Reflections: Beyond Thriller in Spatial History

The ‘spatial turn’ has come to history in waves, and since the term carries multiple meanings, it has sent historians off in a number of directions with a new, or renewed appreciation for space. With some exceptions, the theoretical engagement has still been relatively limited – or at least relatively recent, when compared to fields such as anthropology, art history, sociology, literary studies, urban studies, and most of all geography. A student in the UK or the United States may well complete their undergraduate degree in history with only the opportunity to explicitly think about space in the abstract through the reading of Edward Said’s Orientalism, and since the work doesn’t not frame itself in such blunt or limited terms, this reading may not come to mind as one way to approach spatial history. Beyond this, for theoretical inspiration, we turn to Henri Lefebvre with ready enthusiasm (or else direct that enthusiasm to the few secondary works that can help explain him to us), dive into our notes on Foucault, and revisit our favourite forty pages of Michel de Certeau’s The Practice of Everyday Life.

I have not found it particularly unusual to encounter spatially interested historical scholarship exclusively embracing the terms, assumptions, and frameworks of theoretical scholarship published before the début of Michael Jackson’s album “Thriller” nearly thirty five years ago. I am reminded of a historian who excitedly introduced, at great length, the apparently innovative idea of a “public sphere” explored by one Jürgen Habermas, and applied it mechanically to the development of late Meiji period discursive space in Japan. One complaint I heard afterwards showed exasperation for any such use of “theory” in a “history” talk, but a horrified sociologist sitting next to me looked like she had dropped in on a telecommunications conference to find a key speaker demonstrating the use of the telegraphic Baudot code in the encoding of email messages. For the speaker, the term “public sphere” and one proposed way to theorize it some fifty years ago was embraced as a hammer of solid unrusted metal, with the source material a nail. Wack! And the work is done.

The tragedy here is not the embarrassment at discovering that we are wearing clothes that are out of fashion. In one way, it is closer to the opposite, it is the desperate grasp for an approach ready-at-hand itself that is a little sad to witness – the reach for something shiny protruding from the toolbox and immediately, uncritically, putting it to work. It is completely understandable, of course. As historians, many of us are often deep in our own source material or a gripping project of the moment, and can barely follow developments in our increasingly specialized fields, let alone find the time to take a crack at a rich and varied literature on the theoretical issues that hang like shadows over the fundamental assumptions, categories, and arguments in our work. The temptation then is to find a big name, a well-cited text, a tuple of concepts, a juicy frame – and then never look back. What is lost are the gains from making even some limited effort to explore classic theoretical questions in the context of a broader conversation, in a comparison with several voices from a time, or the development or rejection of particular approaches by other thinkers in the years thereafter – not only in the field they originated in, whether geography, philosophy, anthropology etc., but as they crossed disciplinary boundaries. In other words, to take theory seriously.

Unless you embrace a positivist history that peers transparently at the past, undisturbed by any distracting epistemological doubt, failure to take theory seriously comes at the cost of unexamined assumptions and lost opportunities to put our own scholarship into conversation across disciplinary boundaries. Limiting ourselves to spatial history, for example, if asked questions with such interdisciplinary interest as, “What is space?” “In what ways is it abstract or concrete?” “To what extent is it something experienced and/or the product of representation?” “What forms does it take?” “How does it come to be?” “What is its relationship to time?” “What is its relationship to culture? To gender? To economic structures? To the domestic and intimate? To politics and power?” “Why does it matter?” “What is place? What is its relationship to space?” we may have thought at some greater length about one or several of these questions as they pertain to our own problems of interest. We may know what a single favourite classic text had to say about this. We are likely to have come across historical work that engages with it in a deeply empirical way. But I believe that we often undervalue the time spent on the hard work of wrestling with not one or two towering classics in order to deploy them, but tracing the echoes of these often theoretically heavy works forward to consider the critiques and development of these ideas in the years beyond – especially the long afterlives of pre-Thriller classics. In other words, rather than just reaching for a knife and returning to our work, step into the kitchen and spend a little more time with the cooks of multiple shifts. Appreciate and refuse to be overwhelmed at the multiplicity of approaches, and feel no need to return to your work married to any one final answer.

