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In Search of Women Photographers in Twentieth-Century India

March 7, 2025
By 31414

Exploring the largely hidden history of early women photographers in India, Sreerupa Bhattacharya (Jadavpur University, 2018) follows traces of their work to uncover the contributions they made in shaping the art and practice of photography on the subcontinent.

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In an 1898 issue of Amrita Bazar Patrika, one of the leading daily newspapers in colonial Bengal, appeared an advertisement for a well-known photo studio, emphasizing the availability of “female artists” to photograph women. A lady behind the lens meant that elite women could have their photographs taken without inviting anxieties about being seen unveiled by men in public. It is, however, not known if these “artists” were necessarily only photographers or also those involved in tinting and retouching photographs.

Notwithstanding, it is significant that photography emerged as a source of employment for European as well as native women at the turn of the twentieth century. When the first all-women’s studio in India was established in 1892 to exclusively serve a female clientele, it recruited “native female assistants” who were led by an Englishwoman. These examples attest to women’s prolific presence in a range of photographic works at a time when they were yet to become key players in the many other technology-led industries in colonial India.

My doctoral research examines women’s photographic practices in early- to mid-twentieth-century India and their rediscovery in contemporary times, with a focus on questions of labor, materiality, and representation. Recent curatorial and scholarly interests in twentieth-century Indian women behind the lens have largely focused on family and domestic photography. My project seeks to build on this scholarship by moving away from the biographical approach and mapping individual practices onto the larger discourse of photography. The purpose is not only to recover little-known lives and their contributions but also to expose marginalized objects, sites, and networks through them in order to potentially reconfigure the photo history in the subcontinent and expand our understanding of photography in turn.

Footnotes in Photo History

Women, until recently, have been footnotes in the grand narrative of the history of photography in India that has mainly dramatized the conflict between the colonizer and the colonized, emphasized the peculiarly Indian character of photography, and celebrated its pioneering male figures. The “native female assistant” remained nameless, for instance, in the several monographs on the work of Lala Deen Dayal, the eminent photographer who established the photo studio in which these women worked.

In his 2008 book The Coming of Photography in India delineating the sociocultural, political, and philosophical implications of the arrival of the camera under the Raj, art historian Christopher Pinney mentions a set of calotypes and photograms by an unknown female photographer. Made in the 1840s, they are significant as the earliest extant photographs of India. Yet, she receives no more than a passing reference. Perhaps no more than that is possible since institutional archives bear only traces of such women’s presence.

Rather than bemoan such absences, my project explores them as speculative nodes to flesh out the figure of the woman behind the lens. One of the imperatives of the project, thus, is to delineate the discursive forces, historically and in the contemporary, that have constituted the figure of the woman photographer in India.  

New Insights from Revisiting the Archives

Many of the photography journals, pamphlets, and illustrated magazines published in twentieth-century India are currently housed in institutions across the United States and Europe. Perhaps the most capacious among these is the British Library in London, where Desmond Ray, the deputy keeper of the India Office Library and Records, consolidated in the 1970s and 1980s both images and documents related to photography in India.

The Sylff Research Grant allowed me to explore the British Library collection in great detail during my two-month-long stay in the UK. The other archives and institutions I visited included the Victoria and Albert Museum, the Cambridge South Asia Centre, Birkbeck College, the University of London, and the Courtauld Institute of Art. In each of them, I found librarians, archivists, and professors who provided extraordinary insights into my project, greatly enhancing my understanding of the nebulous photographic landscape in India and in other parts of the world in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. 

 

The Photography and the Book Room of the Photography Centre, Victoria and Albert Museum, September 2024. Photo by the author.

Parsing through different kinds of documents—letters, periodicals, photographs, and news reports—led me to glean names of individuals, organizations, and activities that suggest a scattered but persistent presence of women photographers. They reveal new constituencies of photo practitioners that expand the contours of received histories.

Departing from the recent focus on amateur practices centered on the family, home, and travels, my archival research revealed a discursive emphasis on photography as an occupation for women throughout the twentieth century. Photography emerged as one of the few technology-led activities that could easily make the transition from pastime to profession.

Women photographers thus marked their presence in photo studios, at political rallies, in exhibitions, and behind editorial desks. With cameras in hand, they not only made aesthetic interventions but also exposed the fault lines in the discourse of photography. While much of contemporary scholarship revolves around individual practices, revisiting the archives enabled me to reorient the focus to a matrix of material relations that reveal the history of photography in India as gendered work.

 

From the series Centralia, 2010–2020, by Poulomi Basu, on display at the Photography Centre, Victoria and Albert Museum, October 2024. Photo by the author.

A Global Phenomenon

Besides conducting archival research, I was fortunate to be able to participate in workshops organized by scholars, artists, and critics at the forefront of global photography studies today. A joint initiative by the Victoria and Albert Museum and Birkbeck College for doctoral students called “Researching on, and with, Photographs” proved invaluable in exploring the wide range of contemporary scholarly work on the political and aesthetic purchase of historical photography. A talk on British photographer Jo Spence’s collection was insightful in thinking about feminist articulations of art and activism. It also raised questions about how to preserve and display such works, meant for public engagement, within formal institutional structures.

