role as the spiritual patron of all Qurwani, was a major part of Qaryatayn's belief that, although one of the most economically deprived settlements in Syria, the town had a great past and was still a significant cultural and historical element of Syrian history. The monastery was pointed to as the marker of this ancient religious significance, in the same way that the *tell* was used as a signifier of great antiquity and former political and territorial greatness.

The question we face now is that in a situation where the cultural memory of a community is so inextricably linked with a physical location, what will be the long-term effects on that community when their shrine is destroyed?

#### The future for Dayr Mar Elian and Qaryatayn

The first thing that must be addressed here is that despite the destruction of the monastery by *daesh* in 2015, and the fact that the entire Christian population of the town had been taken hostage by the terrorists, the overwhelming majority of Christians managed to reach Homs and safety in the autumn of 2015.12 Only a handful of Christians elected to remain in their homes or were unable to leave as they had been arrested and sent to Raqqa. At the time of writing, this group of survivors remain internally displaced within Syria or have tried to leave the country.13

We are thus immediately faced with a cultural dislocation. For the first time in over 1500 years Qaryatayn has been stripped of its Christian population. The churches are empty shells. It still remains unclear when it will be safe for the Christian Qurwani to return and, if they do so, how many of them will actually remain in Syria at that time? Some are in Canada and others in Europe already. Are they going to want to return to a difficult future when many have young children now in education and building a new life overseas?

The Muslims were divided between those who remained and those who left. However, since their Christian neighbours were forced to leave in order to avoid forced conversion or death at the hands of *daesh*, the remaining Qurwani have seen their town destroyed by the Syrian and Russian forces who retook it from the terrorists. This caused the complete destruction of amenities such as the bakeries, water-purification and pumping works and the electrical network, as well as the levelling of many private houses and the looting/burning of the kitchen gardens, relied on by many to feed themselves. Nor did this mark the end of their problems, as in 2017 *daesh* returned and the pattern was repeated a second time – only this time a significant number of Qurwani were massacred.14

This again marks a significant point in the history of the town, which throughout the twentieth century had observed the tragedy of others. Elderly people recount tales of families adopting Armenian children who had escaped across the desert from Ottoman concentration camps, for example, but Qaryatayn had remained relatively untouched by the conflicts experienced in less remote settlements. Here the war has been brought into a previously peaceful region, and there is currently no indication of how the events of the past few years will impact on future generations. Will the latest massacre mean that the Christians fail to return entirely? Will the remaining Muslim inhabitants feel so traumatised that they encourage their children to seek their futures elsewhere? Or will the strong sense of community and emotional attachment to the town draw the inhabitants back to rebuild a new future together when things become more stable? At the moment the situation is unclear, leaving the town facing an uncertain future. It has been agreed that no decisions on the rebuilding of the town can be undertaken without some degree of certainty that there will not be another outbreak of violence in the region.

Just as the future is uncertain for the inhabitants of the town, so the monastery's continued existence is held in the balance at the time of writing. Although the ancient monastery, notably the chapel with the shrine, was ostentatiously destroyed by *daesh*, with the sarcophagus being smashed and the bones being scattered, the new church at the site was left almost untouched; they simply burnt the books found in the church and the monastic library and took away the bell. However, the church was then burnt out in the Syrian and Russian advance on the town, leaving only a stone shell of the building. There is a determination to return and rebuild the site and, from an archaeological standpoint, the destruction of the medieval cloister means that there is no ethical reason why we should not now dig deeper in an effort to reconstruct the original late antique foundation.

The element of the unknown is how the community will view the site without the sarcophagus. If some bones have been salvaged and placed in a small ossuary, can this become the new focus of community veneration? If all the remains have been lost, will the sanctity of *place* endure without the central focus of prayer that the sarcophagus offered in the past?

These questions are issues that many communities have faced in the past, but it is only now that such destructive acts are viewed as crimes against humanity.15 As we move forward with more recognition and a deeper understanding of the value of how a place of worship, cemetery or meeting place may be integral to the mental, emotional or spiritual wellbeing of a community, this will become a growing area of study. We cannot hope to end these senseless acts of destruction, but we can perhaps learn how to try and mitigate the long-term impact of these events and to develop strategies for aiding community renewal in the future.

#### Notes


## References


## 13 Bosnia and the destruction of identity

Helen Walasek

This chapter will focus on the intentional destruction of cultural and religious property during the 1992–5 Bosnian War and the ethnic cleansing that drove it. It examines not only how international actors proved unable (or unwilling) to stop the destruction, but after the war had ended failed to situate post-conflict restoration and reconstruction of cultural heritage within the framework of justice and human rights for the victims of the conflict – despite the clear aims of the Dayton Peace Agreement in this respect. It explores, as well, the powerful link between cultural heritage and identity, and the significance that restoration of their destroyed heritage came to hold for the victims of ethnic cleansing.

## The background to destruction

An understanding of the backdrop to the destruction of cultural property in Bosnia-Herzegovina during the war of the early 1990s requires first a brief outline of the trajectory and ideologies behind the conflict. The 1992–5 Bosnian War was by far the most violent of the Wars of Yugoslav Succession that accompanied the dissolution of the federal state of Yugoslavia into its constituent republics as the majority became independent states. The move towards independence grew out of a variety of reasons, but became particularly acute following the rise of Slobodan Milošević and the so-called Greater Serbia Project (Ramet 2006) with its trend towards ethno-religious nationalism and ethnic exclusivism. By the time open warfare broke out in Bosnia-Herzegovina in spring 1992, Slovenia and Croatia had already proclaimed their independence. Neighbouring Croatia, home to a large Serb minority, had been under attack for over a year by the Yugoslav People's Army (JNA) and Serbian paramilitary units, and almost one-third of its territory (along Bosnia-Herzegovina's western border) was under the control of the breakaway Serb para-state of Republika Srpska Krajina (RSK). Scores of historic structures were attacked during the Croatian conflict, but the most notorious episode of intentional cultural heritage destruction was the JNA bombardment of the UNESCO World Heritage Site of Dubrovnik.

The war in Bosnia-Herzegovina was to prove even more devastating. It was a conflict that galvanised intense public polemic and had a far-reaching and long-lasting impact that continues to influence policy-makers today. One of the defining (and most reported) features of the war was the extensive intentional destruction of cultural and religious property (particularly its Ottoman and Islamic heritage), both as symbols of ethno-religious affiliation and of a historically diverse Bosnian identity. It was the greatest destruction of cultural heritage in Europe since the Second World War and aroused global condemnation, from the United Nations and UNESCO to the person on the street in London, New York, Istanbul, Cairo and Kuala Lumpur. While the National Library (*Vijećnica*) in Sarajevo and the Old Bridge (*Stari Most*) at Mostar became iconic in international perceptions of the attacks on cultural heritage, the hundreds of devastated and demolished mosques were potent symbols across the Islamic world.

Unlike Slovenia and Croatia, Bosnia-Herzegovina was a demographic patchwork of three principal ethno-national groups: Bosnian Muslims (Bosniaks), Bosnian Serbs and Bosnian Croats and the ambitions of Serbia under Milošević and Croatia, under the leadership of Franjo Tuđman, towards its territory were plain to see. Following a republic-wide referendum, Bosnia-Herzegovina declared independence from Yugoslavia in March 1992; in May 1992 it became a member state of the United Nations.

The conflict initially pitted Bosnian Serb separatist forces against the legally elected, internationally-recognised government of Bosnia-Herzegovina (labelled by many commentators, however, as 'Muslim'). Secessionist Bosnian Serbs, led by Radovan Karadžić, established a breakaway para-state of Republika Srpska and, aided by the JNA and Serbian and Montenegrin paramilitary units which moved into Bosnia from Serbia, began a systematic and aggressive programme of ethnic cleansing of non-Serb populations (targeting both Muslims and Croats) aimed at creating a contiguous, mono-ethnic territory that was exclusively Serb in character. By autumn 1992 Bosnian Serb forces controlled over 70 per cent of Bosnia-Herzegovina's territory.

During these campaigns of ethnic cleansing countless atrocities and human rights abuses considered war crimes and breaches of international humanitarian law took place, including the destruction of the religious and cultural symbols of the expelled populations. At the same time, the three and a half-year siege of Bosnia's capital Sarajevo began, by first JNA, then by Bosnian Serb forces under the command of Ratko Mladić. It was during the early months of the siege in August 1992 that the National Library was bombarded and set alight with incendiary shells.

A 'war within a war' followed in January 1993, when Bosnian Croat forces (Hrvatsko vijeće obrane/HVO), propelled by the Vance-Owen Plan that proposed the division of Bosnia-Herzegovina into ethnically dominated cantons, turned on their Bosnian government allies in a move to gain territory for an ethnically homogenous Croat para-state of Herceg-Bosna, a move that received substantial support from Croatia and the Croatian Army. During this conflict scores of towns and villages were ethnically cleansed of their non-Croat inhabitants and their cultural and religious property destroyed, Mostar was devastated and the Old Bridge destroyed by HVO shelling in November 1993. This conflict ended with the Washington Agreement of March 1994 and the creation of the Federation of Bosnia-Herzegovina (the so-called Muslim-Croat Federation).

Although no serious analyst considers the Bosnian War a religious or ethnic war (but rather the outcome of a political project), perceptions of ethno-national and ethno-religious differences and the near and distant past, particularly the events of the Second World War and the period when Bosnia-Herzegovina formed part of the Ottoman Empire, were certainly mobilised by those driving the conflict. From early on, the systematic and deliberate nature of the destruction of cultural and religious heritage (usually far from the frontlines), as well as the reasons behind it, were clearly understood by observers and victims alike, reasons that were often overtly articulated by the perpetrators themselves (Walasek 2015, 55). The purposeful destruction of built structures that functioned as markers of ethno-religious identity aimed at obliterating the material evidence of a group's long-term roots in a locality, transforming a once visibly diverse cultural landscape into an apparently historically mono-ethnic domain.

The greatest part of the destruction was carried out as an integral part of the aggressive campaigns of ethnic cleansing waged by secessionist Bosnian Serb, and later, Bosnian Croat forces and their allies, in their attempts to create contiguous mono-ethnic territories. Thus the destruction of the tangible symbols of the long historic presence of the groups targeted for removal (most often Bosnia's Muslims) should not be seen in isolation, but rather as going hand in hand with multiple atrocities and human rights abuses. The destruction was rarely collateral. The vast majority of attacks on cultural and religious property were premeditated, systematic and took place far from the frontlines. Elsewhere, in cities like Sarajevo and Mostar, not so easily overrun, structures with no ethno-national affiliation, but which embodied Bosnia-Herzegovina's centuries-long diversity were targeted, including museums, archives, libraries and institutions like Sarajevo's Oriental Institute. For this was not only an attempt to violently eradicate particular ethno-religious groups, but an attempt to deny that a collective pan-Bosnian identity had ever existed.

The types of built heritage destroyed or badly damaged were overwhelmingly religious and overwhelmingly Ottoman, or associated with Muslims or Islam. Thus in Banja Luka, de facto capital of the separatist Bosnian Serb leadership, where there were no military operations at any time, 15 mosques (12 of them listed national monuments before the war), including the sixteenth-century domed Ferhadija Mosque, along with other important Islamic or Ottoman structures, like the city's ancient clock tower, were intentionally blown up over the course of 1993. Elsewhere, small towns such as Foča and Stolac were devastated (by Bosnian Serb forces and their allies and by Bosnian Croat forces respectively) by the well-organised demolition of their historic Ottoman cores. All their mosques (and in the case of Stolac, its Orthodox churches) were systematically destroyed, as were entire Muslim neighbourhoods, and their Muslim inhabitants forcibly driven out, imprisoned, tortured, raped or killed. While there were deliberate attacks on, and destruction of, the Catholic/Croat and Orthodox/Serb heritage, such as for instance, the demolition of the Austro-Hungarian era Catholic church in Nevesinje and the Franciscan monastery at Plehan and the Serbian Orthodox Cathedral (*Saborna Crkva*) in Mostar and the monastery at Žitomislić, this was on a far lesser scale than on those structures associated with Muslims, Islam or the Ottomans.

In rural settings or urban fringes, destroyed structures were typically left to crumble. But in town and village centres, now controlled by the perpetrators and supporters of ethnic cleansing, there was active intervention: the remains of mosques such as the Ferhadija and the domed sixteenth-century Aladža Mosque in Foča (regarded by many as the most beautiful mosque in South-East Europe), were razed to the ground, their remnants trucked to landfill sites or thrown into rivers and reservoirs. Municipal authorities removed mosques from their urban plans. The levelled sites of what had once been sacred structures went on to be used as car parks and locations for communal rubbish containers, or left as empty, rubbish-strewn spaces. In a few cases rubble from destroyed mosques was used to cover Muslim victims buried in mass grave sites, such as the case of the Savska Mosque at Brčko, whose remains were discovered by war crimes investigators while excavating a mass grave near the town.

The particular targeting of minarets and their removal from the landscape was noted by one expert observer as '… a kind of architectural equivalent to the removal of the population, and visible proof that the Muslims had left' (Kaiser 2002). By the end of the war, with one exception, not a single intact minaret was left standing on territories occupied by Bosnian Serb forces. These were the first steps in the creation of a mono-ethnic realm with a fictitious past, where in 1993 the mayor of Bosnian Serb-held Zvornik could tell journalists visiting the once Muslim-majority town: 'There were never any mosques in Zvornik'.

It should be emphasised, however, that this was not an equivalent and mutual destruction by all three principal warring parties in the conflict (as it is sometimes still portrayed). Rather, investigations and analysis have compellingly demonstrated that the greatest part of the deliberate destruction of religious and cultural property took place during campaigns of ethnic cleansing, the principal perpetrators of which were Bosnian Serb forces and their allies, followed by Bosnian Croat secessionists. While Bosnian government forces did breach the Geneva Conventions, it had no policies of ethnic cleansing and did not engage in such operations (Walasek 2015, 58).

### International responses to the destruction

As the destruction continued, the ineffectiveness of international legal instruments for protecting cultural heritage in times of conflict – such as The Hague *Convention for the Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict* of 1954 – became all too evident. Such important monuments as the Ferhadija Mosque and the Old Bridge were not destroyed until 1993, more than a year after the war had begun. Yet despite the presence of a large multinational United Nations peacekeeping and humanitarian aid presence across Bosnia-Herzegovina (UNPROFOR, UNHCR, ICRC, etc.), backed by a string of United Nations Resolutions condemning ethnic cleansing, the international community seemed unable to prevent such acts.

The Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe (PACE) was to be the sole international organisation to take any form of early action, sending consultant experts to assess the destruction and publish their findings in ten *Information Reports on War Damage to the Cultural Heritage in Croatia and Bosnia-Herzegovina* (COE 1993–1997). PACE hoped these reports would inform the international community of the scale of the destruction, encourage efforts to stop it and promote active intervention to protect the heritage in what the first report in early 1993 called 'cultural cleansing' and 'a cultural catastrophe in the heart of Europe'.

From the start the PACE reports raised what remains an aspiration even 25 years later: the importance of integrating support for the cultural heritage into traditional humanitarian aid and the importance of emergency assistance *before* the conflict ended. The Council of Europe parliamentarians in 1993 urged international actors to beware of hiding behind 'false reasons' for not intervening at an early stage, nor to feel ashamed of being concerned for the cultural heritage while people were suffering, pointing out the socio-economic and psychological dimensions of the destruction.

Yet while international humanitarian law clearly mandates protection of a people's cultural property, being seen to privilege responding to violence towards buildings over violence towards people was problematic for most international organisations, even those concerned entirely with heritage protection, and remains so. Preserving historic monuments or supporting museums and heritage organisations, if considered at all by the aid community, was regarded as of minor importance in the face of what they believed were more pressing humanitarian problems – and this is still the case. Combined with an unwillingness to provide emergency assistance to protect the built heritage while the conflict was ongoing (usually on the grounds that it might be attacked again), this ensured that almost no assistance was given to protect Bosnia-Herzegovina's cultural heritage during the war.

Bosnia, then, became the paradigm of intentional cultural property destruction, not only among heritage professionals, but across disciplines from the military to humanitarian aid organisations in the years following the end of the war as they struggled to find answers to the questions raised by the all too obvious inability of the international community, in all its varied embodiments, to prevent the horrors of ethnic cleansing and the accompanying destruction of cultural and religious property, and where its representatives were frequently left as passive onlookers.

## The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY)

There was, however, one international institution which did aim to find justice for victims of the Bosnian War to which the international community gave its (sometimes grudging) support. The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) was created under a United Nations Security Council Resolution in 1993 (Res. 827 (1993)), with a mandate to call to account those who committed or allowed war crimes and human rights abuses to take place. The ICTY has played a seminal role in the development of international human rights law – including that relating to cultural heritage – and has demonstrated how closely protection of cultural and religious property is tied to peoples' rights to enjoyment of their cultural heritage, and how intimately cultural heritage and identity are linked (Brammertz et al. 2016).

The inclusion of crimes against cultural and religious property in the ICTY's Statute was an important addition to international legal instruments. But the Tribunal's most distinctive contribution to the prosecution of crimes against cultural heritage has been its landmark indictments and judgements which, in case after case, established that the deliberate destruction of structures which symbolised a group's identity were a manifestation of persecution and a crime against humanity.

Yet since the ICTY's mandate ended in 2017, the limitations of international justice for prosecuting crimes against cultural property during conflict have become apparent. There were virtually no prosecutions or convictions, apart from the bombardment of Dubrovnik, for the destruction of historic monuments as a crime in itself. Most guilty verdicts for the destruction of cultural property came from linking the destruction to persecution, and thus focused principally on religious structures. No-one has been prosecuted for the destruction of cultural property at the historic city of Jajce during the war. Nor has the ICTY satisfactorily explained why the mosques intentionally destroyed in Banja Luka (including the Ferhadija), and the shelling of the Sarajevo's National Library, all of which appeared in its 1995 indictment of Radovan Karadžić and Ratko Mladić, were removed from final indictments. Most shocking of all, the 2013 guilty verdicts for the destruction of the Old Bridge at Mostar on the defendants in the *Prlić et al* case were overturned on appeal in November 2017, raising once again the question of what constitutes military necessity (ICTY, Prlić et al. 2017).

## Dayton, human rights and heritage

The signing of the Dayton Peace Agreement (DPA) in December 1995 marked the end of the Bosnian War and Bosnia-Herzegovina's formal division into two entities: the Federation of Bosnia-Herzegovina (the so-called Muslim-Croat Federation) and Serb-dominated Republika Srpska. A huge international military and civilian presence, headed by a NATO-led multinational peacekeeping force (IFOR/SFOR) and the Office of the High Representative (OHR), oversaw implementation of the DPA. Billions of dollars in humanitarian aid poured into the country in an enormous reconstruction and state-building exercise.