In a few upcoming posts here in the coming months, I want to occasionally practice what I preach and share one historian’s reading of some of the broader literature on space. With a few initial exceptions, I want include works beyond the 1970s, “beyond Thriller” and the 1980s, and reflect on some the critiques of earlier work that we can find there. I’ll begin this summer, with a few postings on the pre-Thriller works of the “humanistic geographer” Yi-Fu Tuan, and the Japanese ethnographer Kon Wajirō.

Reflections: Compulsion of Two-Dimensionality – Under the Political Map of the World

HREWe continue our series of staff reflections on various issues from a transnational historical perspective. Dr Tomasz Kamusella FRHistS, is a Reader in Modern History. He is the author of the extensive monograph The Politics of Language and Nationalism in Modern Central Europe (Palgrave 2009).

During the last two centuries much scorn has been poured on the Holy Roman Empire that was dissolved in 1806, after the millennium when it had been the robust pillar of stability placed squarely at Europe’s center. Critics of the empire have not tired yet of repeating Voltaire’s quip that ‘This agglomeration which was called and which still calls itself the Holy Roman Empire was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire.’ The pronouncement’s emphasis on ‘agglomeration’ amounted to a disparaging comment on the fact that this empire was composed from an intricate lattice of over six hundred overlapping and interlaced polities enjoying sovereignty and direct recourse to the imperial institutions, including the emperor himself. Apart from these first-rank polities, the empire was also home to around two thousand more polities and territories of limited sovereignty, including free imperial villages.

The mass of polities and polity-like territories of various statuses and privileges let their rulers and inhabitants work out variegated ways of governance suited best to the local social and economic situation, with no need of involving the busy and distant emperor. This kind of self-government facilitated changing the arrangements obtaining in a polity in flexible reply to political events as they unfolded either at the local, imperial or all-European level. The absence of any formal capital in the empire (which now would be unthinkable in a present-day state) allowed for even more self-governance.

nienburg4The beginning of the end of the Holy Roman Empire was the Thirty Years’ War (or the most devastating military conflict in Europe prior to the two world wars) that was concluded by the Peace of Westphalia, that is, the series of treaties signed between May and October in 1648 at the cities of Osnabrück and Münster in the Duchy of Westphalia. This peace finished the period of religious wars between Catholics and Protestants, and yielded the international system of states as we know it today. Following the bout of decolonization in the second half of the Twentieth century, this system, from its modest beginnings in Westphalia, spread all over the globe.

The so-called ‘Westphalian order’ is founded on the model of territorial state. It assumes that the state to be legitimate it should come in a continuous block of territory, and its homogenous (then in confession, while today in citizenship or ethnolinguistically construed nationality) population must be governed by a single ruler enjoying absolute sovereignty within the polity’s boundaries. By the same token, no other states have the right to intervene in the polity in question, and ideally, its boundaries should be stable and inviolable. The latter principle increasingly limited the influence of dynastic marriages on state borders.

This new model of statehood, associated with modernity, spelled the end of the traditional polity as obtaining in the Holy Roman Empire. Before 1648 no one thought much either of the fact that a state could be composed from a myriad of disconnected – and often far-flung – territories, or that a polity or its different regions could be co-ruled by several monarchs. After 1648 overlapping jurisdictions fell foul of the principle of homogeneity, and similarly, enclaves and exclaves lost their popularity: the insistence on territorially continuous states won the day.

Before 1648, the then obtaining political imagination allowed for thinking about states as tri-dimensional objects. Practice showed that it was not beyond the monarch’s and his subjects’ capacity to travel from one territorial islet of their polity to another crossing the territory of a third polity. This was done before the age balloons, airplanes, helicopters and spacecraft, when most believed that Earth is flat.

Modernity – heralded by the territorial state, and the industrial and French revolutions – convinced almost all that our planet is a sphere hurling through space and gave us the means to test it with our own eyes, when we have a chance to travel on board a plane flying at the altitude of ten kilometers. At this height the curvature of Earth is clearly visible. In several hours you can move from one continent to another, observing on the in-flight screen numerous states over which the plane is passing.