The sessions held at the V&A Photography Centre also offered glimpses into the early processes in the development of photography, the formation of the institution’s photography collection, and its current decolonial efforts. It gave me the opportunity to discuss the museum’s recently developed women in photography collection, which contains a wide range of photographs made in the British colonies in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

The workshop and the ongoing projects at the museum foregrounded the renewed interest in the study of women behind the lens. Just in the past five years, there have been major conferences and exhibitions on twentieth-century women photographers in North America, Europe, and Asia. My project gains greater resonance amidst such efforts at rediscovering and reevaluating twentieth-century women’s photography around the world.

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EDI Rhetoric and the Experiences of LGBTQ+ International Students in Canada

December 10, 2024
By 31445

The experiences of LGBTQ+ international students in Canada point to a complex web of challenges, writes Fatemeh Gharibi (York University, 2020), from discriminatory immigration and academic policies to revenue-motivated promises of inclusion, highlighting contradictions in the country’s equity, diversity, and inclusion rhetoric.

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Over 7 million students in higher education globally hold international status, a number growing due to globalization and the evolution of the “knowledge economy” (Corkum 2017, 110; Trilokekar et al. 2020, 9). In response to rising anti-immigrant sentiments and political shifts to the right, Canada has introduced caps on international students, impacting both current and prospective students (IRCC 2024). These restrictions, alongside recent price surges and housing crises blamed on migrants, disproportionately affect international students, particularly those with temporary status in Canada (Hamilton & Su 2024). Marc Miller, Canada’s minister of immigration, announced in 2023 that international student caps would also affect students already in the country, impacting admission, work permits, and other vital aspects of their stay.

LGBTQ+ international students face additional challenges, influenced by changes in immigration policies and the social climate regarding LGBTQ+ rights, which affect their quality of life and access to resources. Anti-LGBTQ+ sentiment has also been rising in Canada, with legislation such as Bill 137 in Saskatchewan, which mandates parental consent for minors to use a different gender-related name or pronoun at school, sparking concerns for LGBTQ+ students who came to Canada for a more accepting environment (Marshall 2021; Corkum 2017). Research shows that anti-LGBTQ+ ideologies often intersect with other bigoted beliefs and far-right politics, impacting LGBTQ+ international students disproportionately (Dietzel et al. 2023).

As a queer, racialized international student, I find Canada’s Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion (EDI) rhetoric contradictory, given the exploitative nature of its immigration and education systems, which create precarities for marginalized groups. Economic-driven research on international students, often criticized as “reductionist,” fails to fully capture the lived experiences of these students (Tavares 2021a, 5). To address this gap, I conducted a systematic literature review of 100 sources from 2000 to 2024, exploring the experiences of LGBTQ+ international students and the intersection of university internationalization, EDI priorities, and their impacts on these students.

The review revealed that while migration offers LGBTQ+ students opportunities for self-exploration, it also exposes them to unique challenges, including discrimination based on intersecting identities like race, sexuality, status, and nationality. For these students, access to resources is limited compared to their domestic counterparts. The commercialization of education for international students, moreover, conflicts with EDI’s goals. EDI is often used as a marketing tool to portray Canada as inclusive while treating diversity as a commodity to attract students who are then exploited as revenue sources. This dual focus on profit and diversity branding highlights the contradictions in EDI policies in capitalist countries like Canada, which may appear inclusive but prioritize revenue generation over actual support for international students’ well-being.

“We Reject Your ‘Use and Throw’ Policy.” Day 45 (October 13, 2024) of protests in Brampton, where former international students have been camping outdoors to draw attention to recent policy changes in Canada.

International LGBTQ+ Students’ Experiences

The term “international student” is often homogenizing, lumping together people from diverse backgrounds; my research centers on students from the Global South in Canada, highlighting voices lacking the privileges of white, Western counterparts. For LGBTQ+ international students, migration can be a space for identity exploration (Corkum 2017; Nguyen et al. 2017; Oba & Pope 2013), but these students also encounter challenges within Canada’s racial and colonial hierarchies, affecting them through discriminatory immigration and academic policies (Yao et al. 2019; Lee 2019; Stein & de Andreotti 2016). Two key literature areas address these students’ experiences.

The first area focuses on “identity development” and cultural challenges in “coming out,” exploring dual cultural influences of home and host countries, and the need for culturally sensitive support (Nguyen et al. 2017; Quach et al. 2013; Oba & Pope 2013). This literature notes the complexity of disclosure due to family, cultural beliefs, and the legal status of LGBTQ+ rights in home countries (Nguyen et al. 2017, 113–14). However, by centering on cultural differences, it sometimes neglects broader power structures, racial issues, and the historical spread of homophobia via colonization, as well as recent anti-LGBTQ+ backlashes in the Global North.

The second area explores how racism, nationalism, and colonialism impact queer migrant bodies and create precarious statuses (Marshall 2021; Corkum 2017; Lee 2019). Concepts like “homonationalism” in Canada reveal how some queer identities, especially white ones, are embraced by the state, reinforcing inequalities (Puar 2017; Marshall 2021). Corkum (2017, 124) specifically highlights the disillusionment faced by LGBTQ+ international students who confront values favoring their white, Canadian-born peers, which can hinder their belonging and relegate racialized queer students to marginal spaces. My present study aligns with a “holistic” approach (Tavares 2021a), focusing on lived experiences and challenging systemic barriers.

There remains a gap in research on how issues like gender and sexuality affect broader challenges like housing, employment, health, and social services access. The current literature on LGBTQ+ international students largely prioritizes identity while overlooking trans-specific experiences, disabilities, and relationship with land, with only brief mentions of nationality and status.