An overarching aim of the Dayton Peace Agreement was to reverse the effects of ethnic cleansing in the hope of restoring Bosnia-Herzegovina's pre-war diversity. Furthermore, to those drafting Dayton, addressing the devastation to Bosnia's cultural heritage was considered so essential to the peace process that Annex 8 of the Agreement provided for the formation of a Commission to Preserve National Monuments. Two other Annexes of the DPA were also to have a crucial impact on reconstruction of the cultural heritage: Annex 6 on Human Rights, which incorporated the European Convention on Human Rights and established a Human Rights Chamber (HRC), and Annex 7 on Refugees and Displaced Persons, which ensured the right of return for refugees and displaced persons to live in their pre-war homes.

As refugees and the displaced slowly began to return to the localities from which they had been ethnically cleansed, these Annexes of the DPA were increasingly invoked in the struggle to restore and rebuild. Restoration and preservation of Bosnia's destroyed and damaged historic monuments, then, in theory, should have taken place within the framework of the Dayton Agreement, supporting the return of refugees and displaced people to the homes and communities from which they had been forcibly expelled.

Yet, with few exceptions, the international community's involvement in heritage restoration in Bosnia-Herzegovina in the critical first post-conflict decade can be characterised by a narrow focus on a small number of high-profile projects, chief among them the World Bank-led, UNESCO-co-ordinated restoration of the Old Bridge and the historic core of Mostar. The iconic bridge came to be extensively mobilised as a visible symbol of the ideas of reconciliation and the reconstruction of relations between Bosnia's ethno-national groups that the international community was keen to promote in the aftermath of the war, with the result that a substantial amount of the international funding available for post-conflict heritage restoration was swallowed up by the many projects in Mostar.

There was no linkage of heritage restoration to the return process by international actors, and little discussion of justice or human rights for the survivors of ethnic cleansing, despite that the majority of historic structures in need of restoration were in those localities where ethnic cleansing had taken place. International support for restoration projects for wardamaged or destroyed historic structures in Republika Srpska, or locations in the Federation where there was opposition from hostile, ethno-national power structures, was non-existent as donors feared to become involved in what they perceived to be difficult and contentious settings.

Yet it was in just such settings that returnees focused on literally 'restoring' their communities – including the right to equality in the public space through the reconstruction of the built markers of their identity. This was often in the face of determined obstruction and violence from hardline nationalist local authorities and their followers, many of whom had been active participants in ethnic cleansing. For of all the varied domestic and international actors involved in post-conflict cultural property restoration in Bosnia-Herzegovina, the most significant were those communities who had been ethnically cleansed and were now dispersed throughout Bosnia, across the region and around the globe. Reconstruction of the destroyed markers of community identity became almost an imperative for returnees, closely bound up with restoring feelings of security and home. But, as we shall see, the absent could have as much agency in restoring communities as those who physically returned to the places from which they had been ethnically cleansed.

## Sites of memory: a virtual Bosnia

A little explored phenomenon is the crucial role played by scores of town and village websites created by ethnically cleansed refugees and the internally displaced during and in the years after the war in constructing a virtual Bosnia which enabled globally-dispersed communities to maintain their cohesion. With internet usage becoming widespread just as war broke out, and as large swathes of Bosnia-Herzegovina were ethnically cleansed, these websites became quite literally sites of memory, heritage and identity, key mechanisms in recreating the localities from which communities had been expelled, keeping alive what had been lost through destruction and absence (Riedlmayer and Naron 2009; Walasek 2015, 230).

As the advocates of ethnic exclusivism began to rewrite the past, the pre-conflict histories of ethnically cleansed towns and villages were memorialised, documented and made accessible via such websites. Typically such sites included galleries of visual images (including pre-war photographs, old postcards and other illustrative material) of now-destroyed structures and townscapes, people and events from both the recent and more distant past, as well as information on history and heritage, often incorporating transcriptions of scholarly articles, newly written texts and such commonplace yet revealing documents of prewar demographics as telephone directories posted on the exemplary (but now defunct) *www.Focaci.org*. It could be argued that through these websites, communities (particularly their younger members) gained far greater direct access to information about their history and heritage than they had before the war.

After the war, as parts of expelled communities began to return (or even *before* they began to return), these websites became channels for many 'restorative' and community-sustaining actions, including fundraising for rebuilding mosques and churches. The majority of these place-focused websites have now disappeared from the web, a huge loss of these almost unrecorded sites of community memory. But among those still functioning in 2018 is the more widely-based *Bošnjaci.Net* (*www.bosnjaci.net*). From 2006 *Bošnjaci.Net* promoted fundraising campaigns for rebuilding devastated and demolished mosques in Eastern Herzegovina (now in Republika Srpska), an area to which few Muslims had returned and where the situation for those who had was felt to be the worst in the country. In 2009 the campaign explicitly called on Bosniaks (Muslims) not to abandon their 'cultural and religious traces in the region' and urged them to be persistent in preserving their heritage and identity to ensure that the fate of the civilisation of Islamic Spain was not repeated (*Bošnjaci.Net* 2009).

### Reconstruction as an imperative

An exploration of a handful of the initiatives to reconstruct cultural and religious property in Eastern Herzegovina that featured in the *Bošnjaci. Net* campaigns reveals the meanings these reconstructions came to hold, both for those who returned and those who did not, as well as for Bosnian Muslims/Bosniaks and the Islamic Community1 more widely. As has been discussed, the reconstruction of intentionally destroyed religious structures became almost an imperative for the returning ethnically cleansed, an important part of re-establishing a sense of home and belonging. But such reconstructions could also be powerful acts of remembrance and bearing witness, a way of ensuring that the new histories being created by the ideologues and supporters of ethnic exclusivism were exposed.

In 2000 and 2001 the author of this article, with the archaeologist Richard Carlton, made two field trips to Bosnia-Herzegovina to carry out an independent assessment of the uneven, occasionally inaccurate and sometimes contradictory information available from the various published and unpublished sources then available (and in 2019 still not superseded) on the damage and destruction caused to the country's cultural and religious heritage during and immediately after the 1992–5 Bosnian War.

A comprehensive survey would have been impossible in the short time available, but we hoped to visit, photograph and otherwise document sites (many in isolated rural locations) for which even at that time – more than five years after the end of the war – there was still no corroborated data. These trips proved, in fact, to be the first field survey of the breadth of destruction of the Islamic/Ottoman heritage across Republika Srpska and the photographic and other site records collected were given as evidence to the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia/ICTY (Walasek 2015, 155).

In 2015 we decided to revisit many of the places in Eastern Herzegovina that we had recorded in 2000. It was now 20 years since the end of the war and 15 since our original survey. We aimed to see whether ethnically cleansed communities had indeed returned, and if their destroyed heritage had been reconstructed. These were all locations where there had been no military action, but which had been the scenes of the violent ethnic cleansing of their non-Serb (largely Muslim) populations. Among the localities we revisited were Gacko, Nevesinje, Plana and Skočigrm, all of which had figured in the the *Bošnjaci.Net* fundraising campaigns and which are focused on below.

Just as it is our duty not to forget Srebrenica, the holocaust of the Jews, it is our duty not to forget our demolished mosques.

(www.klix.ba 2014)

These were the words spoken by Enis Tanović, leader of the Islamic Community in the small town of Gacko, not far from Foča, on 7 May 2014, almost 19 years after the end of the Bosnian War, as he spoke to a gathering in front of Gacko's recently reconstructed Mehmed-aga Zvizdić Mosque. Before the 1992–5 war the population of Gacko had been almost evenly divided between Serbs and Muslims. But the little town and its wider municipality had seen the ethnic cleansing of its Muslim population in 1992. Now, over 20 years later, not a single Muslim had returned to live in the town, although a small number had returned to live in villages nearby.

The date of 7 May was the anniversary of the destruction of the Ferhadija Mosque in 1993, a date chosen by the Islamic Community of Bosnia-Herzegovina to be the 'Day of the Mosque', a time when Muslims were meant to reflect not only on the importance of the mosque in Islam, but on the destruction of mosques during the war. In Gacko, Enis Tanović had tenaciously led the local Islamic Community and its reconstruction efforts. But Gacko was no longer a place where Muslims could feel at home. Across the municipality six mosques had been destroyed, among them the central Mehmed-aga Zvizdić Mosque, which had been razed to the ground. Of the three which had been rebuilt since the end of the war, two had been attacked again in 2001 and 2008, long after the signing of the Dayton Agreement. Early returnees trying to reconstruct their homes often found them planted with landmines.

Even as Enis Tanović addressed the gathering outside the newly reconstructed mosque and the Mufti of Mostar, Seid Smajkić, impressed on listeners the importance of preserving their religious and cultural identity in their centuries-old homes, anti-Muslim songs could be heard coming from nearby cafes and many walls in the town carried prominent graffiti glorifying the indicted war criminals, Ratko Mladić and Vojislav Šešelj. Despite this, Tanović felt a compelling mission 'to restore life in Gacko', to restore a sense of 'home' for its returning Muslims, beginning with the reconstruction of the mosques and the restoration of place – which he saw as providing the essential foundation for those who came after him to build on (HadžiMuhamedović 2015, 90).

In Nevesinje, the local imam, Mehmed Čopelj, told us a similar story as he took us around the different religious sites. As in Gacko, there had been violent ethnic cleansing of Nevesinje's non-Serb population, including the total destruction of all the town's functioning mosques and its Catholic church – all in the absence of any military operations. Before the war Muslims had formed just over 15 per cent of Nevesinje's population. Yet in 2015 not a single Muslim (including Čopelj himself) had returned to live in the town itself, mainly due to security fears, although they did live in villages nearby.

Nevertheless, the Islamic Community had restored two mosques in the town centre and the seventeenth-century Ljubović Mosque in nearby Odžak (where in fact no Muslims now lived). The Čučkova Mosque, which had not been in use before the war and had not been attacked, had been already restored as a functioning mosque and reconstruction of the main Careva Mosque was nearing completion. The Careva Mosque had been completely demolished and its remains (along with those of the Catholic church) dumped at a landfill site outside town.

The Islamic Community had also received permission to reconstruct a third mosque – the Dugalića Mosque. But, as Ef. Čopelj asked, apart from the question of funding, so few Muslims had returned and as they already had two functioning mosques: 'Who would go to it? We don't need another mosque.' Yet when we saw the site of the Dugalića Mosque, it was if the 15 years since we had travelled around Republika Srpska looking at parking lots and heaps of stones had not passed. The unfenced site was still being used for parking cars, still had rubbish dumpsters parked on it and was still being used for chopping wood, all – in theory – illegal. Meanwhile the nearby Serbian Orthodox Church, its precinct surrounded by a low fence, was carefully and beautifully kept.

#### Memorial mosques

The urge for the ethnically cleansed to re-establish a visible presence in the landscape also encompasses the phenomenon of what Carlton has called 'memorial mosques' – that is, mosques that were reconstructed in the absence of any Muslim returnees to places that were ethnically cleansed (Carlton 2017). One was the historic seventeenth-century Avdić Mosque in the devastated Muslim village of Plana, just north of Bileća and about 40 miles as the crow flies from the Adriatic coast, with its distinctive square campanile minaret believed to have been originally built by Christian builders from Dubrovnik. Another was the small mosque without a minaret (*mesdžid*) in the tiny hamlet of Skočigrm, close to the Montenegrin border.

Through internet and other fundraising activities, donations for rebuilding these two mosques came from donors dispersed by ethnic cleansing as far afield as the United States, Canada, Singapore, Indonesia, Sweden, Denmark, Germany, Belgium and the Netherlands, as well as throughout Bosnia and the region. Many donors had once been resident or had family connections to the localities, but others had no connection at all. In the United States the *Association of Citizens of Bileća* in Chicago held a special campaign for the reconstruction of the Avdić Mosque. The fundraising and reconstructions proceeded slowly: while the main structure of the Avdić Mosque had been rebuilt by 2010, there were not sufficient funds to complete the work, and it was not formally reopened until August 2013. Yet not a single person had returned to live in the devastated village, and when we visited Plana and the Avdić Mosque in 2015 its houses were still abandoned roofless shells.

Yet although there has been no return of living Muslim communities to either Plana or Skočigrm, nevertheless both mosques *are* used, if rarely. In early May 2017, for the first time in 25 years, a *mevlud* was held at the Avdić Mosque, bringing together Bilećani from Scandinavia, America, Canada and Australia, as well as from towns and cities in the Federation (balkans.aljazeera.net 2017). And in one respect there is a growing permanent congregation, a phenomenon repeated at countless reconstructed religious sites across Bosnia-Herzegovina – a congregation of the dead. Graveyards are gradually being populated by the recent dead and their memorials, as the absent or those who left before the war and their descendants choose to be buried in the precincts of their ancestral mosque or church.

#### Note

1. The Islamic Community in Bosnia-Herzegovina is both a legal entity and the highest Muslim religious authority in the country.

## References


## 14 'Bombing Pompeii!!! Why not the Pyramids?' Myths and memories of the Allied bombing of Pompeii, August–September 1943

Nigel D. Pollard

In August and September 1943 Pompeii was hit by over 160 bombs dropped by British, Canadian and US aircraft (Maiuri 1956, 110; García y García 2006, 24–5, n.15). These caused considerable damage to the archaeological site, most of it in the southwestern part of the ancient city. This included the destruction of the Antiquarium (on-site museum) and damage to the House of the Faun (*Works of Art in Italy* 1945, 25; García y García 2006). The 'real' explanation is that the damage was accidental, due to inaccuracies in bombing other targets nearby. However, alternative explanations – namely that the bombing was deliberate and aimed at German troops occupying the site – did emerge at the time and have persisted (Rowland 2014, 251). While these alternative explanations are, strictly speaking, incorrect, they shed important light on contemporary attitudes towards heritage in total war, popular misconceptions about bombing and issues of memory and authority in historical evidence.

My recent study of documentation from the UK National Archives and the US Air Force Historical Research Agency collection showed that bombs hit Pompeii in error rather than because it was targeted deliberately (Pollard, in press). Damage was done in two phases, firstly on the night of 24–25 August 1943, and secondly between 13 and 26 September 1943 (García y García 2006, 31–4). The bombs that caused damage on the night of 24–25 August were dropped in error by British bombers; they were intending to attack railway marshalling yards and steelworks at nearby Torre Annunziata. The bombs that hit the site in September were intended for important transportation nodes (road and rail intersections) west of the site, between modern Pompeii and Torre Annunziata. Bombing these transportation targets formed part of the effort to stem the dangerous German counterattack against the Allied Salerno beachhead south of Pompeii (see Molony 1973, 289–324; Blumensen 1969, 115–36). Bombing was mostly carried out in good visibility with very little opposition, but the intended targets were too close to the site and contemporary bombing methods too inaccurate to avoid damaging Roman Pompeii.

However, as noted, alternative explanations emerged at the time and sometimes recur even in recent discussions. These explanations hold that ancient Pompeii was bombed deliberately, either because German troops occupied the site or because Allied commanders mistakenly believed that they did. There are three intersecting 'strands' seen in contemporary media and post-war memoirs and accounts. One is exemplified by the accounts of Allied journalists and military personnel who visited the site after its liberation. Another comprises the memories and opinions of contemporary Italian civilians – especially Amedeo Maiuri, the archaeological superintendent of Campania, whose activities at Pompeii at this time have been examined recently (Osanna 2017). Another 'strand' derives from a broadcast by Radio Londra, the BBC wartime Italian language service, following the first bombing of Pompeii.

The interrelationships of these strands are complicated by their chronology. While all relate to events that occurred between 25 August and 2 October 1943, the dates on which accounts were broadcast or published range from 29 August 1943 to 1978. The accounts are set out here in the order in which events took place, or were alleged to have taken place.

### 25 September 1943: Radio Londra reported by Maiuri

Pompeii was first damaged by bombing on the night of 24–25 August 1943, the result of inaccurate RAF bombing targeting the steelworks at Torre Annunziata, 1.5 km west of the ancient site, and the nearby marshalling yards. Site records report instances of damage on that night. All occurred in the southwest corner, closest to Torre Annunziata, including the destruction of the Antiquarium by the Porta Marina (García y García 2006, 31–2; Maiuri 1956). To put this in perspective, that night's damage to Pompeii, while serious where bombs hit, probably was caused by 4–6 bombs, while contemporary RAF records suggest over 300 bombs (ranging from 500lb–4000lb) were dropped during the night's attack.

Maiuri's *Taccuino napoletano* (*A Neapolitan Notebook*) takes the form of a contemporary diary of events through which he lived. However, its structure is belied by some entries' foreknowledge of events to come, and occasional reflections from the perspective of 1956. Maiuri recounts that at the time of the August bombing, Radio Londra (the BBC Italian service) deplored damage to the site, but justified it by claiming that a German headquarters was located in the Albergo del Sole hotel by the Porta Marina (Maiuri 1956, 107). While I have not been able to verify the broadcast independently of Maiuri's account – it is not, for example, among the Radio Londra broadcasts catalogued in Piccialuti Caprioli's inventory (Piccialuti Caprioli 1976) – there is no particular reason to disbelieve the substance of Maiuri's memory on this occasion.

In contrast, *The Times* reported and analysed the previous night's bombing solely as an attack on installations at Torre Annunziata, with no mention of Pompeii as a target (*The Times*, 'Naples Railways Again Bombed', 26 August 1943, 3).

### 13–26 September 1943: Allied newspaper reports

The main phase of bomb damage to Pompeii was 13–20 September 1943. It is clear from contemporary Allied documentation that this was accidental damage caused by attacks against road and rail targets close to the ancient site. Contemporary bombing was insufficiently accurate to ensure that none of the bombs aimed at those targets hit Pompeii instead. Wartime data for USAAF daytime bombing under comparable conditions to those encountered around Pompeii (United States Strategic Bombing Survey 1947) suggest that 70 per cent of bombs might land more than 1000 ft (305 m) from their intended target, 18 per cent more than a mile (1609 m) from it, and so forth. One heavily bombed transportation target lay only *c*.300 m from the western limits of the archaeological site of Pompeii, and from the wartime bombing accuracy data *c*.5 per cent of the bombs aimed at that target might have been expected to fall on the site, even in good conditions.

These attacks formed part of the Allied response to dangerous German counterattacks against the Salerno beachhead that had begun on 12 September. They were intended to prevent or delay movement of reinforcements and supplies to the Salerno area. Numerous contemporary US and British newspaper reports of the bombing specify road and rail routes near Pompeii as the intended targets, rather than the site itself. Among them are *The Times* [London] (15 September 1943, 4; 17 September 1943, 3); *Chicago Daily Tribune* (15 September 1943, 4) and *New York Times* (15 September 1943, 1). Their agreement with official records is hardly surprising, as official communiqués often served as the newspapers' sources. However, this agreement also implies no concerted effort to distort the reasons for the bombing at this time by suggesting, for example, that German troops actually occupied the ancient site.

## 15 September 1943: memoirs of Amedeo Maiuri

Maiuri's *Taccuino napoletano* (1956) records a widespread belief among local Italians that the ancient site of Pompeii was occupied by German troops. He himself knew this to be incorrect, but believed that the Allies bombed the site because of an incorrect assessment on their part that it was true.