Despite these technological and scientific developments, so widely available nowadays, but utterly unimaginable when the Holy Roman Empire still existed, our modern political imagination became hopelessly flattened. The Westphalian model of territorial state compels us to believe that polities are ‘naturally’ two-dimensional objects. Hence, one of the main tasks of European diplomacy in the first half of the Twentieth century was to rid the continent of remaining enclaves and exclaves, quite successfully completed after World War II, especially on the communist side of the Iron Curtain.

800px-Deutscher_BundIn the Nineteenth century, early practitioners of political science and proponents of a German nation-state similar in size and homogenous character to revolutionary France, coined the German term Kleinstaaterei for the presumed ‘disease of too small and territorially discontinuous states’ in the Holy Roman Empire and the German Confederation that replaced the former between 1815 and 1866.

Perhaps, in the taxonomy of illnesses suffered by the political, ‘flatnessity’ or ‘2-dimensionalenza’ is an apt label for the serious constriction of political imagination so characteristic of modernity.

Images from German Wikipedia entries, Das Heilige Römische Reich um 1400 and Deutscher Bund 1815–1866  by Ziegelbrenner

Reflections: Does Israel Intend to Follow Central Europe’s Sad Example?

We continue our series of staff reflections on various issues from a transnational historical perspective. Dr Tomasz Kamusella FRHistS, is a Reader in Modern History. He is the author of the extensive monograph The Politics of Language and Nationalism in Modern Central Europe (Palgrave 2009).

Knesset Building I have spent the last two decades studying the rise and implementation of the idea of ethnolinguistic nationalism across Central Europe, or the home region of the majority of the world’s Jews for over a millennium until the Holocaust. The gradual establishment of Serbia, Greece, Montenegro, Italy, Romania, Germany and Bulgaria as ethnolinguistic nation-states during the 19th century was followed after World War I by the enshrining of the ethnolinguistic nation-state as the sole legitimate model of statehood in Central Europe. It meant the destruction of the polyglot, multiethnic and polyconfessional empires: Austria-Hungary and the Ottoman Empire, and also the detaching of similarly multiethnic borderland areas from Germany and the Russian Empire (soon overhauled into the Soviet Union in 1922). In their place the brand-new ethnolinguistic nation-states were founded, namely Finland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Yugoslavia and Albania, together with only briefly independent Belarus and Ukraine that were soon annexed by Bolshevik Russia.

Ethnolinguistic nationalism defines all the speakers of a language as a ‘proper’ nation. In turn, the territory compactly inhabited by the speakers of this language should be made into such an ethnolinguistically defined nation’s nation-state. The language now dubbed as ‘national’ is elevated to the rank of the nation-state’s sole official language. Ideally, no other languages should be allowed in official use and education, and the national language should not be shared with any other state or nation. These onerous conditions of ‘proper’ ethnolinguistic national statehood were successfully implemented across interwar Central Europe, much to the exclusion of speakers of languages other than the national one, but especially to the exclusion of Jews, even if they happened to speak a given national language. Interwar anti-Semitism, hand in hand with ethnolinguistic nationalism, additionally precluded assimilation of Jews, due to their ‘foreign’ religion, which – in line with the ‘science of race’ (Rassenkunde) and its application in the form of ‘racial hygiene’ (Rassenhygiene) – was construed as the biologized marker of the ‘Jewish race,’ and as such the ‘undeniable proof’ of their ‘irreducible Semitic racial foreignness.’

The noted interwar German-language writer Joseph Roth’s entire oeuvre mourns the loss of his patria, Austria-Hungary. In his novels and stories it represented a multiethnic and tolerant lost Central Europe where speakers of a variety of languages professing a plethora of languages could find a safe haven. He despaired of the exchange of the mansion of such open and accepting polities for the narrow cabins of exclusivist nation-states of the ethnolinguistic kind. Roth and many other intellectuals of Jewish origin hoped that in the then international language of German – spoken from Alsace to Moscow and from Helsinki to Trieste – they might find a new spiritual home, vaguely reminiscent of Austria-Hungary. A vain hope indeed it turned out to be in this novel as Central Europe was divided among ideologically monolingual nation-states, suspicious of any ‘racial’ foreignness that might be concealed by ‘crypto-Jews’ in their assimilation to the national language.