Implications of Internationalization and EDI

Internationalization is a high priority at 95% of Canadian universities (AUCC, cited in Stein & de Andreotti 2016, 230), driven by neoliberal economic shifts and global politics. De Wit et al. describe the four rationales for this trend as “political, economic, socio-cultural, and academic” (cited in Guo & Guo 2017, 853). Though academic internationalization ideally integrates international perspectives into education (Jane Knight, cited in Das Gupta & Gomez 2023, 73), it often becomes a “marketing strategy” aimed at revenue generation, with international students paying higher fees to make up for public funding cuts (Guo & Guo 2017, 851; Das Gupta & Gomez 2023; McCartney & Metcalfe 2018).

EDI strategies in Canada were introduced post-1970s as responses to civil rights movements and neoliberal immigration priorities, framed by multiculturalism and human rights (Das Gupta & Gomez 2023, 72). EDI policies help market Canadian education as inclusive, particularly to students of color from the Global South, positioning Canada as tolerant and benevolent. However, EDI can reinforce Western dominance by perpetuating a global hierarchy where the West is always positioned as superior (Stein & de Andreotti 2016, 226).

While EDI and internationalization are priorities for Canadian universities, their revenue-driven approaches often undermine true equity for international students, leading to contradictions in policies and practices (Buckner et al. 2022, 39; Tavares 2021b, 2). The focus on generating income through recruitment can overshadow equitable treatment and inclusion for these students. The following section will further explore international students’ experiences of EDI in educational settings.

EDI Strategies and International Students

Few studies have investigated EDI strategies concerning international students, with none of them specifically addressing gender and sexuality. These studies raise concerns about the effectiveness of EDI practices, particularly in the context of internationalization, due to the inherent contradiction between the two (Das Gupta & Gomez 2023; Buckner et al. 2022; Tavares 2021b). I seek to connect these findings to relevant experiences of international LGBTQ+ students.

Equity?

Tamtik and Guenter (2019) emphasize that Canadian universities largely overlook international students as an equity-seeking group, even though many are people of color and face unique barriers due to their temporary status. Buckner et al. (2022) argue that universities need to address the contradiction between market and equity logics, especially in relation to tuition disparities between international and domestic students. Das Gupta and Gomez (2023, 81) note that international students, particularly those with post-graduate work permits, often lack access to settlement and social services. This gap extends to international LGBTQ+ students, who encounter difficulties in accessing necessary medical and legal services related to gender transitioning and HIV prevention (OHTN n.d., 5).

Diversity?

Diversity is often promoted as a means of enriching knowledge and intercultural connections (Legusov & Jafar 2021, 57), yet Trilokekar and El Masri (2016, 674–76) reveal that the process of recruiting international students and their integration into Canadian society often reinforces conformity to Canadian norms around race, language, and religion, limiting the genuine mutual exchange intended. International students frequently find that their presence does not foster true intercultural connections, as curricula often lack international perspectives, and their experiences are undervalued (Tavares 2021b; Guo & Guo 2017). Ahmed (2012, 10–11) observes that “diversity” is frequently presented as an achievement even when there is no real institutional change. Moreover, while gender and sexual diversity are celebrated, Canadian universities often fail to address the unique needs of international LGBTQ+ students who prioritize privacy over visibility due to concerns like “diasporic surveillance” (Nguyen et al. 2017, 117–18; Corkum 2017, 114).

Inclusion?

Tavares (2021b, 1) finds that international students often experience superficial multiculturalism and social exclusion. LGBTQ+ international students face barriers both within the university and in queer communities, feeling isolated as “the international ones” in local LGBTQ+ groups and “the LGBTQ+ ones” among international students (Corkum 2017; Nguyen et al. 2017). Inclusion is problematic within a system that marginalizes certain groups, as Lenon and Dryden (2015, 16) argue, pointing out that “inclusion does not equate to justice.” They contend that inclusion efforts often uphold neoliberalism, white supremacy, and Western dominance, exacerbating the vulnerabilities of international LGBTQ+ students (Lenon & Dryden 2015; Thobani 2007).

The author, left, presents research findings in a panel titled “From Failure to Refusal: Queerness, Migrancy, and Other Improper Subjects of Racial and Colonial Capitalism” at the Congress of Social Sciences and Humanities, Toronto, Canada, May, 2023. The other panelists are, from left, Rhiannon Cobb, Mengzhu Fu, and Jin Haritaworn.

Closing Remarks

The existing literature provides an intersectional analysis of international LGBTQ+ students’ experiences, but more nuanced frameworks are needed to understand issues concerning their identities. Dominant identity categorizations in Western academia, like queer of color, may not fully capture their social locations, as they come from different racial structures in their home countries and may not initially feel connected to either queer or people of color histories and concerns in the host country. To address these incompatibilities, researchers have attempted to incorporate queer diasporic critique, neo-racism frameworks, and transnational critical race theory frameworks (Corkum 2017; Lee & Rice 2007; Yao et al 2019).

The literature examining EDI and decolonization in the context of internationalization presents two main approaches: one advocates for reforms within existing frameworks, focusing on improving EDI fulfillment through enhanced student support (Buckner et al. 2022; Tavares 2021b), and integrating Indigenous knowledge to decolonize internationalization (Beck & Pidgeon 2022). Another perspective challenges the systems of oppression at local and global levels and questions the feasibility of achieving equity, diversity, inclusion, and decolonization for international students within the current framework (Das Gupta & Gomez 2023).