This allegation first appears in Maiuri's observations on resistance to the Salerno landings in an entry dated 4 September 1943. This discusses the initial (subsidiary) British landing in Calabria on 3 September. However, his reflections also anticipate the main Allied landing in the Gulf of Salerno on 8 September – emphasising that, despite its appearance, *Taccuino napoletano* is not an unedited version of Maiuri's contemporary diary. He recounts:

News gathered by bad informants must have led the [Allied] military headquarters to believe that Pompeii was a fortified camp and that the ruins were hiding armed men and munitions. Some small group of visitors or deserters surprised on the Theatre steps by reconnaissance flights surely provided confirmation of that belief. Another factor … was our own unfortunate use in those days of reinforced concrete and *eternit* [corrugated cement with asbestos fibres] for roofing [excavated Roman] buildings in the New Excavations, making them look like barracks. In this way a myth was created that Pompei had become a German strongpoint. The myth spread and grew, to the point that in my pained stupor I even heard it repeated, by a young Red Cross nurse at the hospital in Torre del Greco when I was being treated there. Therefore it was not a surprise when the first American correspondent told me, as justification of the bombing, that their headquarters had been informed, with certainty, that a whole German armoured division was encamped in the ruins.

(Maiuri 1956, 109–10; author's translation)

Maiuri's reference to the hospital at Torre del Greco is explained in a later entry relating his treatment there after being wounded nearby on 15 September 1943 by an Allied air attack. The medical staff were amazed that he had been in Pompeii, because they had heard that there was an entire German division in the excavations ready to resist the Allied landings at Salerno. The circulation of this false story, Maiuri claims, was the 'unfortunate reason why those 160 bombs fell on the blameless ruins of Pompeii' (Maiuri 1956, 119–20; my translation).

Thus Maiuri's story was that Pompeii was bombed deliberately by the Allies due to their (mistaken) assessment that German troops occupied the site. He suggests this derived from inaccurate information passed on by 'bad informants' and misinterpretation of aerial reconnaissance data. When local Italian civilians had come to believe that the Germans were in the ruins is unclear from Maiuri's account, but he implies that such stories were current by 15 September, the date when he was hospitalised.

The day after Allied entry into Naples (2 October), Associated Press correspondent Relman Morin met and interviewed Maiuri in the city's Museo Nazionale. Still wounded, Maiuri was living in the museum. The interview included discussion of the museum itself and other cultural sites in Naples, and Maiuri also expressed his views on events at Pompeii. Clearly he believed that the site had been deliberately targeted, but mistakenly so:

The tragic irony of the bombing of Pompeii was that the Germans had never actually encamped inside the famous excavated city. [Maiuri] said they were only in the vicinity.

(Morin 1943)

## 29 September 1943: Allied correspondents at Pompeii on its liberation

A BBC radio report was recorded in Pompeii itself by Canadian correspondent Matthew Henry Halton on 29 September 1943. It is clear from the recording (Imperial War Museum catalogue 1369, 29 September 1943) that combat was still going on in his immediate vicinity.

And early today I was able to enter Pompeii – you can hear the sound of enemy guns – with one of the first British units … I speak now from Pompeii. I speak actually from the ruins of the Roman amphitheatre, nearly 2000 years old. I am standing on the high wall of this amphitheatre. It was used by the Germans as a gun position, with the result that we had to bomb it, and there is a gaping bomb crater right in the middle of the arena.

## 30 September 1943: memoirs of Mortimer Wheeler

The strand of 'Allied personnel and journalists' is also represented by the memoirs of the Royal Artillery's Brigadier Mortimer Wheeler, a wellknown archaeologist. He was important in the origins of Allied military cultural property protection (Wheeler 1955, 1–2; see Nicholas 1995, 215–17; Moshenka and Shadla-Hall 2011). Wheeler reminisces, in a characteristically stagey account, on a visit to Pompeii on the night of 30 September 1943, the day after the site's liberation (see Hawkes 1982, 224 for the date of the anecdote):

More than six years previously in the dusk I had thrust my military caravan into the Amphitheatre gate of Pompeii as far as a new bomb-crater would allow me, and all night long that same Vesuvius had leered at me with an inflamed Cyclopean eye. At dawn I had walked into the city, a little gingerly, preceded by a sapper who thrust a bayonet ever and anon into the suspect soil. The reconstructed two-storey houses of the *nuovi scavi* had been bombed with satisfactory nicety by our fellows up above: not their fault – they had been told that a German armoured division was 'in Pompeii', and the map writes POMPEII across the blackened mass of the old city, while the insignificant modern townlet on the main road is merely '*Pompeii'*.

While Wheeler's observation is correct for the standard GSGS 4228 series 1:25,000 Allied military maps of the area, his explanation for the bombing is contradicted by all the contemporary Allied air force documents. It is curious that Wheeler, a British Army officer recently involved in establishing British military cultural property protection efforts in Libya, should give an 'incorrect' explanation of the bombing, one that is documented nowhere else. At first glance, it is tempting to take Wheeler (a soldier and archaeologist) as an authority. Yet his military duties as commander of an anti-aircraft regiment at that time meant that he was far from the headquarters planning the bombing, and there is no particular reason why he would have known the 'real' explanation for the damage. Furthermore this anecdote, more entertaining than evidence-based, accords well with Wheeler's critical and impatient stance (documented in contemporary letters) towards wartime Allied cultural property protection efforts.

## 16 October 1943: memoirs of Spike Milligan

Pompeii soon became a regular destination for Allied personnel on leave. An early documented example is the visit paid on 16 October 1943 by Gunner Spike Milligan of the Royal Artillery (subsequently a famous comedian). In his wartime memoirs, Milligan observes:

I discovered that the Americans had actually bombed it! They believed German infantry were hiding in it! Not much damage had been done, museum staff were already at work trying to repair it. Bombing Pompeii!!! Why not the Pyramids, Germans might be hiding there?

(Milligan 1980, 51)

Comic hyperbole aside, the theme that the site was bombed because it was German-occupied (or because the Allies believed it to be Germanoccupied) recurs.

## 9 November 1943: 'Damage at Pompeii. British Officer's Account', *The Times*

On 9 November 1943, a few weeks after Milligan's visit, *The Times* published an account entitled 'Damage at Pompeii. British Officer's Account'. Attributed to a contemporary military visitor, it re-iterated the suggestion that Pompeii was bombed because it was occupied by German troops:

We have received from a British officer, who recently visited Pompeii, an account of the damage done to the place during September, when the Germans were encamped on the site and allied aircraft were obliged to treat it as a military objective. The following is a summary of damage observed …

## 12–15 April 1944: Italian staff at Pompeii to Capt. F. H. J. Maxse

Allied officers of the Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives Subcommission of Allied Military Government undertook inspection visits to Pompeii after the bombing and liberation of the site (Coccoli 2017; Nicholas 1995, 222–72). There they liaised with local staff (including Maiuri) regarding repair and re-opening of the site. A report of one such visit was written on 17 April 1944 by British monuments officer Captain Frederick H. J. Maxse (Royal Sussex Regiment), recording his visit to Pompeii and Herculaneum on 12–15 April. Surprisingly, Maxse relied on local Italian staff for an explanation of the damage. He reports:

From the evidence given by the custodian and other personnel who witnessed the bombings it would appear that the object was to destroy a German Command Post in the Albergo [hotel] near the Porta Marina and the concentration of bombs round the Museum and the Forum suggests the likelihood of such an aim. There were a few German tanks near the Villa dei Misteri, but the only German troops inside the old city were visitors. There was no concentration of troops within the old city …

(Subcommission MFAA 1944, 3)

This explanation mirrors Maiuri's account of the Radio Londra broadcast – unsurprisingly since Maiuri directed the staff on the site. He and his colleagues shared the experience of the bombing and undoubtedly discussed it. While Maxse does not specifically cite Maiuri as his source, he was certainly present for part of the visit, actually taking Maxse to Herculaneum on 15 April. This anecdote is also interesting in that it confounds expectations of authority. Here a British officer appears to be relying on local Italian civilians to explain damage inflicted by the officer's own air force. However, as with Wheeler, there is no reason why Maxse, a junior officer within the institutions of Allied military government, should have had any special insight into the bombing.

Thus there are essentially three 'incorrect' explanations of why Pompeii was bombed. To summarise:

A. Accidental: collateral damage while bombing a German headquarters near the site

This explanation was advanced in the Radio Londra broadcast regarding damage caused on 24–25 August 1943, published by Maiuri in 1956. It was reported to Maxse in April 1944.

B. Deliberate: targeting of the archaeological site because it was occupied by German troops and thus a legitimate military target

This is seen on/after 29 September 1943 in accounts by Allied correspondents and visitors. A conviction that the site was occupied by German troops is also attributed by Maiuri to local Italian civilians, with the implication that this story was current by *c*.15 September.

## C. Deliberate: intentional targeting of the archaeological site due to mistaken intelligence

The third explanation for the damage is that ancient Pompeii was targeted deliberately but mistakenly. This is either because Allied commanders made an incorrect assessment that the site was occupied by German troops (Maiuri), or because of an error confusing ancient and modern Pompeii on the map (Wheeler).

Explanation 'A' – that damage was collateral to the bombing of a German headquarters near the site – is implausible as a 'real' explanation of the damage to Pompeii on that night. Maiuri (1956, 107–9) states that a 'little group' (not a headquarters) of Germans were in the hotel. He outlines German military dispositions around, but not in, the archaeological site, something reiterated in other contemporary accounts (see Pesce 1993, 120). Even had the Albergo del Sole headquarters existed, none of the documentation of operations by the Allied air forces suggests that it was targeted. Nor would the Allies have been able to target a single building precisely, especially at night when the damage was caused. As already noted, the intended targets near Pompeii on 24–25 August were the Torre Annunziata steelworks and railway marshalling yards. Undoubtedly the damage to ancient Pompeii was caused by a few stray bombs intended for those targets.

However, the reported Radio Londra explanation may have been created and propagated by British sources to counter negative stories about damage to the site in the Italian and international press, invoking military necessity due to German military 'use'. I can find no evidence that this explanation was cited directly in English language broadcasts or media. For example, *The Times* article of 26 August 1943 discusses the night's missions against the railway system and steelworks at Torre Annunziata without reference to Pompeii, either in terms of targeting or of damage. On the other hand, the damage was reported in contemporary Italian and German media, such as the *Giornale d'Italia* (27 August 1943, 1; 29–30 August 1943, 3) and the *Kölnische Zeitung* (28 August 1943, 2). All three refer to damage to the Arch of Drusus in the Forum, the House of Romulus and Remus and the Antiquarium. So does discussion of Pompeii in a *New York Times* article citing 'Rome radio' as its source (27 August 1943, 4; see also García y García 2006, 21).

It seems likely that the message – damage to Pompeii was caused in the course of an attack against a German military target – was specifically tailored for Italian audiences. Concern about Italian public opinion regarding damage to heritage sites by Allied forces is documented in a number of contemporary Allied military documents. While Radio Londra avoided the overtly propagandistic content of other 'black' Allied radio stations and print sources, its substantial audience in Italy, its ability to respond to Italian press reports and the anecdotal and discursive nature of much of its programming made it an effective medium for shaping Italian perceptions of the damage (see Briggs 1970, 435–41; Piccialuti Caprioli 1976).

Explanations 'B' (that the archaeological site was targeted deliberately because it was occupied by German troops) and 'C' (that it was targeted deliberately because the Allies believed it, incorrectly, to be German-occupied) are clearly interrelated.

In international law, German military use of a heritage site would have legitimised its bombardment on the grounds of military necessity. The 1907 Hague Convention was the basis of international law on this issue in 1943 and by extension of contemporary military law, quoted in both the [British] War Office, Manual of Military Law (1929) and the [US] War Department's Rules of Land Warfare (1940). Hague 1907 (Article IV, in International Committee of the Red Cross, 2017) states:

In sieges and bombardments all necessary steps must be taken to spare, as far as possible, … historic monuments … provided they are not being used at the time for military purposes.

Protocols for targeting in the vicinity of heritage sites distributed to Mediterranean Allied Air Forces in February 1944 echo this legal provision:

If a town is in the actual zone of military operations on the ground, and is occupied by the enemy, no restrictions whatever are to be applied. The sole determining factor will be the requirements of the military situation.

(Headquarters Mediterranean Allied Air Forces 1944, 2)

Thus a plausible claim that German troops had occupied the archaeological site of Pompeii could be used to shift responsibility for its damage from the Allies onto the Germans – implicitly branding them as barbarous for using a heritage site for military purposes and exposing it to damage. Certainly Allied and Axis/German media competed to depict one another as careless or downright rapacious of cultural property during the Italian campaign (Nicholas 1995, 231). While the idea that deliberately targeting a heritage site can be more legitimate than accidental damage seems strange, the key legal distinction is based on enemy occupation and a consequent judgement of military necessity. Enemy occupation of an historic building removes its protection from targeting, whereas responsibility for accidental damage is a far more problematic issue. The British Manual of Military Law (War Office 1929, Amendment No.12, p.33, note 1 on No.133) emphasises that accidental and collateral damage is a grey area:

Hague Rules 27. The introduction of long range artillery, aircraft &c. makes it difficult to ensure immunity for such buildings, but they should not be bombarded deliberately.

The legal status of collateral damage to heritage sites close to (but not occupied by) military forces remains problematic in post-war international law (Boylan 1993, 55–6). Furthermore, a claim of deliberate targeting (rather than collateral damage) masked the relative inaccuracy of contemporary Allied bombing techniques and tactics from friendly civilians as well as from the enemy. Pre-war debates about bombing had led to exaggerated perceptions of its accuracy and effectiveness among both military and civilians (Overy 2014, 19–55). Naivety regarding the realities of bombing in 1943 is revealed by a contemporary newspaper anecdote of how Superintendent Maiuri tried to signal Allied bombers away from the site of Pompeii (Morin 1943, 15) and García y García's modern incomprehension that bombers might hit the site in error even in daytime, in clear view (García y García 2006, 26).

Thus propagation of explanation 'B' may have been an attractive option to the Allies. Explanation 'C' is merely a version of 'B', perhaps reflecting cynicism about the competence of higher command and military intelligence.

However, there is no clear evidence that explanation 'B' originated high up in Allied political and military circles as deliberate propaganda – at least not with respect to the damage inflicted in September. As noted, contemporary newspaper reports in the US and Britain specify (correctly) that the intended targets of the bombing were transportation systems near the modern (and ancient) town. Claims that German troops made military use of the site and were deliberately targeted by Allied bombing seem to have emerged and spread at grassroots level, among Allied correspondents and military visitors to the site, rather than descending from the top as organised propaganda to justify the damage. Even *The Times* report of 9 November cites a source 'on the ground', namely the 'British officer, who recently visited Pompeii'.

The question of how these Allied 'grassroots' explanations intersected with the Italian civilian versions is a difficult one. Maiuri's account, if accurate, suggests 'Germans in the ruins' stories were widespread among local civilians by *c*.15 September, when he was wounded and hospitalised.

How did these stories develop? They may have owed their origins to the August Radio Londra broadcast, stretched and adapted to explain damage inflicted on Pompeii in September. Perhaps later Radio Londra broadcast other similar stories, although one might expect Maiuri to have heard of them. Alternatively, these stories may have been purely local, popular rationalisations of the intense Allied air activity around Pompei, of damage caused to the site and/or of the German presence in modern Pompei and the roads around the site. In turn, these local accounts may have influenced explanations of the damage recorded by Allied correspondents and personnel, as guides, custodians and other local civilians shared their views. Certainly it is particularly striking to see Frederick Maxse, a British Army monuments officer, receiving and accepting the local staff's 'incorrect' explanation of the damage.

## References


International Committee of the Red Cross. 2017. International Humanitarian Law: https:// ihl-databases.icrc.org/customary-ihl/eng/docs/v2\_rul\_rule38. Accessed 30 May 2017.

Maiuri, Amedeo. 1956. *Taccuino napoletano, giugno 1940–luglio 1944*. Napoli: Vajro editore. Milligan, Spike. 1980. *Mussolini: My Part in his Downfall*. London: Penguin Books.

Molony, C. J. C. 1973. 'The Campaign in Sicily 1943 and the Campaign in Italy, 3rd September 1943 to 31st March 1944'. *The History of the Second World War: The Mediterranean and Middle East*, vol.V. London: HMSO.


Pesce, Angelo. 1993. *Scafati e l'agro: cinquant' anni fa la Guerra*. Scafati: Comune di Scafati.


## Part V Heritage, Identity and Destruction

## 15 Reclaiming the past as a matter of social justice: African American heritage, representation and identity in the United States

Erin Linn-Tynen

The argument that the Confederate flag and other displays represent 'heritage, not hate' ignores the near-universal heritage of African Americans whose ancestors were enslaved by the millions in the South. It trivializes their pain, their history and their concerns about racism – whether it's the racism of the past or that of today. And it conceals the true history of the Confederate States of America and the seven decades of Jim Crow segregation and oppression that followed the Reconstruction era.

(Excerpt from Southern Poverty Law Center's 'Whose heritage? Public Symbols of the Confederacy', 2019, p. 7)

In 2015 the despicable acts of a self-proclaimed white supremacist brought to the forefront the critical role that cultural heritage plays in the formation of identity, and the ways in which heritage can be used both to exclude or empower. On 17 June Dylann Roof entered the historic Emanuel A.M.E. Church in Charleston, South Carolina and murdered nine African Americans (Epatko, 2015). Investigations by authorities found photographs of Roof holding a Confederate flag while displaying other symbols of white supremacy. Investigators identified a website belonging to Roof and described it as a 'white supremacist broadside'. The website, in addition to outlining his racist manifesto, included a collection of 60 photographs of Roof posing at dozens of different Confederate heritage sites or slavery museums across the country (Robles, 2015). As reported by the *Washington Post*, Roof's reason for targeting Charleston was 'because it is [the] most historic city in my state, and at one time had the highest ratio of blacks to whites in the country' (*Washington Post*, 2015).

Over the past several years, communities have increasingly begun to speak out against the violence and racism that continue to be perpetrated against black Americans, spurring the formation of the Black Lives Matter movement and demonstrations across the country. As part of this process, people have begun to take note of and to question both the abundance and appropriateness of public symbols honouring the former Confederate States of America (the Confederacy).1 Confederate symbols and representations can be found across the United States in varying forms including monuments, national parks, historic sites, street names, school names and flags. Roof's intentional use of cultural heritage associated with the Confederacy, white supremacy and slavery galvanised communities to campaign for the removal of such symbols, particularly those found in public spaces. Some of these campaigns have been successful, resulting in the removal of prominent public representations of the Confederacy. Other attempts to remove Confederate symbols from public spaces have been met with strong, sometimes violent opposition.