Numerous minorities speaking ‘wrong languages,’ including Jews, survived in interwar Central Europe’s nation-states, suffering indignities of discrimination visited at them by the regimes that rapidly abandoned democracy in favour of authoritarianism, and then totalitarianism. The tragic watershed of World War II demolished the last legal and moral constraints toward building ‘truly homogenous’ nation-states. Others had to disappear or to be disappeared. Between the early 1930s and the 1950s, genocide (infamously known as the ‘final solution’) and ethnic cleansing (euphemistically called ‘population transfer’) became the norm of social and political engineering in the bloodlands of Central Europe. Borders were moved and ‘foreign’ populations expelled to ‘their’ nation-states or exterminated. The result was a new Central Europe of ethnolinguistically homogenous nation-states, with almost no minorities left.

Likewise, despite the false dawn of communism in the Soviet bloc countries, there was no place left for Jews in postwar Central Europe, as poignantly symbolized by their late expulsion from Poland in 1968. Most Holocaust Jewish survivors departed for the United States and Israel. In the former state, as in Austria-Hungary, there is no official or national language, so one can speak and write in public and private what one wants and what one is comfortable with. Israel retained most laws of the British Mandate of Palestine, which was officially trilingual, in Arabic, English and Hebrew. Although English was struck from the pedestal of official language in independent Israel, informally it retains this position, thanks to the constant inflow of Jews from English-speaking states. A quarter of a century ago, when the Soviet bloc disappeared and the Soviet Union broke up, numerous Jews left the social and political disaster zone for Israel. In doing so they added Russian to English as another informal language of import among Israel’s Jews.

Meanwhile ethnolinguistic nationalism was again at work. Bilingual Czechoslovakia was divided into the monolingual nation-states of the Czech Republic and Slovakia. The post-Soviet polities in Europe quickly dropped Russian and other minority languages in order to reinvent themselves as ‘proper’ monolingual nation-states in conformity with Central Europe’s ethnolinguistic nationalism. And when Yugoslavia splintered, its language of Serbo-Croatian splintered as well, so that each successor nation-states would be endowed with its own specific national language unshared with anyone else.

Talking to my students in Scotland about these processes in my module on ethnolinguistic nationalism in Central Europe, I note that prior to World War II, Central Europe was home to the world’s sole group of ethnolinguistic nation-states. Each basked in official monolingualism brandishing its specific and unshared language. A similar group of ethnolinguistic nation-states emerged in the course of decolonization in Southeast Asia. But there is no ethnolinguistic nation-state of this type anywhere else outside Eurasia, be it in Africa or the Americas. Some pointed out that Israel – with its interwar ‘language wars’ when proponents of Hebrew persecuted supporters of Yiddish – could be defined as an ethnolinguistic nation-state. I agreed to a degree, but emphasized the fact that Israel is officially bilingual. I also added that this skewing toward ethnolinguistic nationalism should not surprise, as most of Israel’s Jews stem from or are descendants of Jews from Central Europe where the ideology of ethnolinguistic nationalism was invented.

Having said that, I proposed to my students that Israel would not endorse the appealing, but in essence poisonous, lure of ethnolinguistic nationalism, because so many of its Jewish inhabitants came from the emphatically non-ethnolinguistic United States. Furthermore, the robust democracy enshrined in the Israeli legal and political system would have prevented such an occurrence. On the other hand, with the big bang eastward enlargement of the European Union (EU) in 2004, the holy grail of ethnolinguistic homogeneity in Central Europe’s nation-states is undermined by the use of the EU’s 24 official languages and the millions-strong migration waves from one member state to another. For instance, over one million Poles in the UK and Ireland have already become bilingual, though state and municipal offices, alongside the NHS, do provide them with printed and oral information in Polish when requested. This is an anathema and a death blow to the authoritarian dream of ethnolinguistically homogenous national statehood.