Incorporating critical frameworks in everyday encounters and work with international students can challenge the reproduction of deficit narratives and expectations for seamless assimilation into local sexuality norms. Instead of constantly attempting to educate international students about the host country’s norms, there is a need to teach domestic students, faculty, staff, and society about other countries. It is essential to learn from the diverse stories and knowledge of international students, how they envision classrooms, campuses, queer and trans spaces, immigration, and internationalization, and be prepared to start adjusting instead of expecting them to do all the work.

References

Ahmed, S. 2012. On Being Included: Racism and Diversity in Institutional Life. Duke University Press. https://ocul-yor.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_YOR/j50f41/cdi_proquest_miscellaneous_1082140471.

Beck, K. & Pidgeon, M. 2020. “Across the Divide: Critical Conversations on Decolonization, Indigenization, and Internationalization.” In Tamtik, M., Trilokekar, R. D., & Jones, G. A., eds., International Education as Public Policy in Canada, 384–406. McGill-Queen’s University Press. https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctv18sqz9q.22.

Brunner, L. R. 2023. “Settler Nation-Building through Immigration as a Rationale for Higher Education: A Critical Discourse Analysis.” Higher Education Research & Development, 42(5), 1086–1102. https://doi.org/10.1080/07294360.2023.2193732.

Buckner, E., Chan, E., & Kim, C. 2022. “Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion on Canadian Universities: Where Do International Students Fit In?” Comparative and International Education, 51(1), 39–56. https://ojs.lib.uwo.ca/index.php/cie-eci/article/view/14613.

Corkum, T. 2017. “Where Do I Begin? Educational Citizenship and Sexual Minority International Students in Ontario.” In Carpenter, S. & Mojab, S., eds., Youth as/in Crisis: Young People, Public Policy, and the Politics of Learning, 109–25. Rotterdam: Sense Publishers. https://link.springer.com/chapter/10.1007/978-94-6351-098-1_8.

Das Gupta, T. & Gomez, B. 2023. “International Students and Equity, Diversity and Inclusivity (EDI) in Canadian Universities: A Critical Look.” In Kim, A., Buckner, E., & Montsion, J. M., eds., International Students from Asia in Canadian Universities, 72–85. Routledge. https://www.taylorfrancis.com/chapters/oa-edit/10.4324/b23160-7/international-students-equity-diversity-inclusivity-edi-canadian-universities-tania-das-gupta-bianca-gomez.

Dietzel, C., Maitland, H., & Jonsson, S. 2023. “Queerphobic Hate Is on the Rise, and LGBTQ+ Communities in Canada Need More Support.” The Conversation, October 24. http://theconversation.com/queerphobic-hate-is-on-the-rise-and-lgbtq-communities-in-canada-need-more-support-214932.

Guo, Y. & Guo, S. 2017. “Internationalization of Canadian Higher Education: Discrepancies between Policies and International Student Experiences.” Studies in Higher Education, 42(5), 851–868. https://doi.org/10.1080/03075079.2017.1293874.

Hamilton, L. & Su, Y. 2024. “International Students Cap Falsely Blames Them for Canada’s Housing and Health-Care Woes.” The Conversation, January 25. http://theconversation.com/international-students-cap-falsely-blames-them-for-canadas-housing-and-health-care-woes-221859.

Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada (IRCC). 2024. “Canada to Stabilize Growth and Decrease Number of New International Student Permits Issued to Approximately 360,000 for 2024.” News Release, January 22. https://www.canada.ca/en/immigration-refugees-citizenship/news/2024/01/canada-to-stabilize-growth-and-decrease-number-of-new-international-student-permits-issued-to-approximately-360000-for-2024.html.

Lee, E. O. J. 2019. “Responses to Structural Violence: The Everyday Ways in Which Queer and Trans Migrants with Precarious Status Respond to and Resist the Canadian Immigration Regime.” International Journal of Child, Youth and Family Studies, 10(1), 70–94. https://doi.org/10.18357/ijcyfs101201918807.

Lee, J. J., & Rice, C. 2007. “Welcome to America? International Student Perceptions of Discrimination.” Higher Education, 53(3), 381–409. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10734-005-4508-3.

Legusov, O. & Jafar, H. F. 2021. “International Students at Canadian Community Colleges: Origins, Evolution, and Current Trends.” In Malveaux, G. & Bista, K., eds., International Students at US Community Colleges, 55–70. Routledge. https://www.taylorfrancis.com/chapters/edit/10.4324/9781003121978-5/international-students-canadian-community-colleges-oleg-legusov-hayfa-jafar?context=ubx&refId=3e351ea8-8115-4ad5-8588-cdf6b045bc7c.

Lenon, S. & Dryden, O. H. 2015. “Introduction: Interventions, Iterations, and Interrogations That Disturb the (Homo)Nation.” In Dryden, O. H. & Lenon, S., eds., Disrupting Queer Inclusion: Canadian Homonationalisms and the Politics of Belonging, 3–18. UBC Press.

Marshall, N. 2021. “Queering CYC Praxis: What I Learned from LGBTQI+ Newcomer, Refugee, and Immigrant Students’ Experiences in Canada.” International Journal of Child, Youth and Family Studies, 12(3–4), 170–202. https://doi.org/10.18357/ijcyfs123-4202120344.