One of the more notable public displays celebrating the Confederacy – removed in response to the public outcry resulting from the Charleston murders – was the Confederate flag that had adorned the grounds of South Carolina's statehouse for 54 years (McCrummen and Izadi, 2015). In 2015 the New Orleans City Council voted to remove four monuments associated with the Confederacy. Three of the monuments venerated Civil War figures who had fought for the South during the Civil War. The fourth was a memorial honouring the members of the White League who led an insurrection, known as the Battle of Liberty Place, against Reconstruction leadership after the end of the Civil War (Chadwick 2018). In both instances the campaigns to remove these symbols were met with opposition, legal battles and protests.

On 11 and 12 August 2017 opposition in Charlottesville, Virginia reached a tipping point, culminating in the largest demonstration of white nationalists in recent history. At the heart of the dispute was a statue memorialising General Robert E. Lee; it had stood since 1924 in the formerly named Robert E. Lee Park. In 2012 city council members raised questions regarding the appropriateness of the statue and debates over its presence ensued for the next four years. In February 2016 the monument's fate appeared to have been finally decided when the city council voted for its removal. But the following month saw opponents of the proposed removal sue the city and the statue remain in place. In June the park in which the statue stands was renamed Emancipation Park.

Tensions continued to rise, however, and in August 2017 white nationalists held a 'Unite the Right' rally to oppose the statue's removal. The violence that unfolded left dozens injured and one counter-protester dead. Since the protests the city council voted to cover the statue with a black shroud, but several months later a judge ruled for the shroud's removal. The park was renamed again, changing it from the short-lived Emancipation Park to Market Street Park. At the time of writing, the statue still remains in place (Fortin 2017).

## Whose heritage, whose narrative?

These circumstances have propelled ideas about cultural heritage into the public consciousness. People have begun to question the country's 'authorized heritage'2 and to demand change. For generations, historic preservation in the United States has been governed by the dominant social and cultural group – white and predominantly male citizens. A 2011 internal marketing survey, conducted by Edge Research on behalf of the National Trust for Historic Preservation (National Trust), determined that the demographics of its 'preservation leaders' were 93 per cent white, 2 per cent black, 1 per cent Latino and 2 per cent Asian or Pacific Islander (National Trust 2011). Not surprisingly, the cultural heritage of the country overwhelming reflects the dominant culture (Kaufman 2009). In a 2015 speech at The Martin Luther King, Jr. Center for Nonviolent Social Change Stephanie Meeks, the President and Chief Executive Officer of the National Trust, confirmed that out of the 86,000 listings on the National Register of Historic Places only 8 per cent represent 'women and racially and ethnically diverse places.' Similarly, only 3 per cent of the country's 2500 National Landmarks represent these same groups (Meeks, 2015).

In 2016 the Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) published results from a nationwide survey which identified and catalogued public symbols of the Confederacy; this was followed by an updated version in June 2018. The 2018 survey identified 1740 Confederate monuments, place names and other symbols across the nation. These include 772 monuments, 105 public schools named for Confederate icons, 80 counties and cities named for Confederate leaders, 9 observed state holidays in 5 states and 10 US military bases. Data for the report was collected from federal, state and private sources, including the National Register for Historic Places (National Register), the National Park Service, the Smithsonian Art Inventory, Sons of Confederate Veterans and Daughters of the Confederacy (SPLC 2016 and 2018).

The study did not include local, state or nationally listed historic sites or parks. Further, the study deliberately excluded 2600 markers, battlefields, museums, cemeteries and other sites of historical significance. It is important to note the distinction made in determining the kinds of symbols that were included in the results. The study specifically focused on Confederate symbols which were commemorative or honorific in nature, rather than those which mark, represent or interpret actual historical events or places.

As the SPLC report demonstrates, symbols associated with the Confederacy are predominant in Southern states. Nonetheless, as the report revealed, Northern states such as Massachusetts, a state recognised as a stalwart of Union ideals and abolitionist sentiments, also have memorials to the Confederacy.3 The vast majority, however, exist in 14 of the 50 United States. All of these 14 states were former slave-holding states, and 11 of them seceded to form the short-lived nation of the Confederate States.4

The most conspicuous of all of these sites is that of Stone Mountain. This enormous stone carving depicts three icons of the Confederacy: Confederate President Jefferson Davis, General Robert E. Lee and General Thomas 'Stonewall' Jackson. The relief is the key attraction of Stone Mountain Park, a 3200-acre state park on the outskirts of Atlanta, Georgia and the site of the re-founding of the Ku Klux Klan in 1915. The project, initially organised and funded by the United Daughters of the Confederacy, was begun in 1923 and completed in 1972 (Stone Mountain Park 2018).5 The resulting sculpture is 400 feet high and spans three acres of the mountain. It is larger than the famous depictions of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln on Mount Rushmore National Memorial.

The sheer scale of representations that honour and revere the idea of the Confederacy serve to demonstrate who has controlled the heritage narrative in the United States. As stated in 2017 by the then-Mayor Mitch Landrieu, during the controversy over the removal of New Orlean's confederate statues, the purpose of such heritage 'had one goal – through monuments and through other means – to rewrite history to hide the truth, which is that the Confederacy was on the wrong side of humanity' (Landrieu 2017).

Equally, the lack of representation of African American cultural heritage provides further evidence of how overwhelmingly imbalanced and skewed that narrative still is. As Hale and Chase point out in their 2015 CNN article, 'Where are America's memorials to pain of slavery, black resistance?', the United States as a nation has yet to account for or reconcile its difficult and painful history of slavery and oppression.

## Empty spaces, missing heritages

Though memorials and historic sites related to the Confederacy abound, there are significantly fewer public spaces, historic sites, memorials or other forms of authorised heritage remembering slavery, Jim Crow, the Civil Rights movements or honouring significant achievements of black Americans – before or after the emancipation of slaves in 1863. As noted above, less than 8 per cent of the 86,000 sites included on the National Register of Historic Places represent African American and other minority heritage. This is true even in places where establishing a monument, memorial or historic site to represent African American history and heritage would seem self-evident.

Sullivan's Island off the coast of Charleston, South Carolina is a prime example. It is estimated that 40 per cent of all slaves brought to America entered via Charleston. Prior to entering the City of Charleston, slave ships would dock at Sullivan's Island and force their human cargo to disembark for a period of quarantine. Between 1707 and 1799 the island served as a quarantine station. Here slaves were forced to reside in the 'pest houses' until it was determined that those in captivity were well enough to be moved to Charleston and sold at auction (National Park Service, 2018b). For nearly 200 years not a single marker or plaque existed that indicated the island's prominent role in the slave trade. Even today there is little present that denotes or communicates the dark and difficult history of the island. In 1990 the National Park Service posted a solitary sign which relates, in 223 words, the island's link to the slave trade. Disturbed by this lack of acknowledgement, the Nobel Laureate Toni Morrison held a memorial in 2008 to oversee the dedication of a bench on the island.

Given the historical significance of the island and the hundreds of thousands of lives and generations impacted by the place, this dearth of heritage representation is glaringly conspicuous. Perhaps even more striking is the abundance of 'white' heritage that is represented on Sullivan's Island. The Fort Moultrie historic site and museum – an active military fort during the American Revolutionary and Civil Wars – are prominent features of the island. The National Park Service website provides detailed information about the fort, the museum and the military history of the island. Conversely, not a single mention is made of the island's association with the slave trade on the National Park Service website (National Park Service 2018c).

The lack of representation of African American heritage as part of America's heritage landscape is a direct assault on the identity and collective memory of African Americans, both as individuals and as part of America's history. Through heritage, people communicate the stories of their past in the present. When those representations are missing, this impacts the conceptions of self as well as that of personal and group identity. In an interview with the BBC (Gunter and Hughes, 9 August 2018) covering the anniversary of the Charlottesville riots Zyahna Bryant, the young activist who petitioned for the removal of the Robert E. Lee statue in Charlottesville, reflected that:

[F]or me, it's hard because there are no statues in Charlottesville that depict African American heroes. And so for that reason alone, black people have nothing to look up to in our public spaces. We are not represented.

Not only does the omission of African American heritage have tremendous consequences for African American citizens, but it equally impacts the collective memory of American society as a whole. At best it perpetuates an incomplete and inaccurate depiction of the American historic narrative. At worst it promotes destructive racist narratives, including a false mythology of the 'lost cause'; it also perpetuates the hegemonic 'white' heritage which does not account for or represent the country's myriad cultural and ethnic groups or its dynamic, and often times difficult, past.6

## At the nexus of heritage and identity

Cultural heritage has the power to evoke intense emotions. As evidenced by ongoing disputes over representations of the Confederacy, cultural heritage can be contentious at best and deadly in the extreme. In order to understand why these forms of heritage are so controversial it is necessary to acknowledge the fundamental link between cultural heritage and identity, and to appreciate the reflexive relationship between them.

Heritage is used as a means by which to confirm and communicate identity, just as one's identity influences what is recognised as heritage. Heritage allows individuals in the present to connect with the past. This process contributes to understanding oneself and forming one's identity. Historic sites, memorials and other forms of cultural heritage remind individuals and communities of who they are and where they have come from. If that heritage is missing, or is misrepresented, this can have profound impacts on the collective memory and society in the present.

It is important to clarify here what is meant by heritage. The international definition of cultural heritage as put forth by United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) defines cultural heritage as 'the legacy of physical artefacts and intangible attributes of a group or society that are inherited from past generations, maintained in the present and bestowed for the benefit of future generations'. The United States National Park Service describes heritage as the 'physical heritage of living societies, including their buildings, structures, sites, and communities'. This includes landscapes shaped by societies and material culture such as artefacts, archives and other tangible remains. It also includes intangible heritage, for example stories, songs and celebrations, and other cultural practices and traditions (National Park Service 2002). Such definitions of cultural heritage are useful, particularly in contexts concerning the identification and management of cultural heritage. They do not, however, strike at the conceptual essence of heritage and why some things are chosen to be recognised as heritage and others are not.

Cultural heritage, intangible and tangible, is a representation of the past. It consists of objects, buildings, statues or sites to which individuals and communities in the present ascribe meaning and significance. The act of endowing these representations of the past with meaning is to impose present-day extant beliefs, ideologies or norms (socio-economic, political or cultural) onto them. Simply put, their meaning is determined by the concerns of the present. In most instances, those objects which are deemed to be heritage hold little or no intrinsic value in themselves. Value and meaning are ascribed to the heritage – object, site, or practice – by the individual or society in which it exists.

Each individual, then, views that heritage through a 'series of lenses' (Graham and Howard 2008). These lenses include aspects of self, such as nationality, religion, ethnicity, class, wealth, gender and personal history. Therefore, the selection of, and meaning attributed to, heritage is determined by the identity of those individuals bestowing that meaning. A person or community chooses to recognise something as heritage – to protect it, interpret it, share its history – because of the narrative they wish to recognise and associate themselves with in the present. Whether this is a conscious or unconscious decision, heritage is only heritage because society chooses to acknowledge it as such. Heritage is therefore changeable – in form, interpretation, inclusion or exclusion – and it does alter, as society changes. Since heritage derives its meaning and significance from the interpretation of the past in the present. The essence of heritage is thus dependent upon the identity of those who determine it to be heritage (Ashworth et al. 2007).

Identity is formed through a process of defining and differentiating oneself with and from others. It is expressed through establishing or associating oneself with communal groups. Simultaneously, this process creates an awareness of 'the other' – those outside the communal group (Littler 2008). Language, religion, ethnicity, nationalism, place origins and interpretations of the past all contribute to the formulation of identity (Ashworth et al. 2007). One of the most powerful means by which to define or confirm identity is through cultural heritage. Indeed, heritage plays a key role in the formation of collective memory, sense of place and establishing a link to the past. By controlling the heritage narrative – what is recognised, and what is not recognised as heritage – it is possible to influence and even control the collective sense of identity and memory.

Through the process of heritagisation, therefore, one can assert power over others, exclude others and manipulate understandings of the past in the present. As Graham and Howard point out, '[h]eritage is used to construct narratives of inclusion and exclusion that define communities and the ways in which these latter are rendered specific and differentiated' (Graham and Howard 2008).

It is this intrinsic relationship between heritage and identity which ungirds the controversy over representations of Confederate heritage today. The celebration of the Confederacy, promulgation of the 'lost cause' and glossing over or even erasing of difficult histories serves as a means by which white identity and dominance can be consolidated and reinforced. This is particularly true in Southern states, where the mythology of the 'lost cause' is accepted by many as historical fact and the effects of the institution of slavery and the loss of the Civil War still haunt the collective memory. For generations the erection of Confederate monuments and the ongoing fight to ensure their existence has served as a key tool in the process of identity making for many. The removal of these symbols is therefore viewed, rightly or wrongly, as a challenge to that identity.

Equally, the lack of representation of African American heritage, and the omission of non-white heritage in the heritage landscape of the United States, serves to undermine the identity and power of marginalised groups. For generations, the authorised heritage in the United States has been governed by the dominant group and the heritage of the country's non-white population has been overlooked or diminished. As Kaufman recognises, '[d]ominant groups have strong narratives and lots of historic sites to reinforce them. Marginalised groups have weak narratives – narratives of subjugation, of not belonging' (Kaufman 2009). The dominance of white identity has ensured that the African American heritage has been underrepresented in –and, in some cases, completely absent from – the cultural heritage landscape of the United States.

## Heritage as social justice

As demonstrated above, the complex relationship between heritage and identity imbues heritage with profound power. Heritage can be used to exclude or oppress certain groups and to assert the identity of others. Concomitantly, heritage has the potential to empower. Changing how and what is recognised as heritage gives a voice to those previously ignored while creating a more inclusive and accurate representation of the past in the present. By including those previously excluded in the process of heritage making, and by diversifying the identities of those making those decisions, the heritage landscape will necessarily reflect that change. As Johnston and Marwood aptly state, 'heritage can be both a condition of social action as well as a form of social action' (Johnston and Marwood 2017). Heritage can be used as a tool for social justice.

Across the country, communities and organisations are using heritage as a means by which to reclaim their historical narrative. In 2015 the Chief Executive Officer of the National Trust declared the need for a 'more inclusive history, and a preservation movement that looks like America' (National Trust 2011). In 2017 the National Trust announced the launch of the African American Cultural Heritage Action Fund (AACHAF), a \$25 million funding initiative to 'transform our nation's cultural landscape'. The fund is dedicated to identifying and promoting overlooked contributions of African Americans by funding the protection and restoration of African American historical sites. Brent Leggs, the director for the AACHAF, has acknowledged the critical role of heritage in a new form of justice, equity and activism (Paynter 2018). With 830 proposals for funding received by the AACHAF in its first year, from 42 states, the relevance of this initiative is clear. The AACHAF has the potential to instate the missing narratives and help to affirm the identity and collective memories of black Americans as well as other underrepresented and minority groups. The designation of cultural heritage sites can serve to strengthen the sense of belonging experienced by underrepresented communities and individuals, while also confirming and acknowledging their status as equal citizens.

Another major step towards righting the wrongs of the omission of African Americans from the historical narrative is by acknowledging the darker side of America's story through recognising difficult heritage. In April 2018 the National Memorial for Peace and Justice and the Legacy Museum: From Enslavement to Mass Incarceration opened in Montgomery, Alabama. The Memorial and the Museum project are part of the efforts of the Equal Justice Initiative (EJI), an organisation dedicated to:

… ending mass incarceration and excessive punishment in the United States, to challenging racial and economic injustice, and to protecting basic human rights for the most vulnerable people in American society.

#### (EJI 2018)

The idea was born during an EJI initiative to document the number of racial terror lynchings in the American South. This initiative, which resulted in a publication, inspired the EJI to embark on a project to memorialise this history. The underlying motivation for both the Memorial and Museum is based on the premise that 'publicly confronting the truth about our history is the first step towards recovery and reconciliation'. The EJI clearly identifies the link between racial inequality and injustice in the United States and the need for the country not only to acknowledge the legacy of slavery, lynching and racial segregation, but also the lack of physical representation through memorials.

Both the National Trust and the EJI are doing significant work at the national level to recognise and reconcile the omission of African American heritage. For effective change to take place, however, changes must also occur at the local level. For example, the city of New Orleans has extensive cultural heritage honouring its white forefathers, founders and Confederate 'heroes', but only limited representations of the city's historically majority black population. Over the past few years communities, organisations and businesses have been using heritage as a tool for social action to reinstate, acknowledge and preserve sites of African American heritage.

The Preservation Research Center of New Orleans (PRCNO) is working to empower underrepresented communities to become active stakeholders in the practice of heritage in their city. The mission of the PRCNO is 'to promote the preservation, restoration, and revitalisation of New Orleans' historic architecture and neighborhoods'. Under the current leadership of Danielle Del Sol, the organisation is working to make preservation and heritage more accessible to those people who have traditionally been excluded from the process of heritage making, and whose heritage has been absent from the heritage landscape.

Through PRCNO's publication *Preservation in Print*, the organisation promotes preservation initiatives being led by African Americans, Asian-Americans, women, the LGBT community and the many other groups that comprise New Orleans. According to Del Sol, 'the magazine showcases the diversity of the preservation movement and affirms the value we place on all residents' history, stories and self-directed futures' (Del Sol 2017). For example, Straight University – one of the first of three African American universities constructed after the Civil War between 1866–71 – had all but disappeared from the collective memory. A dilapidated and unused building, the PRCNO identified the building and has been working to rehabilitate and preserve it. Also featured in *Preservation in Print* were several other projects including the Pythian Building, the Rosette Rochon House and Le Musee de Free People of Color.

Just outside New Orleans itself, a number of historic plantation houses are also taking steps towards presenting more accurate histories of the people who lived and worked in such places. Traditionally, such historic homes provide little to no interpretation or recognition of the slave populations who ran these estates, portraying only a whitewashed history of lost grandeur and gentility (Del Sol 2017). At Laura and Whitney Plantations researchers, museum professionals and the plantation owners have conducted extensive historic and archaeological research to uncover the pasts of the slaves who lived and worked on these properties. The house at Laura Plantation now includes a full exhibition on the history of slavery at the plantation, along with a restored slave cabin. At Whitney Plantation the owner has turned the historic buildings, artefacts and art into a museum that shows the history of slavery on the plantation (Maloney 2016).

### Conclusion

Through heritage – historic sites, preservation efforts, memorials and museums – communities are fighting for social justice to establish their identity and secure acknowledgement of their relevance to the present. As Del Sol has observed, 'By rebuilding cultural identities and strengthening the narratives that people are able to tell about themselves, their families and their communities, we shift from injustice to empowerment' (Del Sol, 2017). As evidenced by the controversy over the removal of Confederate symbols, heritage is critical to the process of identity formation. African American heritage has been overlooked or deliberately ignored as a way to assert dominance over non-white Americans.