But now it appears I was wrong. The Jewish nation-state bill under deliberation in the Knesset provides for making Israel a monolingual ethnolinguistic national polity, to the exclusion of Arabic-speakers. But it appears that being a Hebrew-speaker would not be enough, either. Like in interwar or communist Poland where a Polish-speaking Jew could never be a ‘true Pole,’ according to the aforementioned bill, neither could a Hebrew-speaker of another religion but Judaism be a ‘proper Israeli.’ Perhaps this ethnolinguistic and ethnoreligious exclusion will be also extended to non-practising and secular Jews, and to Jews who converted to other religions. What would then happen to these ‘half-Israelis’ and ‘tolerated non-Israelis’ (Arabic-speakers), what is awaiting them in the future?

The history of ethnolinguistic nationalism in Central Europe provides a useful clue. The ethnolinguistic nation-state as the sole model of legitimate statehood in the region was enshrined almost a century ago. I do not believe in numerology, but it is quite an eerie coincidence that a hundred years later Israel should consider entering the ideological path which Central Europe trod during the bloody 20th century. It fills me with foreboding the more, as the bill is offered on the centenary of the outbreak of the Great War that erased Austria-Hungary and the Ottoman Empire from the map. In these multiethnic empires many Jews found true home for many generations. In the successor nation-states they found themselves to be homeless, unwanted, excluded, discriminated, expelled and exterminated. Would anyone seriously wish a repeat of this Central European history in the Middle East?

Those who may answer ‘yes,’ seem to join with Vladimir Putin. On the centenary of World War I that severed the western borderlands of the Russian Empire, he embarked on the dangerous policy of regaining them. In March of this year (2014) Russia annexed the Ukrainian region of Crimea and now is clandestinely stoking up and supporting the secessionist war in eastern Ukraine. His justification of the decisions is couched in purely ethnolinguistic terms. Most of the population in the aforementioned areas speak Russian, so according to him they are Russians. (To my knowledge no English politician seriously claims that Scots, Canadians or Americans must be English, because they speak the English language.) Following this line of thinking, Mr Putin proposes that it gives Russia the right to intervene and even annex all the territories compactly inhabited by Russian-speakers. Obviously, within the boundaries of the former Soviet Union or the so-called ‘near-abroad,’ but the logic could be easily extended to Israel with its 1.5 million Russian-speakers. This April the Russian Duma passed a law that recognizes each native Russian-speaker as a Russian and opens an easy path for them to obtaining Russian citizenship.

This law is strangely similar in its logic to the Jewish nation-state bill. Both idolize language and identity at the expense of democracy, inclusiveness and openness. History may be a great teacher, but apparently not in this case. Despite libraries full of books and websites clogged with information on discrimination, authoritarianism, totalitarianism, concentration camps and genocide in the 20th-century Europe, both Israel and Russia seem to have decided to give ethnolinguistic nationalism another try, this time in the 21st century. I pray this sad conclusion is wrong.

Cill Rìmhinn / Saunt Aundraes / St Andrews
November 28, 2014

Reflections: Where Is Austerlitz?

213307074_ba92925c22_z This is the first what will be many more substantive posts to come on the research and reflections of institute faculty and postgraduate students on matters related to transnational, global, and spatial history. Our first posting is by Dr. Tomasz Kamusella, our historian of central and east European history.

Who has not heard of the Battle of Austerlitz? In this ‘battle of the three emperors,’ in 1805, Napoleon humbled the Russian Tsar and the Austrian Emperor (who then also headed the still existing Holy Roman Empire). The victory was concluded by the Treaty of Pressburg, signed by France and the Austrian Empire, thus establishing ‘peace and amity’ between the two polities.

But where is Austerlitz or Pressburg?; the latter name also spelled ‘Presbourg’ in French and ‘Preβburg’ in German.