McCartney, D. M. & Metcalfe, A. S. 2018. “Corporatization of Higher Education through Internationalization: The Emergence of Pathway Colleges in Canada.” Tertiary Education and Management 24 (3): 206–20. https://doi.org/10.1080/13583883.2018.1439997.

Nguyen, H. N., Agrawal, A., & Grafsky, E. L. 2017. “International LGBTQ Students across Borders and within the University. In Johnson, J. M. & Javier, G., eds., Queer People of Color in Higher Education, 109–22. Information Age Publishing, Inc. https://ocul-yor.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_YOR/26r5oc/alma991036306548005164.

Oba, Y. & Pope, M. 2013. “Counseling and Advocacy with LGBT International Students.” Journal of LGBT Issues in Counseling, 7(2), 185–93. https://doi.org/10.1080/15538605.2013.785468.

Ontario Network for HIV Treatment (OHTN). n.d. Connection and Acceptance: A Resource Guide for Providers Serving International LGBTQ+ Students. https://hqtoronto.ca/wp-content/uploads/OHTN-International-Student-Provider-Resource.pdf.

Puar, J. K. 2017. Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times (Tenth Anniversary Expanded Edition). Duke University Press. https://ocul-yor.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_YOR/j50f41/cdi_askewsholts_vlebooks_9780822371755.

Stein, S. & de Andreotti, V. O. 2016. “Cash, Competition, or Charity: International Students and the Global Imaginary. Higher Education, 72 (2), 225–39. https://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/s10734-015-9949-8.

Tamtik, M. & Guenter, M. 2019. “Policy Analysis of Equity, Diversity and Inclusion Strategies in Canadian Universities: How Far Have We Come?” Canadian Journal of Higher Education / Revue canadienne d’enseignement supérieur, 49(3), 41–56. https://doi.org/10.7202/1066634ar.

Tavares, V. 2021a. International Students in Higher Education: Language, Identity, and Experience from a Holistic Perspective. Rowman & Littlefield. https://rowman.com/ISBN/9781793641113/International-Students-in-Higher-Education-Language-Identity-and-Experience-from-a-Holistic-Perspective.

Tavares, V. 2021b. “Feeling Excluded: International Students Experience Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion.” International Journal of Inclusive Education, 28(8), 1551–68. https://doi.org/10.1080/13603116.2021.2008536.

Thobani, S. 2007. Exalted Subjects: Studies in the Making of Race and Nation in Canada. University of Toronto Press. https://ocul-yor.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_YOR/j50f41/cdi_askewsholts_vlebooks_9781442691520.

Trilokekar, R. D., Jones, G.A., & Tamtik, M. 2020. “Introduction: The Emergence of International Education as Public Policy.” In Tamtik, M., Trilokekar, R. D., & Jones, G.A., eds., International Education as Public Policy in Canada, 3–26. McGill-Queen’s University Press. https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctv18sqz9q.5.

Trilokekar, R. D. & El Masri, A. 2016. “The ‘[H]unt for New Canadians Begins in the Classroom’: The Construction and Contradictions of Canadian Policy Discourse on International Education. Globalisation, Societies and Education, 15(5), 666–78. https://doi.org/10.1080/14767724.2016.1222897.

Tuck, E. & Yang, K. W. 2012. “Decolonization Is Not a Metaphor.” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society, 1(1), 1–40. https://clas.osu.edu/sites/clas.osu.edu/files/Tuck%20and%20Yang%202012%20Decolonization%20is%20not%20a%20metaphor.pdf.

Quach, A. S., Todd, M. E., Hepp, B. W., & Doneker Mancini, K. L. 2013. “Conceptualizing Sexual Identity Development: Implications for GLB Chinese International Students.” Journal of GLBT Family Studies, 9(3), 254–72. https://doi.org/10.1080/1550428X.2013.781908.

Yao, C. W., Mwangi, C. A. G., & Brown, V. K. M. 2019. “Exploring the Intersection of Transnationalism and Critical Race Theory: A Critical Race Analysis of International Student Experiences in the United States.” Race Ethnicity and Education, 22(1), 38–58. https://doi.org/10.1080/13613324.2018.1497968

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Cultural Rights in Serbia: A Report

December 5, 2024
By 31741

Cultural rights are constitutionally guaranteed in Serbia, yet face significant challenges due to limited funding, brain drain, and economic instability. This report by Aleksa Nikolic (University of Belgrade, 2024) examines Serbia’s legal framework and steps toward improvement.

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What Are Cultural Rights?

Pok Yin Chow begins his recently published book Cultural Rights in International Law and Discourse: Contemporary Challenges and Interdisciplinary Perspectives with an introduction entitled “Cultural Rights—A Radical Hope?” In it, Chow tries to show that cultural rights are an integral component of human rights that are as fundamental as civil, political, economic, and social rights. The disintegration of the bipolar world has served to highlight the importance of this aspect of human rights, providing us with a much-needed perspective on how we can explore, negotiate, and come to a deeper understanding of various cultures.

Cultural rights can be assessed as a precondition for the protection of other human rights. They are also critical considerations in numerous hotspots, such as conflict and post-conflict zones. Cultural rights can serve as pillars in the development of society and its legal system.

Cultural Rights under Serbian Law

Human rights are guaranteed in the current Constitution of the Republic of Serbia (Article 18). Given the fact that Serbia has ratified the most important international legal conventions on human rights, one gets the impression that these guarantees are unnecessarily duplicated in the Constitution. However, Serbia is by no means an exception, considering that the global trend is for not only the constitutionalization of international law but also the internationalization of constitutional law, especially in the field of human rights.