The incompleteness and misrepresentation of America's historical narrative through heritage must be challenged. To do so, it is crucial to question whose heritage has been – and is still being – represented and why. The institutions that determine what is, and is not, recognised as heritage have been, and continue to be, controlled by the dominant majority. However, this white bubble has been punctured, and communities and heritage professionals alike are calling for a democratisation of heritage. And why should there not be? If heritage is representative of our collective identities, then it can no longer be restricted to the homogenous and hegemonic narratives of the past. Heritage must reflect the heterogeneity which is the essence of the modern United States.

#### Notes


## References


Epatko, L. 2015. 'Everything We Know About the Charleston Church Shooting.' Report published on Public Broadcasting Service (PBS) News Hour, 18 June 2015: https://www.pbs.org/newshour/nation/police-release-photo-suspect-charleston-church-shooting.

Equal Justice Initiative. 2018. Retrieved on 5 July 2019 from: https://eji.org/.


## 16 Alternating cycles of the politics of forgetting and remembering the past in Taiwan

Nicolas Zorzin

## Cultural heritage in East Asia

Cultural heritage in East Asia has been seen and often used as a factor of differentiation between people. A clear tendency has been shown towards simultaneously exoticising and essentialising the past, yet presenting it as immutable (Matsuda and Mengoni 2016, 3):

When we talk about 'East Asian Heritage', we assume, naturally and uncritically, that differences between and across Japanese, Chinese and Korean heritage can somehow be subsumed under the notion of 'East Asian heritage'. This of course can be a problematic and politically dangerous assumption, but is also unavoidable to a certain extent because the very nature of cultural heritage is not only to divide but also unite. Seeing cultural heritage only as a marker of difference is limiting in this sense.

(Matsuda and Mengoni 2016, 4)

In this chapter, we attempt diachronically to present the mechanisms of assimilation and differentiation that have operated in Taiwan's heritage since the end of the nineteenth century. These have taken place under Japanese rules (1895–1945), then under Chinese (Kuomintang or KMT) rules (1945–1980s) and then, since the 1980s, under the growing influence of Taiwanese independence movements.

In the case of Taiwan, however, the dichotomy between cultural differentiation and assimilation has substantial limitations: it does not include the internal and simultaneous oppositions and contradictions in terms of what is cultural heritage, memory and identity within Taiwan society today. For example, it is not uncommon to speak with a native of Taiwan who simultaneously claims his or her differentiated Taiwanese identity yet speaks Mandarin (often repressing his/her own mother tongue) to favour career development or simply for convenience, using Chinese as a *lingua franca*. Such an individual takes pride in Chinese heritage and being part of China's major and millenary civilisation.

Others, though, will reject any references at all to the Chinese continent and Chinese heritage, preferring to embrace a mix of local Taiwanese specificities, local languages and Japanese, Aboriginal and European heritages. For them, these are the essence of Taiwanese identities. Finally, many would prefer to ignore this antagonism, seeking to embrace a so-called neutral and post-historical approach deeply embedded in the neoliberal dogma. For them, the very notion of citizenship should be replaced with a simplistic definition of human existence as a consumerist one. Heritage is thus tolerated as soon as it is apolitical and as it becomes part of the sphere of consumption.

Today, these multiple perceptions, understandings and treatments of heritage in Taiwan continue to compete with one another in the permanent 'global battlefields of cultural production and consumption' (Hamilakis 1999, 74).

#### Taiwan's heritage in context

The island of Taiwan still bears evidence of its previous inhabitants, dating back to early prehistory (up to 35,000 years BP or even more distant). However, these archaeological and architectural traces, especially those from the remote past, are elusive; their identification and preservation requires a strong commitment from elements of national, contemporaneous communities. To preserve or destroy heritage is never an insignificant decision, nor a neutral or apolitical choice. Some people in Taiwan place emphasis on the recovery of these various local places of identities, through different types of sites and across diverse periods. Yet since 1949 a Chinese cultural and linguistic origin of Taiwan has been superimposed through education – and, notably, justified through the display of Chinese heritage, transferred from the mainland as a unique and monolithic identity. As a result, and more obviously since the 1980s, a struggle for political and cultural hegemony can be observed between those two antagonistic visions of Taiwanese identity. One perceives Taiwan as culturally Chinese, while the other views Taiwan as a unique and independent place of multiple identities. Cultural heritage and archaeology are now located at the core of these struggles.

Until the 1990s both the European and Japanese colonial past and the Austronesian past were often seen as 'embarrassing' by the Nationalist government (Chang and Chiang 2012, 29). The only exception occurred when Taiwan's Austronesian past was embedded within the 'theories of northern origin of the Taiwan's Aboriginal Austronesian people' developed by Lin Hui-Hsiang in the 1930s. This theory was reused and adapted in the early 1980s to serve the Chinese Nationalist idea of a unified history, and so to support the necessary and logical reunification of Taiwan with China (Stainton 1999, 35–7). At the beginning of the 1990s, by contrast, Taiwan's cultural heritage was slowly re-interpreted and integrated into a more global Taiwanese narrative (Chang and Chiang 2012, 29) – especially the Austronesian cultural heritage and archaeological traces, notably through the 'Taiwan as Austronesian Homeland' theory (Stainton 1999, 37). Now, even though this late cultural De-Sino-focalisation of the past began approximately three decades ago, the people of Taiwan's understanding of their island's multifaceted cultural heritage has not yet been clearly connected to archaeological remains. However, it has been much more strongly linked to linguistics and genetics (Stainton 1999, 37–41).

As a result, there still exists an odd relationship between Taiwan's inhabitants and the land they inhabit (including its underground). This is clearly caused by a strong dissonance between the Chinese past, in which Taiwanese children were educated since 1949 – and still are partially today1 – and the Austronesian non-monumental and transient past, uniquely revealed by archaeological and anthropological studies.

As underlined by Muyard (2015, 13), this situation could be compared to that of the so-called 'New World'. For example, the colonisation of Quebec (Canada) started four centuries ago in 1608 (only 16 years before the first Dutch settlement in Tainan). Yet nowadays the Frenchspeaking, demographically dominant population, which has attempted independence regularly since 1759, still has a common nationalist reflex to identify and/or look for the remains of the French Regime. In so doing it too often ignores the 14,000 years of traces of First Nations occupation, and often neglects or willingly defaces the heritage of two centuries of British domination (Auger and Moss 1999, 132–44). Some movements towards accepting an 'indigenisation' process exist: that is, the idea that the French stopped being French through the contact with Native Americans, and vice versa, creating a completely new, more complex mixed identity. However, it is still rare to hear a Francophone native of Quebec being vocal about his or her First Nations ancestry and/or displaying pride towards the (almost invisible) archaeological remains of the First Nations past. It would also, regrettably, be uncommon to see someone showing particular respect to the First Nations communities.

In Taiwan, by contrast, an increasing number of people are thinking of themselves as a multi-ethnic society. So at least the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) has presented Taiwan since its victory of 2016: 'Tsai was emphatic through the proceedings of her inauguration on the multi-ethnic nature of Taiwanese society' (Hioe 2016). As such not only immigration, but also far and foreign pasts (such as those of Aborigines) are more susceptible to be integrated into national, familial or personal narratives.

Archaeology is at the core of this spatial and temporal mediation. However, in both cases, and as stated by Muyard, archaeology has suffered from a chronic 'lack of state support, or benign indifference' since the end of the Second World War (Muyard 2015). This is mostly because of the difficulties inherent in connecting the prehistory of both Taiwan and Quebec within the present narrative of the demographic majority – that is, those of Han and French ancestry respectively (Muyard 2015, 9, Zorzin 2011, 82–5). The dissonances in the past with each respective nationalist agenda (historically *Parti Québécois* and the KMT) have resulted, in both cases, in prehistory generally receiving 'low public knowledge and interest' and in state support for cultural heritage being weak, both financially and legally (Muyard 2015, 9–14; Zorzin 2011, 31, 81, 108, 110, 123).

On the politics of the prehistory of Taiwan, and especially on its 'Aboriginal origins', Stainton offered in 1999 a precious and detailed description of the evolution of various political exploitations of the Aboriginal origins question, according to the different interests of dominant groups or minorities in building their identities. He divided this evolution into four different stages. Most overlap to some degree, with some being simultaneous and in direct opposition, but they have mainly followed one another since 1896:

Stage 1: the 'Theory of Southern Origin' (Stainton 1999, 29–32)

During the Japanese colonial period (mainly during the 1920s and 1930s), it was convenient for the colonisers to separate clearly the prehistoric trajectories of Taiwanese Aboriginal people from the Han, and to position themselves as allies of the former (despite oppressing them at the same time). By locating the origins of Taiwanese Aboriginal people in the Malayan area – drawing on linguistics data as well as oral traditions from various Aboriginal groups (principally *Amis*) – the Japanese could oppose a strong argument backing the legitimacy of Chinese claims to the island by demonstrating that Taiwan belonged exclusively to the Austronesian/Pacific sphere.

## Stage 2: the 'Theory of Northern Origin' (Stainton 1999, 32–7)

In mainland China in the 1930s, a new idea emerged from the writing of the anthropologist Lin Hui-Hsiang (Amoy University, Xiamen, Fujian, China). At the time he presented this idea only as a conjecture. Yet it would be reused after the Second World War by both principal nationalist protagonists – The People's Republic of China and the Republic of China (i.e. Kuomintang in Taiwan) – to reiterate that Taiwan is 'a timeless part of China', with each acting as the only legitimate authority of China (Stainton 1999, 34). In fact, Lin's intuition has been progressively confirmed by anthropological research from the 1980s and to the present, establishing the region of Fukien as the place of origin of Neolithic Austronesian people. This discovery became a strong argument in the People's Republic of China (PRC) to promote reunification. However, this argument ignored not only the large gap between this prehistoric colonisation, which occurred in 6500 BP, and the next principal contact with the continent in the seventeenth century AD, but also the crucial fact that in 6500 BP no such thing as 'China' existed. The first documented political structure in the region, the Xia dynasty (夏朝), did not appear until around 4070 BP in the north of the continent.

## Stage 3: 'Taiwan as Austronesian homeland' (Stainton 1999, 37–41)

Before the 'theory' described above was proved correct, another theory was developed in the 1960s by Isidore Dyen. Based on developments in linguistics studies, it demonstrated that the present Taiwanese languages possessed the richest diversity and complexity in the Austronesian South-East Asian world, placing them logically at the origin of the Austronesian language family. In the 1980s the 'Theory of Northern Origin' and that of 'Taiwan as Austronesian Homeland' were reconciled; anthropologists emphasised that the origin was clearly the Fukien area, according to archaeological discoveries, but that there were no remains of this linguistic family in the continent. This migration was then followed by independent development in Taiwan, and a spread across the Pacific and Indian Ocean.

This approach became extremely popular in Taiwan among the Aboriginal political movements in the 1980s and 1990s by supporting a right of autonomy and land ownership (or restitution), a right to write history and a right of simply being recognised as the only real Taiwanese. Nevertheless, Taiwanese/Han nationalism (Hokkien and Haka – i.e. non-mainlanders and non-Austronesian) was also on the rise. Its proponents adopted a strategy of 'indigenising' themselves – 'strategically essentialising' their own culture by portraying their heritage as exotic to outsiders in order to gain more recognition (Spivak 1988, Sylvain 2005 in Matsuda and Mengoni 2016, 3). This allowed the movement to append itself to Taiwan's Austronesian Aboriginal aspiration to independence and definitive differentiation with China.

#### Stage 4: 'Aboriginal Genes defining Taiwanese Identity'

At the end of the 1990s a new opening occurred in anthropology with genetic studies being carried out over a much wider scope. In 1997 it was claimed by a Taiwanese scientist that 60 per cent of the current Taiwanese population had an Aboriginal ancestry (Stainton 1999, 41–2). However, this conclusion appeared particularly weak since it was based upon speculations on only one characteristic of blood immune-types. Not only did these types of research provide weak conclusions, but also – as the Canadian socio-anthropologist Mark Munsterhjelm has recently demonstrated (Munsterhjelm 2014) – the implications of such genetics studies could be ethically problematic, even highly detrimental to Aboriginal communities.

In his book, Munsterhjelm interrogated why genetic studies in Taiwan had mostly seemed to serve a double purpose since the 1990s. They did so, he claimed, by a) including Aboriginal genes in the national narratives of the past (whether these were Chinese nationalist or Taiwanese nationalist narratives, see above) to serve opposing political agendas but always to the benefit of Han populations, while b) excluding the Aboriginal genes of present communities. Such communities were rendered ineligible by claims that their genetics reflected a 'predisposition toward alcoholism and other health problems' (Munsterhjelm 2014, 1). As such, he declared, 'Aborigines and their genes were positively valued as connections to the past but negatively valued as being predisposed to disorder in the present' (ibid).

Munsterhjelm's conclusions are particularly alarming as they reveal that Aboriginal genetics studies make these populations into a form of 'living dead', dehumanised and disempowered. Considered as biopolitics, genetics studies do this in three different ways. Firstly they qualify them as 'ancestral living dead': 'genetics researchers constitute Aborigines as isolated populations that provide linkages to ancient Austronesian dead ancestors and prehistoric migrations in the Pacific' (Munsterhjelm 2014, 213–15). Secondly the 'diverse living dead' are presented as commodified things: 'Aboriginal peoples […] exist to serve scientists as sources for human variation' (Munsterhjelm 2014, 215). Thirdly they are perceived as 'genetically predisposed living dead': 'Aborigines require special restrictive forms of governance in order to manage the risks that their genes represent' (Munsterhjelm 2014, 215). He concludes by stating:

Scientists […] assume that somehow the historical and social experiences of Aborigines and settlers are equivalent, […] so that differences in outcomes are, in part, seen as the result of cultural and genetic differences. […] This attribution of Aboriginal problems to genetic factors denies full considerations of their social problems, including poverty imposed through the expropriation of Aboriginal territories, unemployment, and racism. By using such a genetic attribution, scientists avoid considering Aborigines' own perspectives on their social problems. Dehumanizing Aborigines depends on attributing to Aboriginal peoples the evolutionary status of being genetically different. […] These genetic differentiations between settlers and Aborigines are foundational acts of racially configured epistemological and ontological violence, which clearly demonstrate that genetics research is an important technology of sovereignty and biopolitics.

(Munsterhjelm 2014, 217)

#### Stage 5: a future Pan-Taiwanese identity?

Finally and overall, with the majority of Minnan speakers in Taiwan being a linguistically distinct (now called 'Taiwanese' language) group from the Northern Han, and originating from the same location as the Austronesian migration, we can foresee the formation of a symbolic bridge with the distant past and the claim of a common and 'primordial' pan-Taiwanese identity. Dating back to the Neolithic era, a destiny of unity could be proposed as a pan-Minnan–Aboriginal identity in Taiwan, further justifying the resistance against Chinese unification (Fig.16.1). However, the ongoing and mostly unchallenged Sinicisation of the language in Taiwan already seems to have reached a point of no return (Ang 2018, map A4: 'Mandarin Use in Taiwanese Families'). As this map shows, new generations are slowly but surely dropping their mother tongues in favour of Mandarin (See Lin, Li-chin 2011) – a situation that could considerably blur the potential pan-Minnan–Aboriginal political agenda.

**Figure 16.1** Protest during the investiture ceremony of President Tsai. Photograph by Nicolas Zorzin, 20 May 2016.

## Entering the neoliberal era: promoting identities while diluting and commodifying them

Since the 1990s, and in concordance with the rise of neoliberal dogma across the world (Harvey 2005), the political struggles in the identity-building of inhabitants of Taiwan described above were considerably reduced (diverted, but not supressed). All Taiwanese inhabitants, and especially Aboriginal people, were 'invited' to participate in 'mainstream' society (see the speech of the KMT President Lee from 1995, cited in Stainton 1999, 42). Despite the neutral or even progressive appearance of such an invitation, this simply meant an invitation to blend into the consumerist, capitalist and so-called 'modern' society.

This is, in fact, a well-known and hackneyed 'neoliberal' technique. The strategy has been applied since the 1990s to discredit any form of socio-political struggle, especially those based on identity and, even more specifically, those of Aboriginal communities (Zorzin 2014). This was not an invitation to develop true autonomies, but rather a way to exacerbate the superficial and politically inoffensive characteristics of each group, and to blend them together. By dictating behaviours under the rules of consumerism, the strategy sought to dispossess people of the political legitimacy of their causes.

Such a mindset, in the long term, could support (re)connecting both sides of the strait under the promise of the common good through business and profit. President Ma Ying-Jeou, elected to power in 2008, stated in 2012 that 'The people of the two sides of the strait share common Chinese ethnic heritage. We share common blood lines, history and culture' (cited in Munsterhjelm 2014, 87). This speech deliberately encompassed Aboriginal communities, suggesting that they can only exist under a Chinese cultural identity, as one of the many 'Chinese' minorities (Munsterhjelm 2014, 87).

The DPP, which has been in power since 2016, has shown no clear intention to govern using a different agenda than the one prioritising economics. On the day of the investiture of the new President Tsai, 20 May 2016, the same neutral and unchallenging re-enactment of history and identities of Taiwan was displayed. Operating along the same lines as the KMT since the 1990s, the DPP seemed, that day, also to promote the multi-ethnic characteristic of Taiwan (Hioe 2016). Yet this was no longer under the Chinese cultural, historical and moral authority, but instead under the celebrated pseudo-equalitarian diversity of Taiwan democracy.

It seemed that diversity itself became the essence of the Taiwanese identity (while focusing on Aboriginal representations and individuals during the ceremony) – even though it is still not clear what this 'diversity' exactly encompasses. The reality is that Aboriginals represent only 2.5 per cent of the Taiwanese population and are mostly socio-economically disenfranchised (Chou 2005, 8–13). That makes their presence during the investiture ceremony, even though essential, both a visual instrumentalisation seeking to create a differentiation from China and, through folklorisation, a denial of defining their own identity.

## Related evolutions in the treatment and perception of cultural heritage in Taiwan

Since the 1960s, development and economic growth have become central to Taiwan's socio-political life. This policy has been accompanied by the disappearance of most of the built cultural heritage (of all periods), either simply abandoned or more actively destroyed to make space for new constructions (Kempf and Zheng 2000, 119). Development and infrastructural construction seem to have been particularly chaotic in their organisation (there has been no clear urban plan, nor do any visual harmonisation rules exist). Furthermore, the destruction of traditional Taiwanese buildings and – to an even greater degree – Japanese ones was presented by the authorities as a desirable sign of progress (Courmont 2008, 65). From 1945 up until the 1980s no desire for systematic preservation of Taiwan's cultural heritage was expressed by either national or local authorities. Only with the 'Cultural Heritage Preservation Act' (CHPA), implemented in 1982, did a legal policy to protect Cultural Heritage reappear under KMT rules after the Japanese occupation period.

In contrast, the heritage displayed and promoted since 1945 has been a Chinese heritage, following the take-over of the island by the Kuomintang between 1945 and 1949. The National Palace Museum was subsequently presented as the epicentre of the Chinese Dynasties Cultural diffusion in the world (Chan 2015, 175–98), as well as the Central National Library, the National Museum of History. All were conceived as symbols of the legitimate ownership of the 'true' China by the KMT; they also supported the process of 're-Sinicisation' of a *de facto* Japanese Taiwan.