Many of my students and colleagues immediately associate the battle’s name with the Gare d’Austerlitz, or the eponymous railway station in Paris. But they are quick to add that this station, built in 1840, probably was only named after the famous battlefield. Good thinking. More rarely, someone would identify this battle with the Dutch town of Austerlitz, near Zeist in the Province of Utrecht. But going ad fonts quickly yields the information that this Dutch Austerlitz was founded only in 1806 by King Louis Napoleon Bonaparte of Holland, and named so in honor of his brother, Emperor Napoleon’s, victory at Austerlitz. Further settlements bearing the battle’s name you can visit in the US states of New York and Kentucky, founded there in 1818 and 1884, respectively.

The timeline of the Napoleonic Wars, dotted with epic stand-offs, is well known, down to the very positions of the troops in every major battle. Clerks following each army did a good job of recording the events for posterity in praise of the victor and to condemn the defeated. Propaganda and spin-doctoring, dubbed as ‘news,’ have been with us since the beginnings of the modern age.

After a moment of vacillation, a student or colleague tends to propose that Austerlitz must be a town somewhere in Austria, usually forgetting that today’s Austria is a mere tiny corner of the former Austrian Empire that used to extend from Milano (today in Italy) to Lemberg, now Lviv in western Ukraine. A quick check on the map falsifies this hunch in no time. Austerlitz as a town almost never features on maps in historical atlases, because it was and still is too small to be sensibly and legibly included on the political map of Europe.

When you drive across Moravia in the eastern half of the Czech Republic, on the highway D1, about 15 kilometers north of the Moravian capital of Brno (nowadays, the second largest Czech city and the seat of the Czech Supreme Court), you will not fail to notice the gigantic cannon that invites visitors to Slavkov u Brna, near which the Napoleonic battle took place when this town was officially known in German as Austerlitz. Its Slavic (Czech, Moravian) name was Slavkov, but this Slavic form resurfaced in official documents only after 1882, when Moravian (Slavic) became coofficial with German in Austria-Hungary’s Crownland of Moravia.

Rather small even today, with the population of 6,200, nevertheless Slavkov u Brna, as the original Austerlitz, continues to be the largest of all the Austerlitzes in the world.

What then about Pressburg? Following the Sixteenth-century partition of the Kingdom of Hungary, when the Ottomans seized most of this realm, including its historical capital of Buda, the Hungarian capital was moved northward to Pressburg. In Slavic, the city was known as Preszporek or Prešporok, while Hungarian-speakers dubbed it Pozsony. After the founding of Austria-Hungary in 1867, Pressburg was officially renamed Pozsony. It was already a provincial backwater again, because in 1783 the Hungarian capital had been moved back to Buda (that following the 1873 union with Pest became the well-known city of Budapest). Unfortunately, History with the capital ‘H’ caught up with Pozsony / Pressburg / Prešporok in 1919, when the Czech troops overran Upper Hungary, making it into Slovakia within the boundaries of Czechoslovakia. The city was renamed ‘Bratislava,’ and elevated to the status of the Slovak capital. It enjoys this distinction to this day.

What is a moral of this story? Perhaps it is that the researcher of the past should take care to avoid the pitfall of anachronism by remembering well that not only borders change but languages, too. Furthermore, both are less durable than actual towns and geographical features named and renamed in a variety of languages and encircled by the snakes of shifting frontiers.

The story is not over yet. Two years ago, after boarding an airplane at Endinburgh Airport, midair, I was surprised by the pilot’s announcement that the flight was bound for Rock-Law, a city of which I had never heard. I nervously checked my ticket; it said that we should be flying to Wrocław in Poland, not this Rock-Law. But soon it transpired that ‘Rock-Law’ was a free-style anglicization of the pronunciation of the city’s name, because the pilot failed to check up how it is really pronounced. Try saying /vroh-tswah-f/ to the delight of your Polish-speaking friends. They also make an effort not to pronounce Brighton in the Polish way that would result in /brick htohn/.

CC licensed image ‘Stones‘ commemorating the Battle of Austerlitz by Jesse.