Constitutional references to cultural rights in only three articles (Articles 71–73), though, testify to the fact that they have advanced the least in their evolution compared to other human rights. Article 71 guarantees that everyone has the “right to education” and that the government “shall provide for free tertiary education to successful and talented students of lower property status in accordance with the law.” Article 72 guarantees the autonomy of universities, faculties, and scientific institutions, which “shall decide freely on their organization and work in accordance with the law.”

Article 73 proclaims that “scientific and artistic creativity shall be unrestricted,” with authors of scientific and artistic works being “guaranteed moral and material rights in accordance with the law” and the Republic of Serbia assisting and promoting the “development of science, culture and art.”

The wording of these provisions suggests, though, that the Constitution guarantees cultural rights only in principle, with specific protections being elucidated by legal acts.

A border sign saying “Goodbye” from the Republic of Serbia. CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons

Upholding Cultural Rights in Practice

The key problem related to upholding cultural rights in Serbia is the country’s fiscal situation. The state’s science budget is extremely low, with allocations in 2019 for research and development totaling only 0.4% of gross domestic product, or just one-eighth of levels in Austria. This points to the need to restructure the research and development system and define new strategies to improve the position of cultural rights.

Indeed, the Serbian government’s latest long-term strategy for scientific and technological development could lead to shifts in investment patterns and improvements in scientic standards. The idea of combining institutional and project financing of scientific research is encouraging, but the ultimate goal of reforms should not be to solve just one in a series of key issues but to create a systemically efficient legal framework that will enable uninterrupted scientific research.

Another important precondition for improving the position of cultural rights is to prevent further “brain drain.” Particularly after the war events of the 1990s, Serbia encountered a large wave of migration. After many years of marginalizing this problem, the first steps toward its resolution have finally been taken. To encourcage the young, highly educated population to remain in the country, the competent ministry last year engaged 1,200 young PhD students in scientific research projects. While this is a positive trend, it is necessary to create a long-term strategy that will, among other things, guarantee young researchers employment after the expiration of these projects.

Given the need for increased funding, the country’s economic recovery may be an important prerequisite for further advancing the protection of cultural rights in the Republic of Serbia.

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India and Southeast Asia: From “Look East” to “Act East”

November 22, 2024
By 21713

Close historical and cultural linkages between India and Southeast Asia have helped to build strong economic ties between the regions, which, argues Kamei Aphun (Jawaharlal Nehru University, 2004), can also lead to stronger security arrangements.

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Sociologically, the term “culture” is used to differentiate groups of people based on their shared identity. Culture unites people and engenders a sense of togetherness. This does not mean, of course, that there is no interaction between cultural groups; like other entities, cultures may clash with one another or go through a process of bargaining and accommodation. Culture is a complex system that shapes and reshapes intergroup relations within societies.

India and Southeast Asia have a long history and tradition of cultural exchange through trade and commerce. According to Jayshree Sengupta, “Southeast Asia was particularly attractive to Indian mercantile class and they named the faraway lands Swarnabhumi or land of gold, Tokola or land of cardamoms or Narikeldeep, land of coconuts. They followed two routes—one through land via Bengal, Assam, Manipur and Burma to reach different parts of Southeast Asia. The other route was the maritime route from Coromandel coast or the coast of Bay of Bengal to Cape Comorin and via Malacca strait to reach the Malay Peninsula” (Sengupta 2017).

India and Southeast Asia also experienced colonization under such Western countries as Britain, France, the Netherlands, and Portugal in the nineteenth and twentieth century. Colonization involved economic exploitation and had a profound impact on the social, economic, cultural, and political development of the occupied regions.

Cultural Connections

Cultural ties between India and Southeast Asia are deep-rooted and diverse. The trade in goods led to the spread of religions like Hinduism and Buddhism from India to Southeast Asia, and languages like Sanskrit and Pali had a major impact on Southeast Asian languages. Similarly, Indian culture was influenced by Southeast Asia, as can be seen in Tamil culture, Indian cuisine, textiles, and music and dance. India’s Islamic architecture influenced Indonesian and Malaysian architecture, while Dravidian (South Indian) and Nagara (North Indian) architectural styles have influenced the design of temples in Southeast Asia.

Cultural commonalities are also found among the festivals of Rongali (Assam in Northeast India), Songkran of Thailand, Pi Mai in Laos, and Arunachal Pradesh’s Sangken, which are all celebrated around New Year’s.

 

The Anusawari Prachathipatai Democracy Monument in Bangkok, Thailand, incorporates design elements drawn from Hindu and Buddhist mythology.

India’s Look East Policy

Given the historical and cultural connection between India and Southeast Asia from ancient times to the post-independence period, India initiated a “Look East Policy” in 1991 as part of its foreign policy.

This policy was aimed at strengthening economic, strategic, and cultural ties with 23 countries in Southeast and East Asia, including Japan, South Korea, Nepal, Sri Lanka, Bhutan, and Bangladesh. Northeast India played an integral part in this policy due to its geographical proximity to Southeast Asia. The various projects undertaken under the policy included the establishment of border trades centers in Moreh (Manipur); the improvement of transport links (the Indo-Myanmar Friendship Road; the Trilateral Highway linking India, Myanmar, and Thailand; the India-Myanmar rail link from Manipur to Hanoi via Myanmar; the Trans-Asian Highway; the Trans Asian highway from Singapore to Istanbul passing through India; and the Trans Asian Railway from Delhi to Hanoi); the hosting of the India-ASEAN Car Rally in 2004 from Guwahati, India, to Batam, Indonesia; the construction of the 800-km-long Trans-National Gas Pipe Line between Myanmar, Bangladesh, and India; and the implementation of Quick Impact Projects to build infrastructure in Cambodia, Laos, Myanmar, and Vietnam.