Since the promulgation of the CHPA in 1982, the main categories of cultural heritage preserved were 'monuments' (about 800 forts, bridges, government offices, residences, temples, shrines, train stations and more, dealt with at the national level by the Council of Cultural Affairs, called the Ministry of Culture since 2005) and 'historical buildings' (about 1200 diverse monuments designated by special municipalities or counties) (Her 2013). In addition, the logic of preservation reached a new level in 2006, when a series of 'management mechanisms' were implemented. The aim of these was drastically to reduce the risks of damaging the 2000 monuments of Taiwan, notably by reforming the electrical facilities which were often the source of fire disasters (Yen et al. 2015, 383–8).

Although approximately 3000 archaeological sites have been identified in Taiwan since 1896, only 43 have been recognised under the CHPA. Of these, 95 per cent are related to Han Chinese culture (Muyard 2015, 11; Tsai 2012). This fact demonstrates the extremely problematic and significantly unbalanced state between the multiplicity of Taiwan's cultural heritage and the distorted vision chosen to be presented to the public. 'The public' in this context includes both national and international visitors, of whom the vast majority (38 per cent, according to the Tourism Bureau, ROC Taiwan, in 2018) are continental Chinese. The same source notes that 18 per cent are Japanese tourists and 22 per cent come from other countries in South-East Asia.

In the *National Centre for Traditional Arts* in Yilan County, for example, a visual simulation of the Taiwanese past has been displayed with an almost entirely re-built (fake) Southern China architectural-ensemble (Fig.16.2). The construction has no patrimonial value, but is instead almost a caricature, unrelated to the past life of the location or to the past lives of real people. The presentation is heavily Disneyfied, consumeroriented and idealised. It features a remodelled urban setting (including a replica of a religious temple) and a rural landscape. Both emphasise the idea of a common Chinese cultural unity (Southern Chinese architecture and customs, and Confucianism).

It should be noted here that, depending on the narrative delivered during the visits, the exhibitions could be both used to focus on the similarities between Taiwan and China, as much as on their differences. As such, the park can be consumed equally by Taiwanese and Chinese tourists without much friction. It should also be noted that no place has been made to display the Aboriginal past. This lack of acknowledgement has obliterated the simple possibility of facing dissonant and difficult narratives (Kisić 2016).

From the start of the twenty-first century there have been visible movements to change the status quo on cultural heritage. Increasing numbers of local heritage preservation projects are appearing around the island (Her 2013). These include numerous history and prehistory museums, often driven by local authorities aiming for tourism development (Courmont 2008, 66). However, the actual tendencies towards 'tourism development' have also brought a substantial commoditisation of cultural heritage. This phenomenon needs to be scrutinised and urgently criticised before it is developed further. As Hsia Chu-Joe, a professor in the Graduate Institute of Building and Planning at

**Figure 16.2** The recreation of a fake 'Han Street', dedicated only to tourist shopping. National Centre for Traditional Arts, Yilan County. Photograph by Nicolas Zorzin, 18 May 2016.

National Taiwan University, has argued, 'the real enemy of conservation efforts has been the prevalent developmentcentric mentality' (cited in Tsai 2012). This has impacted, and continues to impact, in two opposite ways: by facilitating a superficial conservation of heritage, aiming primarily to attract tourists and generate profits, and by facilitating the destruction of heritage to leave space for much more profitable building developments.

In the meantime, it should be underlined that despite the efforts of successive governments, and especially despite the actions of the Ministry of Culture and the bureaus of cultural affairs at both local and county levels, the major sites of Taiwanese heritage cannot be designated on the UNESCO World Heritage List because of the country's ongoing and unresolved diplomatic conflict with China. Any attempts of Taiwan to gain international recognition, including that of its cultural heritage (Chang and Chiang 2012, 29, Chung 2003), have been vetoed by China. Because of the non-recognition of Taiwan as an independent nation by the international community, it is still not possible for the island to become a candidate for the recognition of World Heritage Sites (Ministry of Culture, Republic of China/Taiwan 2016) – a procedure that Blundell has judged as vital 'in establishing a world heritage knowledge system on prehistory and early history' (Blundell 2001, 19). Nor is Taiwan able to receive support and advice on the protection and display of those sites for the public.

Furthermore, the Taiwanese identity that has been progressively emerging since the 1970s has been fundamentally active in integrating, re-interpreting and negotiating the multiple episodes of colonisations. In so doing, it has redirected the outcomes of site preservation towards the bonding with memories within local communities. As such, the postcolonial cultural heritage, instead of being seen as an adverse memory against a specific coloniser, has been redirected towards more general preoccupations concerning social welfare, global ecological issues and economic improvement. It has also been, on some rare occasions, a direct criticism of capitalism and over-exploitation of resources – for example, the 2015/16 exhibition '*Musensemble City* – *An Experiencing Project for Modernity*' held in the Japanese building of what is now the National Taiwan Museum in Taipei.

The complex and often controversial colonial past of Taiwan was not removed or cleaned entirely, as has been the case in many other countries where processes of identity construction were once in progress. An example of this is the newly independent Greece at the beginning of the nineteenth century (Hamilakis 2007, 85–99). Instead, mostly since the 1990s, increasing numbers of colonial period sites, notably Japanese, have been preserved. These places must address their 'contested nature', attempting to reveal and to engage locally with manifold narratives and memories, contradictory and controversial. This process might, in the end, be of a truly de-colonising nature (Chang and Chiang 2012, 29), unless it is absorbed by economic growth preoccupations alone. Such an outcome would replace the old colonial, coercive system of domination of men by men by the new so-called 'free' capitalist system, equally imposing domination through heritage that is distorted, neutralised and to be consumed.

## From a disappearing Japanese architectural heritage to a post-1990s rehabilitation process – *heritagisation* or commercialisation?

After 1895 the prerequisite to the construction of a Japanese urban space in Taiwan was for the new occupant to eradicate, or at least reduce, the visual traces of previous political and cultural powers – namely the Manchu dynasty of Qing China. Most notable among these were the tortuous and narrow alleys of the Manchu cities. This operation was quickly conducted between 1895 and 1900, mainly by destroying administrative and religious centres, as well as some strong landscape markers such as the wall of the city of Taipei (Kempf and Zheng 2000, 121). All 'Chinese' references were intentionally erased from these new urban spaces to make room for a monumental, functional and efficient city. In fact, only a few public buildings or parks followed strict Japanese style standards, for example Shinto shrines. However, many private residencies around the island did emulate the Japanese architectural wooden traditions.

Today, traces of the Japanese occupation are visible everywhere in Taiwan. They are most unmistakable in Taipei City, built as a model of the colonial and modern Japan of the early twentieth century. This utopian city, built by the Japanese government, embraced both 'modernity' (large avenues and a north–south/east–west grid) and a clear Western architectural style, called 'grand style' or *shiyang jianzhu* (Kempf and Zheng 2000, 122). This fact can partially explain the city's preservation by the following KMT government, which was otherwise inclined towards annihilating all visible remains of Japanese culture on the island (Chang and Chiang 2012, 28).

By contrast, the Japanese traditional houses and Shinto shrines, mostly made of wood and thus requiring continual care, were simply left to decay (even though often occupied by KMT military personnel) or defaced, for example, Tongxiao Shinto Shrine (通霄神社) in Miaoli County. Others were demolished to make space for new concrete constructions. One of the most obvious landscape markers to disappear was probably the main Shinto *Grand Shrine* of Taiwan (台湾神宮) in Taihoku (Taipei). This was partially destroyed by a plane crash in 1944; it was then replaced by the Old Grand Hotel, and finally by the ostentatious Grand Hotel (圓山大飯店) in 1973, as a showcase of Chinese architecture and culture. In 1991 a bank became the first Japanese building to be officially designated as a protected historic 'monument'. In the 2000s a vast number of Japanese monuments (such as the Qingxiu Yuan Temple in Hualien) were designated and restored (Chang and Chiang 2012, 28).

Furthermore, a recent preservation movement aims to renovate the remains of Japanese traditional housing in Taiwan. Interestingly, this process does not seem to have been inspired by a clear national, political or cultural preservation policy. It seems to be rather the choice of ordinary people, eager to save and restore life to old but particularly attractive housing projects for artists and craftsmen (Her 2013). A similar situation has existed in Kyoto since the 1990s, where restoration has focused on traditional wooden merchants' houses, or *Machiya* (Ryōichi 2003, 382–3).

Some examples of this form of restoration in Taiwan seem to have been fruitful collaborations between the government and various associations, such as the 'revitalisation' of a traditional Japanese-style home in Yunlin County. The combination of the particular features of Japanese traditional architecture and the extremely rainy and hot climate of Taiwan make the preservation of buildings almost impossible if they are not inhabited and constantly taken care of. As a result, the use of the restored building by a storytelling and art association has made the structure appear viable in the long term, while also supporting an increasingly popular cultural activity among local populations (Her 2013).

However, the process of renovation of the traditional Japanese housing is also related to financial investment, speculation (based on district gentrification) and increasing profit mechanisms. Built heritage is being used as an added value in economic terms, notably in Taipei (Fig.16.3). Certainly some renovation projects, such as the Taipei's Red House (built in 1908), have been judged as successful in becoming a 'thriving centre for live performances and businesses in the cultural and creative industry' (Her 2013). Yet most of the restoration activities observable today are essentially commercial. The extent of the social role and cultural support offered by such a 'cultural' centre is arguable, even though it became a well-known cultural marker of Taipei's gay nightlife.

**Figure 16.3** Traditional Japanese housing in Da'an district, around Jinhua Street, in different stages of rehabilitation. Photograph by Nicolas Zorzin, March–April 2016.

Furthermore, in Taipei, two renowned 'Cultural and Creative' parks have been established using the remains of industrial buildings of the Japanese Taipei. They are Songshan Cultural and Creative Park (松山文創園區), opened in 2011 and formerly a tobacco factory, and Huashan 1914 Creative Park (華山1914文化創意產業園區), opened in 2005 (formerly a winery). In both cases, the concept of 'adaptive reuse' (Chen and Fu 2015) was adopted and implemented. The intention was to retain the building's heritage significance while adding a modern touch, thus providing a value for its present and future use. The benefits claimed by such an approach are two-fold: it saves the built heritage while also making it relevant to the present, both socially and economically.

In the case of the Songshan Cultural and Creative Park, however, the project has largely failed to preserve its heritage value. No clear navigation signage is displayed inside or outside the buildings. A guided tour of the precinct is available, but only for groups of more than 15 people and only if booked a week in advance; most people do not know of its existence. Most of the original artefacts or industrial remains used to create an aura of authenticity and rusticity are given very little or no context. The original Japanese environment thus becomes unreadable, with the new site mostly practical, cute and commercial (café, bookstore, expensive shops, etc.). Songshan Cultural and Creative Park has been turned into a space to be consumed, rather than one that can be used to learn, create and reflect. As such, the buildings have not only been deprived of their historical context and made over-commercial, but the Park has failed to involve genuine public participation (replaced by consumption) or to develop any sense of community.

In the context of the old colonial mining industry in Jinguashi (close to the old port of Keelung), the Japanese built heritage was more systematically renovated or rebuilt with the aim of supporting tourism. A Japanese colonial landscape has been almost entirely rebuilt or maintained – a 'feeling' that has been reinforced by the extremely popular animation *Spirited Away*, from the Japanese animation director Hayao Miyazaki (Studio Ghibli). He, it is believed, had used the location (Jiufen and Jinguashi) to construct the visuals for his globally acclaimed animation in 2001 (Fig.16.4). In this case, despite the dark context of the gold mine development (a former prisoner of war camp and the site of exploitation, disease, early death, prostitution, etc.), the area has been heavily Disneyfied for recreational purposes. Very little space is given for critical reflection on the historical context of colonisation, or of the capitalist exploitation of resources and of people (apart from one panel in the museum of the 'Gold Mining Town of Jinguashi', which displays some pictures of British Commonwealth and Allied POWs).

**Figure 16.4** Old Street with 'Yubaaba's House', Jiufen (湯婆婆). Photograph by Nicolas Zorzin, 3 April 2016

Furthermore, Jiufen became a major cultural reference in Taiwan in 1989 when the film director Hsiao-Hsien Hou released the film *City of Sadness*. Set in Jiufen, it portrayed Taiwanese families struggling against the new KMT's relentlessly repressive power between 1945 and 1949. This historical evocation of Hsiao-Hsien Hou and the renown it gave to Jiufen is hardly visible today. The town is now far more focused on both Japanese architectural cuteness and the old-fashioned, melancholic atmosphere of the area as means to attract tourism, rather than confronting a dark part of Taiwan's history.

From a different perspective and setting commodification aside, it is apparent that:

The transformation of Japanese colonial sites into Taiwanese cultural heritage reflects the flourishing localism in which grassroots groups and activists endeavour to evoke civic awareness. […] Many Taiwanese people regard these heritages as intimate sites of memory that offer a new sense of place. The Japanese colonial sites have become an essential ingredient of a new Taiwanese identity and cultural narrative during the burgeoning memory boom [of the 1990s]. (Chang and Chiang 2012, 28)

As such, the Japanese sites preservation movement was also supported by what has been defined as 'nostalgia travellers' coming from Japan. This is especially the case in Taipei and Tainan, where tourism has flourished. Yet before becoming such touristic attractions, these colonial sites passed through a process of appropriation in three stages. Firstly, they were subjected to an open dialogue of multiple memories. Secondly, they were transformed into sites of locality and commemoration. Finally, they were no longer reinterpreted as the legacies of a predatory coloniser, but instead perceived as new symbols of localism and grassroots pacifist activism (Chang and Chiang 2012, 29).

## Concluding remarks

Taiwan's cultural heritage, as Taiwan's identity, has been and is still struggling to exist as a whole, tossed between the injunctions of numerous and opposed political agendas. Yet even though these opposing forces are aiming for the annihilation (by active destruction) or neutralisation (by commodification) of the cultural memory of the supposed incompatible others still present in Taiwan today, there is also a deep-rooted trend now seeking for an easing of tensions and working on the deployment of a more inclusive and plural cultural memory for the country.

Even if the significance of cultural heritage is still heavily influenced by the narrative of Taiwan as part of China, individuals and local communities (self-identifying as Mainlander, 'Taiwanese', Hakka, Aboriginal or, increasingly, as an undistinguishable Taiwanese mix) are in a process of redefining what is important for them and what makes sense to the community. In so doing, they often successfully bypass limited and simplistic nationalist antagonisms. Here the innovative, community-based archaeological projects led by Professor Chung of National Cheng Kung University in Hualien (working with Sakizaya Aboriginal people) and Kaohsiung (working with a mix of populations in Zuoying, an old, historical district that has mostly been destroyed) should be mentioned. Chung's projects illustrate academic attempts to redefine heritage in Taiwan (Chung 2018). Yet the obligations to makes a profit and to demonstrate the financial contribution of heritage to society (often requested by communities) still pose a major challenge. In this situation, how can the commodification of heritage be avoided in the long term?

Finally, in 2018, the hope expressed by many archaeologists to develop successful strategies of cultural heritage preservation in Taiwan involves a reinforcement of grassroots groups and increasing consciousness within the entire population about the value and fragility of cultural heritage at large. To avoid both destructive or commodifying forces (both nationalistic and capitalist) taking the lead in cultural heritage management, the support of inclusive forces within local communities must be secured to enable successful resistance to occur in Taiwan.

#### Note

1. See the recent '*One-China ideology*' textbook imposed by the KMT and fought against by students in 2015; Gold 2015.

## References

Ang, Uijin. 2018. *Language Atlas of Taiwan*. Studies on Social Language Geography of Taiwan, vol.2. Auger, R. and Moss, W. 2001. 'The Archaeology of Physical and Social Transformation: High Times,

Low Tides and Tourist Floods on Quebec City's Waterfront', in Alan Mayne and Tim Murray, eds, *The Archaeology of Urban Landscapes* – *Explorations in Slumland*. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 132–44.


Harvey, D. 2005. *A Brief History of Neoliberalism*. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 247.


#### Newspapers, forums, blogs, museums


Lin, Li-chin. 2011. FORMOSA, Éditions çà et là, Paris, 244.


## 17 A glimpse into the crystal ball: how do we select the memory of the future?

Monique van den Dries and José Schreurs

One of the principal motives of heritage management is the bequest value – the value contemporary people place on resource as something to be handed on to future generations. Heritage professionals work on behalf of future generations, 'who are expected to be grateful' (Holtorf 2008, 125). They consider this stewardship an important duty: the wish to bequeath is everywhere, from the UNESCO World Heritage Convention to national and local heritage policies. This volume is no exception, given the observation in its introduction that cultural heritage, and the memory it embodies, is considered vital for individuals, groups and communities, particularly in forming collective identities, both today and in the *future*.

Given this ambition, one would say that heritage professionals would do their utmost to enable the heritage they select for the future to play this role. But do we, and can we? How do we select the memory of the future? Despite the fact that we work on behalf of future generations and the bequest value is one of our prime motives, the authors' experience relates that the future and those who will receive the bequest do not really play a role in our daily practice. They are not taken into account in decision-making processes, nor do they sit at the decision table: they are not empowered.

We believe that in a volume concerned with memory, identity, conflicts and destruction, we also need to reflect on our actions in terms of preventing and mitigating conflicts – not just now, but also in the future. The reason for doing so is that the heritage we protect today, the decisions we make in the present, can become a potential source of conflict in the future. Back in 2003, Cooke already warned that the inexorable expansion of the heritage burden does *not* have to be 'gratefully accepted by future generations as a precious, unalterable and inalienable bequest' (Cooke 2003, 77). We therefore use the invitation to contribute to this volume as an opportunity to reflect upon our practice of selecting archaeological monuments and its possible impact on future generations. In our opinion the archaeological sector in the Netherlands should give this more thought than it has hitherto done.

To start with, we could ask ourselves whether contemporary heritage managers can actually decide about the memory and identity of the future. However, such a philosophical debate would go beyond the scope of this volume. Alternatively, we may approach the question from our experience as heritage professionals, expected to act as stewards and to teach students to take on this role. We wonder how durable the choices we make in contemporary heritage management actually are. What strategy is deemed successful, and for whom: for us, for the heritage, for future generations, or for all three?

If we want to take this moral duty – working in the service of the future – seriously, rather than merely accepting it as a rather meaningless buzz-word (see Van den Dries 2015), we have to think of ways critically to assess this inter-generational sustainability. But so far it does not seem to be a serious field of study. We do not know what the bequest value really means. How do we see those who will receive the heritage bequest, and how can the stakes of the future be incorporated in our practice? With the exception of the critical volume by Cooke mentioned above (Cooke 2003), which reflects on the growth of heritage in Ireland and the burden it would put on future generations, there is little literature on the issue. While it is more widely present in environmental studies, a literature search yielded little in relation to heritage management. Only Högberg et al. re-opened a discussion on the matter (Högberg et al. 2017). Their interviews with heritage professionals in various countries across the globe confirmed that the future is not thought about a lot – mostly because it is considered difficult to conceive of ways in which to address issues relating to the future (Högberg et al. 2017).

The authors of this chapter believe that we *can* address such matters and take a look into the crystal ball, or at least try to do so. We will illustrate this by following the value-based approach to heritage. It provides us with arguments into why we should take the future recipients of our bequest into account, enabling us to consider them as a stakeholder group whose perspective we may assume. Our stage will be the designation of national monuments, our most precious gifts to the future.

## Theoretical context: the values-based approach

Much of our heritage management practice is grounded in the values-based approach. It departs from the idea that in our Western society, heritage – be it tangible or intangible – only exists if people care, if anyone values it. Values give things significance (Avrami et al. 2000, 7). Or, to cite Howard: 'people and their motivations define heritage' (Howard 2003, 7). Most heritage therefore is the result of the fact that people care, and want to keep and safeguard it.

It is from this perspective that we acknowledge that the reasons why people care can vary strongly from one individual to another, and usually differ from one object, site or historic event to the other. Consequently the values associated with heritage can be of all sorts and more than one at a time. As values may differ from one stakeholder or rights holder to another, they are often dissonant. As a consequence, heritage can be strongly contested. It may provoke local, national and even international conflicts, of which this volume shows some painful examples. Conflicts may be expressed as local protests over planning decisions, but they can also lead to intentional destruction of cultural heritage, disrupting relationships between communities or nation-states.

In the hope of avoiding or mitigating conflicts, many scholars have stressed in the past couple of decades the importance of including multiple stakeholders in defining heritage values (see, for instance, Smith et al. 2010 for an overview). This need for democratisation, social inclusion and empowering those who will be affected by heritage decisions is a widely accepted principle that is echoed in (international) policy documents on cultural heritage – even though our day-to-day practice is often not yet fully tuned to it.

A second point of departure is that all of this applies not only to present-day society but probably also to societies of the future. According to Howard, 'things actually inherited do not become heritage until they are recognized as such' (Howard 2003, 6). As heritage is continually recreated (Avrami et al. 2000, 14), identification plays a vital role in its construction. This suggests that unless societies cease to value heritage at all, future generations will also be making choices concerning what they consider their heritage. In fact, they may have even more heritage to choose from than we do, as they will have a longer past. As such, we have no reason to believe there will be no conflicts over heritage in the future, nor that heritage destruction will cease to occur. However, today's heritage managers seem to assume that not much will change (see again Högberg et al. 2017), perhaps because they implicitly think of a not so very distant future (idem). Yet this is an unrealistic assumption. It is actually very likely that the values which future generations may attach to heritage will change (see also Holtorf 2011). However, we do not anticipate such a development.

Support for the expectation that concepts of value are very likely to change can be found in the fact that 'our generation' attributes already different values to heritage (either buildings, sites, landscapes, objects or intangible heritage) than former generations did. This becomes apparent when we compare, for example, the 1964 ICOMOS Venice Charter – which considered preserving and revealing the aesthetic and historic values of a monument a principle aim of heritage work – with the 2005 Faro Convention of the Council for Europe, which encourages us to recognise that objects and places are important not for their intrinsic value, but because of the meanings and uses that people attach to them, and consequently the values they represent. Such changes suggest that what present-day society considers important with regard to selecting heritage, along with the values we apply and prioritise, may not be the same for upcoming generations, in the same way that we do not value everything, and for the same reasons, as previous generations.

Survey results among the public also suggest interest in heritage may differ between generations (Kajda et al. 2018; Van den Dries and Boom 2017). Among the Dutch respondents, for instance, we saw significant deviations in the level of appreciation for archaeology between older and younger age groups; 77 per cent of young people (18–24) were convinced that archaeology is useful, against 93 per cent of those aged 60 years and more. Moreover, 81 per cent of older people (60 and older) indicated that they valued having local archaeological remains, compared to a much lower percentage of 65 per cent for the 18–24 age group (Van den Dries and Boom 2017).

A third indication that things change over generations is the fact that contemporary heritage managers, governments, organisations and owners responsible for taking care of the heritage legacy they inherited from the past are not always pleased with all of it. We will discuss this later in this chapter. It is even likely for the procedures of heritage selection and designation to transform into more democratic processes in the future. For example, in cultural heritage management politics and policies strong tendencies can be seen towards empowering stakeholders, public consultation and participatory governance.

From the perspective of a values-based approach to heritage, we would expect attention for those the heritage sector wishes to bequeath material to. However, in practice heritage managers like us try to serve the future and to influence the memory of the past for the future, without showing much regard for what this future may be. Up until now, democratisation attempts are usually primarily motivated by avoiding conflicts in the present. We do not yet think in terms of democratisation of future generations, although they are among our prime target audiences and the ones most affected by our current actions. We do not consider them as stakeholders. Nor do we pay much attention to the idea that things may change in the future. We hardly pause to consider whether future generations will accept what we designate as heritage to be their legacy too. As such, paying attention to the effectiveness of our policies in the long run, and how we may serve the future recipients in the best way we can, is not high on our priority list. To demonstrate our lack of empathy for these recipients further, and to illustrate how such attitudes may annihilate our present-day efforts, we will call in our imaginary 'future friend'.

## The imaginary future friend

Imagine a future friend. This is an individual whom you do not know and will never get to know. It will be impossible for you ever to meet this person, as s/he will be born long after we have left the planet. Yet you are determined to buy this person a present, to offer her or him a legacy from the past (both 'our past' and 'their past'). One factor that may complicate your choice is that this person will be responsible for the costs of maintaining your gift during his/her entire life, as s/he is also expected to pass it on to his/her (unborn) descendants.

The principal question is what could motivate this individual to respect the values underlying your purchase, and to keep and even maintain your present? Or, to put it differently, what could you do – right now – to ensure that your intentions will be respected and you will succeed? Would the best strategy be merely to select what you like best yourself, to choose whatever you value most, and simply hope this future friend will like it too – and will be willing to spend part of his or her (presumably limited) financial resources on it in order to pass it on? Or are there perhaps alternative strategies to consider – ones that may increase the chances that we will succeed in our efforts?

Obviously we cannot know what our future friend will consider the best option. If 'the past is a foreign country', to refer to Lowenthal's wellknown book (a title that in turn quotes L. P. Hartley's novel of 1953, *The Go-Between*), we may consider the future an extra-terrestrial planet. In fact, we cannot even know whether our imaginary friend will turn out to be a friend. However, we *can* use our own common sense, experience, imagination and creativity to figure out scenarios that are *least* likely to help us reach our goals. If we are required to buy a present for someone we know, someone acquainted with our culture, our common sense would probably tell us the scenario described above is the least likely to have the most successful outcome, both for ourselves and for the legacy that we want to pass on. This is simply because it fails to take any interests of the person receiving the gift into account. One would probably not opt for this strategy.

By imagining what *we* would prefer, we may think of reasons for our imaginary friend to keep and maintain our gift. If *we* were to be bequeathed something, it is quite likely that we would take care of the gift if a) we knew that there is a very special story attached to it; b) we were aware of the buyer's strong emotional attachment to it; c) we knew that it would be valued by a large group of people (a representative group of society); and d) if there was something in it for us as well, for instance if the value of the gift would increase instead of primarily becoming a burden.

In the context of our fictitious narrative, the self-centred attitude ('you are expected to like what I like') could be perceived as rather arrogant. Yet in the practice of heritage selection, of choosing archaeological sites to become monuments, which most of us consider our most precious gifts to future generations, we usually apply precisely this strategy. The experts decide, on the basis of non-emotional, objective (usually scientific) criteria. They do this for good reasons, of course, but these reasons are first of all fed by our own stakes. They lie in the here and now, in part because we have to convince authorities, planners or developers of the need for protection measures. But we hardly explain *why* we prioritise these over other values, or why we value the scientific potential of a site, for instance, more highly than the social value it may have for society. The process has also little to do with emotions: it is all about the rationale behind the selection and the objective, scientific story. This means that an emotional attachment to it by large groups in society is often not considered. And what about the added value of our gifts for those who receive them? How does it gain value for them? We may presume that the scientific potential will bring an increase of value, but it is also acknowledged that precisely scientific value highly depends on changeable trends in research (for example, Groenewoudt and Bloemers 1997, 133) and may suffer the most from devaluation.

In the next section we will look at the practical context of the mainstream selection process of archaeological monuments and see how the stakes of the future recipients of our 'gifts' fit in. The example is taken from the Netherlands, but we assume that most of what we describe applies in essence to many other nation-states.

## Selection and designation of national monuments

In the Netherlands, as in many other countries across the world, designation of national archaeological monuments is the exclusive task of the national authorities. In our case the Cultural Heritage Agency (*Rijksdienst voor het Cultureel Erfgoed*, or RCE) designates archaeological sites as national listed monuments on behalf of our Minister of Education, Culture and Science. A site with such a monument status will be legally protected from demolition, at least for some time. The legal mandate for designation decisions is the Heritage Act (9 December 2015), which says in Section 3.1:

Our Minister, acting ex officio, may designate a monument or archaeological monument which is of general interest because of its beauty, scholarly significance, or cultural-historical value as a national monument.

(Ministry of Education, Culture and Science 2016)

The selection of a site, and its designation as a monument, is based on objective criteria. The basis for this was laid down in the 1990s, when objective criteria became essential to negotiate and argue for protection, either in situ or ex situ (Willems 1997; Groenewoudt and Bloemers 1997). The criteria for valuing sites are described – and as such imposed – by the Dutch Quality Standard. These are:


The last criterion only concerns sites that are actually visible in the landscape. This is hardly the case with newly discovered sites, as these are found by means of excavation or other, less destructive techniques. Next to these criteria, it is furthermore required that the local circumstances are suitable for the long-term preservation of a site. This means that support by local authorities is needed; support by landowners is preferred, but is not strictly necessary.

Over time, the principles underneath the conservation ethos have changed considerably. When the listing of archaeological monuments started, in the 1960s, there was a strong emphasis on protecting archaeological remains that were visible in the landscape, such as burial monuments and dwelling mounts (Van Haaff 2006). As a result of a very active protection policy in the 1970s and 1980s, many of those were listed. In the 90s the focus shifted towards protecting and designating sites with invisible archaeological remains, and to gaining insight into the cache of sites available in the ground (Deeben 2015). The most recent objective of the national preservation policy has been to protect a representative sample of our past as monuments for future generations (Smit et al. 2014).

The result of over 50 years of designating national archaeological monuments is a collection of around 1500 protected archaeological sites. This is at present our principal legacy for future generations. For some years the Cultural Heritage Agency and the Minister of Culture have not been entirely satisfied with the composition of this monument list. The main issue was, and is, that it is not considered sufficiently representative of the past (Schut and Vossen 2009; Smit et al. 2014). Due to the selection legacy of the last couple of decades, which has favoured visible monuments, these are represented best. In particular burial monuments and dwelling mounds dominate the list (Fig.17.1). Ritual places, sites for raw material procurement, sites relating to industry and craft and maritime sites are currently hardly represented (Zoetbrood et al. 2006).

In regard to the historical periods represented, the current list has also few monuments from the Palaeolithic and Mesolithic periods, the early Neolithic era, the Bronze Age (apart from Neolithic/Bronze Age burial mounds) or the early mediaeval and modern periods (Fig.17.2). The distribution of sites across the country is also considered unbalanced.

**Figure 17.1** The national archaeological monuments of the Netherlands, subdivided into categories (Source: RCE)

The western provinces, with their Holocene geological deposits in which most of the archaeology lies deep beneath the surface, have far fewer monuments than do the eastern provinces, in which most of the visible monuments, such as burial sites, are located (Fig.17.3).

In the last couple of years the Cultural Heritage Agency has placed more emphasis on protecting monuments that are underrepresented. In 2013 it composed a protection programme to designate 28 new monuments (Smit et al. 2014). However, due to the fact that adding sites to the monument list is a long process, certain historic periods and complexes will remain underrepresented for many years to come.

If we look at this designation policy from the perspective of a future recipient, and consider his or her possible motives for respecting our choices, we can identify some additional issues. The first relates to its emotional value, the level of attachment shown to the gift by society. Even though the Dutch Heritage Act (2016) talks about monuments as places 'of *general* interest', the prime motivation for selection remains how sites are valued by professionals for their research potential they offer present-day scholars. Their intrinsic value is thus put first. There is very little emotional value attached to their selection – at least not in a form apparent to outsiders. This also applies to the monuments assigned to the tentative list through the 2013 protection programme – maybe even more so, as invisible monuments have hardly any aesthetic value.

**Figure 17.2** The national archaeological monuments of the Netherlands, subdivided into historic periods (Source: RCE)

**Figure 17.3** The national archaeological monuments of the Netherlands, as distributed across the country (Source: RCE)

Moreover, selections to date have primarily been made in a topdown manner. Even though heritage managers act on behalf of society, this does not help to foster emotional attachment to monuments among large groups in society. The lack of emotional attachment to monuments shown by many ordinary people is illustrated by some recent studies. In Apeldoorn, for instance, it was found that a majority of respondents to a small survey sample had not consciously noticed the archaeological monuments (burial mounds) abundantly present near where they lived (Van Vuuren 2014). Another survey found that if stakeholders think their interests are neglected in the process of constructing archaeological monuments, they may believe that a historic identity is being imposed on them (Amsing 2015, 100).

Another issue with the current designation policy concerns the objective of representativeness and its disconnection with the motive of added value. The authors consider 'representativeness' to be a conservative concept, because present-day heritage managers can only be representative in relation to *their own state of knowledge*. It is, however, very likely that we have so far missed lots of traces from the past. These may be discovered in the future using innovative methods not yet invented – even as we have discovered new things with modern DNA analyses, geoarchaeology and high-tech, non-intrusive instruments. Thinking in terms of representativeness implies we do not select *potential* heritage sites as protected areas – a site we know nothing about, but which may have a good research potential, for example because it has ideal preservation conditions. By failing to preserve and protect such unknown sites, we make it less likely that future generations will be able to discover this unknown. The concept of representativeness, therefore, does not take the interests of future stakeholders, such as the next generation of academics, into account.

If we seek to take the interests of future generations more seriously, we ought to be altruistic and ensure they are also given opportunities for discovery. From a scientific point of view, it could therefore be argued that we should also protect locations with a *potential* heritage value for future generations, and so instal parks of undisturbed areas as 'playgrounds' for future academics. This may be an example of a heritage asset that has the potential to gain value for the recipients of our gift. Even the promise of an increase in value may serve to make such monuments worth keeping for generations in the near and distant future.

### Experiments involving stakeholders

The Cultural Heritage Agency is currently rethinking its policy on the designation of monuments and has started the project 'Exploration into Archaeology'. Its new approach maintains that archaeological sites should not be protected for the sake of scientific research alone, but for the benefit of society as a whole. It therefore believes the lack of public attachment to national monuments to be a serious issue that must be tackled. One of the Agency's strategies is to look for the relevance of archaeological monuments to society, and explore how people can benefit from the state's protection of monuments of national significance. It can, for example, transform invisible monuments into places for people to enjoy (Fig.17.4) and/or to generate a living (Fig.17.5).

Another idea is to involve the public in the designation of archaeological sites. The Agency recently experimented with a bottom-up approach involving *Natuurmonumenten,* the Dutch Natural Monuments Society. Normally, this society has no formal role in decision making and selection regarding the archaeological sites, but in the context of the latest designation programme (Smit et al. 2014) it was asked to identify remains from the past that it would prefer to select as monuments.

The Natural Monuments Society is a main stakeholder. It is a non-governmental organisation with about 700,000 members and donors, responsible for protecting and managing about 107,000 ha. of nature reserves in the Netherlands. These parks include a wide variety of cultural heritage, such as fortresses, country estates and archaeological sites. In total the Society manages over 300 sites, dating from the Palaeolithic era to modern times, of which 40 are national archaeological monuments.

In our opinion, this was an interesting experiment. It turned out that of all 27 sites this stakeholder nominated, only three date from early

**Figure 17.4** A previously invisible archaeological monument (a Roman fortress), now transformed into a leisure park in Leiden (Matilo). Photograph courtesy RCE.

**Figure 17.5** Another previously invisible archaeological monument (a Roman fortress), now transformed into a lively cultural community centre in Utrecht (Hoge Woerd). Photograph courtesy RCE.

prehistory and two from the Iron Age/Roman period. The majority of the sites the Society wished to nominate for gaining monument status (22) date from the mediaeval and modern period. With regard to the proposed categories of sites, it is striking that craft/industry and defence structures dominated the list of *Natuurmonumenten*, the very elements currently most lacking in the official monument list. Equally interesting is that the Society's preference for these sites has turned out to be driven by economic motives rather than scientific values. The sites the Society selected require preservation measures; if they are awarded listed monument status, the national government provides financial support for their maintenance. As four of the nominated sites were actually included in the designation process, the experiment proved both interesting and successful.

To us, this pilot illustrates that by involving another stakeholder group in the selection process of archaeological monuments, different heritage values may be brought to the fore – complementing those that experts in archaeology would prioritise. It indicates that including these stakeholders more widely in the monument designation strategy would yield a greater variety of heritage sites to be considered for preservation. It also implies that such a process would demonstrate to future generations how these monuments are valued by a large group in society, other than just heritage experts.

Another advantage of such a bottom-up involvement in the designation of the monuments which future recipients will have to care for is that it may foster an emotional commitment, both now and in the near future. As these monuments were not imposed on *Natuurmonumenten* by the state but self-imposed, its employees and members may get a feeling of ownership, responsibility and stewardship. Whether it indeed pays off in the long term remains to be evaluated, but it is more likely that the organisation will respect its 'own' decision of protecting these monuments for many years to come. This seems a more future-proof strategy than imposing decisions of which monuments they are expected to care for.

Apart from *Natuurmonumenten*, other stakeholders are not formally involved in any heritage selection processes. The Cultural Heritage Agency is in the process of asking other professional stakeholders about their interest in getting involved; it seems that a majority has responded positively to the consultation (Vossen and Korf 2018). This corresponds with the findings of students of the Faculty of Archaeology when interviewing stakeholders (for example, Van Vuuren 2014; Amsing 2015). Ordinary members of the public, however, have never been directly involved in any decision making concerning the archaeological heritage and its preservation. We thus lack empirical data on the values and selection criteria that community members would apply and prioritise, were they to be involved in selecting national monuments.

As a result, it is difficult to predict the possible effects of public involvement on the safeguarding of our heritage. We do know, however, that members of the public have sometimes had different interests in the past than professionals may assume. In the earlier mentioned public survey conducted by the NEARCH research group, for example, it was found that interests in archaeology among the public in Europe (Kajda et al. 2018) and in the Netherlands are wide (Van den Dries and Boom 2017). They may not necessarily match the narrow foci local authorities sometimes apply in safeguarding archaeological remains. It demonstrates that without inquiring we cannot know whether our selection of the past represents what society values.