India’s Act East Policy

The Look East Policy was given an upgrade and rechristened as the “Act East Policy” in 2014, with the government rejuvenating its initiatives to actualize the potential of the policy. The Act East Policy marked a shift in India’s perspective of the world, as New Delhi gave priority to building cooperative ties with the rapidly rising economies of Southeast Asia.

The Northeast region was identified as being vital to the success of the policy for several reasons. First, four Northeastern states—namely Arunachal Pradesh, Nagaland, Manipur, and Mizoram—shared borders with the Southeast Asian country of Myanmar. Second, besides geographical proximity, many ethnic groups in the Northeast region shared much in terms of culture, history, and even language with Southeast Asian countries. And third, the persisting problems of insurgency and economic underdevelopment were thought more resolvable by building stable ties with neighboring countries. The Act East Policy held the promise of actualizing both the internal and external aspirations of India, but materializing this vision would require thorough research and the implementation of appropriate decisions and policies.

As for the policy’s impact, the reality on the ground is that the results have thus far been mixed. Strong claims have been made that the central government was motivated by a desire not to promote the development of the Northeast region but rather to eliminate insurgency forces by cooperating with Myanmar. In this regard, Baruah (2007) maintains that the problem of the Northeast “did not begin with the insurgencies and it will not end with them.” In addition, while interaction between Southeast Asia and India overall has been increasing, that between the Northeast and its immediate neighbors has been in decline. Again, Baruah (2007) emphasizes that the need to establish not only maritime but also continental trade links to strengthen India’s economy in the long run provides ample reasons for the government to bolster its policies.

Other impediments to the realization of the policy’s goals include the requirement for Indian citizens to obtain Inner Line Permits to travel to protected tribal areas in the Northeast. This overcomplicates the process of making visits to and investing in the region; the abolition of the Armed Forces Special Powers Act, which grants special powers to the Indian Armed Forces to maintain public order in “disturbed areas” of the Northeast, has also been increasingly looked upon as a necessary step for the Act East Policy and related policies to bear fruit in the region.

And most importantly, the underdevelopment of road, rail, and air transport infrastructure needs to be addressed to ensure connectivity between the constituent states and other regions. The Act East Policy holds the potential of transforming the Northeast from peripheral status deprived of benefits to a robust region of trade and tourism where South and Southeast Asia meet.

Conclusion

Strengthening cultural linkages between India and Southeast Asia is an ambitious project that presents formidable challenges but also promises many benefits, as it can promote economic development in a region having a shared future and destiny. India’s Look/Act East Policy seeks to improve economic, political, and cultural relations with Southeast Asia by drawing on aged-old historical connections. It will guide India’s efforts to propel the region on the road to development fueled by cultural affinity, and this should help strengthen India’s position through the utilization of culture as a soft power.

 

The author with Sylff Association Chair Yohei Sasakawa during the April 2011 Building a Better Asia Young Leaders Retreat (BABA*) in Nara, Japan.

*Sylff News about "BABA".

References

Baruah, Sanjib. 2007. “Beyond Durable Disorder: Northeast India and the Look East Policy.” In Sanjib Baruah, ed., Durable Disorder: Understanding the Politics of Northeast India (pp. 211–236). Oxford University Press.

Coedes, George. 1965. The Indianized States of Southeast Asia. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press.

Haokip, Thongkholal. 2015. “India’s Look East Policy: Prospects and Challenges for Northeast India,” Studies in Indian Politics, Volume 3, Issue 2.

Keyes, Charles. 1994. The Golden Peninsula: Culture and Adaptation in Mainland Southeast Asia. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press.

Mabbett, Ian. 1977. “The ‘Indianization’ of Southeast Asia: Reflections on the Prehistorical Sources.” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 8. http://www.jstor.org/stable/20070221.

McDaniel, Justin. 2008. “Pali.” New Mandala. Accessed December 20, 2023. https://www.newmandala.org/pali/.

Sarma, Atul. 2018. “Integrating Northeast with South East Asia: Great Expectations and Ground Realities.” In Atul Sarma & Saswati Choudhury, eds., Mainstreaming the Northeast in India’s Look and Act East Policy. Palgrave Macmillan.

Sengupta, Jayshree. 2017. “India’s Cultural and Civilisational Influence on Southeast Asia,” Observer Research Foundation.

Singh, Shreya. 2023. “Mapping India’s Historical Ties with Southeast Asia.” Indian Council of World Affairs.

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Interiors of Inequality: Ethnographic Exploration of Social Housing in Serbia

November 12, 2024
By 28933

Residents of Serbia’s social housing estates navigate a landscape marked by overcrowding, institutional abandonment, and a persistent threat of eviction. Fieldwork conducted using an SRG award by Sara Nikolić (University of Belgrade, 2020–21) reveals that contrary to stereotypes that label them as lazy or deceitful, these individuals are actively engaged in homemaking and yearn for improved conditions.