On the basis of the NEARCH survey results, it may also be assumed that, if the public were more aware of archaeological monuments, there might be a greater interest among ordinary people in getting involved in selection policies. Over 30 per cent of the Dutch respondents indicated an interest in being included in decision making regarding archaeology (Van den Dries and Boom 2017). Although respondents replied to a question concerning local 'archaeological projects', not specifically the selection of monuments, there would seem to be fertile ground for widening community engagement.

Studies on the effects of public participation in other disciplines of conservation management, for instance in National Park management, do show positive effects (for example, Parks and Wildlife Commission of the Northern Territory, 2002; Wouters et al. 2011). Apart from an improved quality of decision making by agencies, other effects among participants reported by researchers include a greater compliance through an increased feeling of ownership and a greater community advocacy for protection measures. This could well be the kind of emotional attachment that a next generation of stewards may respect. Involving more members of the public would in any case make our monument designation a more democratic process; this would also demonstrate that what we pass on was valued by the transmitting society.

### Conclusion

In this chapter the authors aimed to discuss to what extent heritage professionals take the interests of future generations into account while creating memories of the past for the future. We are stewards acting on behalf of the future recipients of our 'gifts', and we may believe we are doing the future a favour. Yet the heritage that we protect, and the decisions we make today, could actually turn out to be a burden for those to whom we wish to bequeath heritage. It may even become a source of potential conflict. The fact that contemporary heritage managers are not always satisfied with what they have inherited from the past, nor with the selections from the past that they pass on, illustrates that we in turn may fail to satisfy future generations. Yet in ordinary practice we do not really acknowledge that circumstances may change over time, as may the values future generations may ascribe to heritage. We scarcely evaluate our policies and actions against our long-term objectives, nor do we anticipate changes that our crystal balls may foretell.

In assuming the perspective of the future recipients of heritage 'gifts', the authors identified four motives that may be required for them to respect the choices of those who have granted them an inheritance and so to continue stewardship of the heritage we bequeath. This is only the beginning; if the heritage sector takes another look into a crystal ball, there may be several more factors to discover. We took these motives as a viewpoint from which we could reflect upon the current Dutch practice of selecting our archaeological national monuments, our principal gifts to the future, and we noted that such motives do not yet play a role in this. We believe that failing to take the perspective of future recipients into consideration risks the loss of our efforts and investment of time, energy and resources – and eventually the heritage we protected as well. Should we therefore not try to be more ambitious in seeking to reach our goals for the future?

The authors believe that an attempt to incorporate at least the interests and potential values of future generations would make our selection of heritage more sustainable in the longer term. It would also comply with the values-based approach to cultural heritage in which most of our work is grounded.

We do not consider this to be a simple process. However, a further democratisation of our practice would seem to offer a valuable step forward that may also address some of the potential motives of future recipients. We illustrated this by means of an experiment conducted by the state service in the Netherlands (RCE), which included an external (non-expert) stakeholder group in the selection process of national monuments. The results reveal that such an approach has the potential to allow other heritage values to be taken into account and to widen heritage selections. It may also foster an emotional attachment and encourage a wider engagement of society. Ultimately, it serves to make our national memory rather more the memory of us all – and therefore maybe also of future generations.

### Acknowledgements

We would like to thank some colleagues of the Rijksdienst voor het Cultureel Erfgoed (RCE): Bertil van Os for providing the figures, Jos Stöver for the photographs and Marjolein Verschuur for sharing the information on the 'Exploration into Archaeology' project.

## References


## Part VI Epilogue

## 18 'Cultural heritage is concerned with the future': a critical epilogue

Cornelius Holtorf

After decades of research and debate in the field that today is known as heritage studies, it has become clear that cultural heritage is best understood as a set of social practices and processes, valued in specific circumstances for their implications and outcomes. In other words, the discussion has come a long way from earlier ways of understanding cultural heritage in terms of monuments or traditions that have survived from the past and carry intrinsic values that ought to be preserved as such for the benefit of future generations. As a result, the most important question in studying cultural heritage is now not what it *is*, but what it *does*. In cultural heritage management and preservation – the sector in which many students graduating in our field find employment – we no longer consider cultural heritage in terms of what it was, but rather of what it could become. Consequently, the focus of those who understand and develop cultural heritage has shifted somewhat, from highlighting issues of conservation to highlighting issues of change.

This is the academic and societal context of the present volume that offers critical global perspectives on cultural memory, heritage and destruction. I note in particular, and with some intellectual satisfaction, that a number of authors do not demonise the destruction of cultural heritage, but consider the impact of destruction and even the possible benefits of loss – which is something I have argued for over many years. Among the important other topics addressed throughout the chapters are the values of cultural heritage, the relation of cultural heritage to collective identities and contestations of dominant perspectives of cultural heritage. This is as it should be.

Adopting a critical attitude myself, in this epilogue I would like to take the opportunity to throw light on a couple of problems associated with some recent debates on these issues in our field. To some extent, I have been inspired in my thinking by reading the contributions in the present volume. However, the argument is much larger, and my discussion should not be interpreted as specifically directed at any one author or any specific chapter.

In promoting critical perspectives for understanding cultural heritage, I strongly believe that we should also see the need to adopt a similarly critical perspective towards our own strategies and practices. It is understandable, on one level, that many of us sometimes disagree with political decisions and economic practices in which cultural heritage is implicated. We may therefore, from time to time, wish to oppose and resist the powers that are in control. However, in some quarters of the field of heritage studies it has almost become a mantra to engage in every possible context in crusades against capitalism, neoliberalism and multinational corporations, occasionally evoking some kind of moral duty to join this movement.

As critical as academic research and good management always have to be, there is a slippery slope along which overtly politically motivated work risks taking the discussion down to the level of sectarian campaigns. If this occurs, joint flag-waving may replace open-minded analysis, and the commitment to a narrow political struggle threatens to overshadow academic originality and intellectual thoughtfulness. It is important to maintain the professionalism of those who participate in studying and managing cultural heritage. Their intellectual capacities are best used in advancing our understanding of the issues at hand, rather than seeking to undermine the political system and authorities in democratic states which we need to keep our complex societies together.

It is sometimes assumed – including in the present volume – that cultural heritage, as a symbol of collective identities, can contribute to uniting and thus strengthening cultural groups and communities. That value can motivate claims for the conservation of specific cultural heritage in the interest of associated groups or communities. It is often insufficiently considered, however, that one of the outcomes of enhancing collective identities through cultural heritage is that the common society in which many groups and communities co-exist is increasingly torn apart and bereft of social cohesion. A significant risk of the widespread current appetite for letting identity politics inform the answers to surprisingly many social and cultural questions is that the glue that binds all groups and communities together in a common state loses its adhesive power. Cultural heritage is often part of the processes that make us divide people into different tribes, separating 'us' from 'them'. Indeed, narratives about cultural heritage make such divisions running right through the population even seem natural and inevitable, with no real alternative; they are effectively essentialising differences rather than fostering commonalities.

In reality, all societies are complex conglomerates in which people are part of multiple groups and communities. These in turn are divided across all sorts of permeable lines related to age, occupation, gender, place of residence, social background, genetic dispositions, individual preferences, habits, values and so on. By the same token, cultural monuments and traditions represent heterogenous mixtures of all kinds of inventions and influences of diverse origin that have accumulated over long periods of time. Even though few would deny the existence of these complex, socio-cultural blends in which we all find ourselves, their implications are commonly ignored by those supporting the dominant view of why cultural heritage is important in society. It is nothing short of astonishing that a large number of those studying and managing cultural heritage do their best to enforce strict, largely artificial divisions in the name of 'cultural diversity' or 'social justice' that threaten to rip the fragile joint assemblages of our societies apart.

If we are increasingly concerned with what cultural heritage and its management in present society do, and what they could become in a framework of change, we are effectively more concerned in our work with the future than with the past. That is why the concept of heritage futures is so timely and important. Heritage futures are concerned with the roles of heritage in managing the relations between present and future societies, for example through anticipation or planning. This is the context in which I worry about the best way in which our professional expertise and notions of cultural heritage in society can contribute to social development. There is a risk that certain ways of discussing, conceptualising and indeed managing cultural heritage could ultimately cause more harm than benefit for future societies. For that reason it is paramount to think carefully and critically about how what we are doing today could have significant impact on the future.

I expect that some of my comments will be seen as controversial and thus attract critique and indeed criticism. I welcome future discussion, and can see that the authors in the present volume will have much to contribute themselves. I have done my best – although I may possibly not have entirely succeeded (for which I apologise in advance) – to focus on specific issues while refraining from labelling; my aim is to avoid the impression of representing some kind of 'thought police'. I hope that the critics in this important intellectual debate that was stimulated by the many interesting contributions to the present volume will aspire to do the same.

## Index

absence 36, 48, 50, 70, 76, 205, 232, 235 activism 37, 39–40, 58, 73, 80, 263, 285 Africa 34–42 African heritage 38 Sub-Saharan Africa 42 ambivalence 38, 67, 189, 190–1, 202–3 ancient sites 131 archaeological heritage 58, 100, 111, 112–17, 125, 302 archaeologists 50, 55 architectural heritage 13 architectural monuments 100 armed conflict 37, 228 assimilation 143, 166 Australia 136, 139–40, 150, 189–206 Marra and Yanyuwa people 190, 194, 199 settler-colonial context 189–90 authorised heritage discourse 88, 119 authoritarianism 13, 27, 88–9 competitive authoritarianism 89 Bell, Gertrude 217 belonging, sense of 85, 87, 94–5, 263 Bosnia-Herzegovina 224–9, 232, 234 Bosnian War 224, 226, 230–1, 235, 237 bottom-up 13, 95, 118, 299, 302 Brazil 171, 174–6, 178–80, 182–4 Amazon 4, 8, 171, 173, 179 forest people 173–4, 177, 181, 185 Munduruku people 169–71, 174, 181–4 Tapajós river 169–71, 173–4, 181, 185 built heritage 91, 104, 227, 229, 282–4 burial grounds 131, 136–7, 140, 143–4, 150 Canada 132, 135–6, 138–9, 146–8, 220, 236, 271 capitalism 2, 4, 34, 75, 77, 79, 90, 111, 280, 310 Central America 156–66 Central American heritage 158 climate change 5, 33 global warming 33–4 colonisation 35, 156, 163, 171, 192, 271, 273, 280, 284 collective identity 15, 17, 19–27 collective memory 14–15, 24, 113, 218, 259–62, 265 commercial archaeology 53, 111–4 community identity 4, 18, 232 compulsory purchase order (CPO) 49, 58, 61, 225–32, 289, 290, 292, 300

contemporary archaeology 47 Council of Europe 100, 108, 229 critical heritage 5, 68, 119 Croatian conflict 225 cultural cleansing 150, 229 cultural property 134, 224, 228–32, 244–9 cultural rights 87, 133 indigenous 1, 6, 131–50, 155–67, 173, 175, 179, 182, 185, 189–204 indigenous heritage 132, 134, 136–7, 147, 149–50, 156–7, 164 indigenous rights 147–9, 160 sacred sites 136, 183–4, 191, 199–200 Cyprus 26 dams 33–5, 42, 86, 169–85 Dayton Peace Agreement 224, 231 decolonisation 35 decision-making 21, 40, 71, 91, 147, 289–90, 302–3 democracy 27, 85, 277 demolition 46, 50, 58, 61, 67–8, 70–1, 80, 84, 91, 94, 107, 109, 191, 211, 227, 294 demonstration 84, 89, 93–4, 256 Derrida, Jacques 25–6, 61 developers 50, 52, 55 of London 2012 45 digging 50 dispersal 56–8 displacement 7, 41, 92 diversity 48, 74, 93–4, 227, 231, 264, 273, 277, 311 East Asia 269, 273, 278 Chinese heritage 270, 278 cultural hegemony 270 East Asian heritage 269 Japanese occupation 278, 281 Nationalist government 271 Taiwan 269–86 Taiwanese identity 270, 274–5, 277, 280, 285 East End 49, 60 East Enders 54 east London 45, 56, 60, 67 ecological genocide 36–7 ecology 191, 193, 196, 199, 202 economic development 14 empiricism 189, 190–1, 194–5, 206 employment 50, 60–1

archaeological 61

environmental destruction 35 environmental violence 6, 34, 3–37 ethics, heritage 46, 61–2 ethnic cleansing 22, 224–6, 228–9, 231–2, 234–6 ethnic exclusivism 224, 233–4 ethno-religious nationalism 224 European Union 99, 101–2, 106 Faro Convention 108, 292 fieldwork 20, 22, 45, 51, 59, 213 First Nations 136–7, 146, 271–2 forgetting 17, 18, 269 future 55, 60 Geneva Convention 228 German Democratic Republic 23, 24 Hague Convention 134, 228 Halbwachs, Maurice 15 heritage city 71, 73, 75, 77, 79–80, 92, 104 gentrification 14, 68, 73–4, 77–8, 85, 191, 282 Robin Hood Gardens 67–8, 80 heritage law 115–7, 135, 148 heritage, loss of 136, 143, 150 heritage management 125, 140, 147, 286, 289–92 heritage professionals 61 Historic England 50, 60, 69 historic environment 6, 98, 103–5, 107–8, 110 home, loss of 21 human remains 133, 135, 139–42, 219 human rights 37, 89–95, 131–7, 143, 147–51, 169–70, 185, 205, 224–32, 264 industrial 45, 47, 61 heritage 56 past 60 infrastructure 33–7, 40, 42, 106, 112, 120, 124, 171, 178, 179 intangible heritage 19–20, 41, 60, 131–2, 161, 165, 167, 261, 291 intellectual property 133–5, 144, 149–50, 161, 166 International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) 230, 234 interpretation 8, 18, 52, 60, 75, 142, 158, 166, 243, 261 archaeological interpretation 52, 166 Istanbul 6, 24, 84, 85, 90 landscape 47, 55–6 Lea Valley 52, 56 Lefebvre, Henri 73, 85–6 legacy 48–9, 62 local community 16, 20–2, 54, 104 London 2012 45–6, 48–9, 54–5 Malinowski, Bronisław 13 Malta 98–110

Manor Gardens Allotments 58–9, 60 Mar Elian 211–20 marginality 49, 56 material culture 1, 3, 14, 15–20, 22, 24, 26–7, 91–2, 178, 261

mega event(s) 45–9, 60 megastructures 43 memory, loss of 111 minority heritage 259 mitigation 50, 55, 59–60 modernity 34–43, 111, 155, 280–1 monastery 215, 219–21, 227 Mostar 225–7, 230–2, 235 nationalism 224, 262, 274 nation-state 14, 24, 88, 214, 291, 294 national monuments 139, 227 NEARCH 302 neoliberalism 115–6, 310 Netherlands 236, 290, 294–5, 300, 302, 304 archaeological monument 294–302 Cultural Heritage Agency 295–7, 299, 302 Dutch heritage 297 Nigeria 36–7, 42 ODA (Olympic Delivery Authority) 45, 50–4, 60 Oil pipeline 33, 36, 42 Olympic and Paralympic Games 45, 48–9, 56 Olympic Park 45, 47, 49–50, 53, 56, 60–2 ontology 189–90, 203 order and disorder 189–90 Palast der Republik 23–4 Palmyra 26, 70, 136, 211–2, 214, 218 participatory 291 Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe (PACE) 229 past, as resource 55–6 as opportunity 62 Pharmakon 61 photography 56, 58 planning condition 50–1 Pompeii 239–50 popular culture 38, 116 preservation 103, 107, 122, 136, 139, 143 press releases 45, 47–8, 52 protest 84–5, 92–4, 101, 104–5, 108, 113, 115, 125, 141, 160, 176, 180, 256–7, 276, 291 PR (public relations) 51–2, 55, 61 public participation 284, 303 public space 72, 84–95, 256, 259–60 Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, *see* Olympic Park Radio Londra 240–1, 246–8, 250 reconciliation 94, 134, 148, 231, 264 reflexivity 189, 202–4 regeneration 45–6, 49–50, 60–1 remembering 17, 75, 124–5, 167, 202, 212, 259 resilience 14, 17, 21, 84, 92, 165, 193 resistance against authoritarianism 95 to change 72, 79, 80 community 90, 91 against genocide 161 to hegemonic power 85 to hydroelectric projects 171

to imperial power 159 indigenous 160, 162 to protect values 91 social 86 to top-down decisions 84 reuse 26–7 Sarajevo 225–7, 230 Saro-Wiwa, Ken 37, 42 Second World War 51, 59–60, 70, 225–6, 272–3 Sectarian violence 6 slavery museum 255 slow violence 34 social inclusion 291 social justice 78, 85, 87, 93, 95, 135–6, 263, 265 social production 85, 86, 88, 93–4 space 91, 112, 281 Spain 112–17, 123–4, 162, 171, 233 *Complutum* 120, 121–3 Madrid 111–25 Spanish Civil War 114, 118–9 Stratford 45–6, 50, 56 super modernity 34 sustainability 24, 290 tabula rasa 48 top-down 3, 6, 23, 84, 86, 93–5, 117 Torre Annunziata 239–41, 247 tourism 52, 72, 118, 139, 158–9, 168, 279, 284–5 trauma 21–2, 27, 35, 71, 112, 140, 157, 221 turbo capitalism 34 Turkey 24, 85–6, 88–90 Taksim Square 84–95 Gezi Park 84–95 UCL East 47, 62

UK National Archives 239 UNDRIP 132, 136, 148, 151, 157, 159 UNESCO 16, 21, 41, 72, 91, 150, 211, 225, 231, 261, 280, 289 UNESCO World Heritage Convention 289

United Nations 133, 135, 225, 228, 230, 260 United Nations Security Council 230 United States 35, 36, 112, 132, 136, 139, 148, 160, 236 African American 255, 258–60, 262–5 African American heritage 259–60, 262, 264–5 Black Lives Matter 256 Charleston 255–6, 259 Confederate flag 255–6 Confederate heritage 255, 262 Confederate symbols 256, 258, 265 National Trust for Historic Preservation 257 slavery 258–9, 262, 264–5 South Carolina 255–6, 259 white supremacy 255

values aesthetic 295 cultural 15, 41, 148 diverse 117 emotional 297 heritage 60, 69, 189, 290 historical 59, 109, 291 of local community 2 loss of 203 public 117 secular 88 social 37, 93 society 302 values-based approach 289, 291 Venice Charter 291, 305 Victoria and Albert Museum (V&A) 67 violation 142, 169–70, 183, 185, 200

waste 46, 49 wasteland 45, 49–51, 54, 56, 59, 60–2 wellbeing 106, 109–10, 134, 138, 150, 157, 160–1, 222 Wheeler, Mortimer 244 world heritage 16, 21, 41, 114, 119, 120, 139, 211, 225, 280, 289