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The narratives of abandonment and neglect articulated by the residents of social housing estates in Serbia come as no surprise when thinking of the welfare system in the country. In public discourse and the media, people dependent on welfare, especially those in Roma communities, tend to be portrayed as lazy, incompetent, fickle, and intrinsically prone to crime.

With the aim of countering such racist narratives, I have been conducting research into the nexus between social housing tenants and their living environments. Specifically, my research probes the concept of homemaking and its boundaries within the challenging context of poverty and extreme housing precarity.

Overturning Popular Stereotypes

What I gathered from social housing estate residents during my fieldwork challenged the popular notion of tenants as criminals who deceive and exploit the state and taxpayers and who base their claims on exaggerated or false claims. They frequently lamented what they legitimately perceived as an inadequate state presence, expressing the need for the state to provide more services and resources to the local community and their estate.

Moreover, the residents’ use of terms like “care” and “interest” suggested a deeper, more personal connection to their neighborhoods, implying that the estate was situated within the moral framework of the local community (Kocsh 2014).

The socialist system in Yugoslavia, which considered housing as social infrastructure, provided a relatively easy path to securing a roof over one’s head. This system was suspended in 1990, however, when constitutional changes abolished the obligation of employees to set aside a contribution for housing construction from their salaries.

This was followed by the “big bang” privatization of apartments. In just under five years, the housing market was completely transformed, with 98% of publicly owned apartments passing into the hands of private owners (Damjanović 2010). This speedy shift toward neoliberal housing policies also resulted in a steady withdrawal of state resources and services from social housing estates.

The estates where I conducted my fieldwork—a small community of twenty, mainly Roma households displaced from Kosovo and a large neighborhood of nearly a thousand households of economically and socially disadvantaged families, again mostly of Roma origin—are exemplary in this respect. Situated, respectively, in the outlying areas of a middle-sized town and the capital city, they were built in the 2000s to offer housing for seriously disadvantaged communities.

For over 10 years now, about half of the residents of both estates have been without electricity, and a large number of households are at constant risk of forced eviction. In addition to problems of unemployment, welfare dependence, and health problems related to poor housing conditions, these tenants must deal with a vast and inflexible bureaucratic machinery when reporting problems with their homes or the rental system.

In the following, I describe the findings of an ethnographic inquiry into the homemaking practices of these estates, conducted with the help of an SRG award.

In-Depth Interviews with Residents

This research project adopted the concept of unhomeliness to describe the state’s lack of care, as manifested directly and collectively within social housing estates (Miller 1988; 2001; Navaro-Yashin 2012).

Ethnographic fieldwork was conducted from May to September 2024, with data collection carried out by myself and two PhD students, Dušanka Milosavljević and Igor Išpanović. Since the research involved working with people, particularly marginalized communities, all activities were conducted in strict adherence to the Code of Ethics of the Institute for Philosophy and Social Theory, University of Belgrade.

Alongside records of interviews and home visits, the data collected included observations, sketches, photographs, and diary entries made during and immediately after visits to the settlements. A total of 20 in-depth, semi-structured interviews, each lasting approximately one hour, were conducted in the homes of social housing estate residents. The respondents, aged between 18 and 65, were primarily of Roma origin, with a few of Serbian and Wallachian descent. Recruitment followed a snowball sampling method, with local gatekeepers playing a key role in fostering trust and facilitating connections within the communities.

Of the 20 participants, 5 were men and 15 were women. This gender disparity is largely due to the timing of the field visits, which took place during the day when women and children were more likely to be at home, while men were often occupied with informal and precarious work, such as collecting secondary raw materials or working in construction.

All respondents provided informed consent for both audio recordings of the interviews and visual documentation of their living conditions, including sketches and photographs of their apartments. Consent covered the use of these materials for research and promotional purposes. In cases where respondents were not functionally literate, the researchers read the consent form aloud, and verbal consent was obtained.

Overcrowded Housing and Lack of Privacy

I’d rather live in a desert—at least there, no one is around.
—Man, Uzun Mirkova estate, Požarevac

The notion of what defines comfortable living differs widely. For many of my informants, who have experienced homelessness, the hardships of war, and inadequate collective emergency housing, conversations about housing often touched on issues like overcrowding, the need to share resources among family members, and distinctions between those who had benefited from welfare policies and those who had not.

Home comfort has both social and material dimensions (Johnson 2018). Socially, it involves expectations regarding living standards, as well as the economic, legal, family, and civic relationships that help maintain the resources needed to meet those expectations. On the material side, it includes the infrastructure—pipes, wiring, and other systems—that ensure the home remains warm, well-lit, and healthy. The apartments I visited during this research failed to meet such “comfort criteria.”

A family home in Uzun Mirkova estate, Požarevac, Serbia. May 2024. Photo by Sara Nikolić.

However, the greatest source of discomfort stemmed not from inadequate and health-threatening housing conditions but from the lack of privacy. When asked what they would prioritize if financial constraints were lifted, many respondents expressed a desire to “move out of here and have our own yard.” Such responses suggest a yearning for private space, rather than a fetishization of private property.

After fleeing Kosovo after the war, the residents of Uzun Mirkova lived in emergency shelters for the first 11 years. They then gained access to social housing, but they were assigned homes that lacked essential amenities and were overcrowded, with living space of only 35 to 50 square meters for each household averaging seven members.

The constant presence of other people has not engendered a sense of community. Extreme poverty has hindered the fulfillment of basic needs, resulting in a situation where individuals, particularly women, spend time together out of necessity rather than genuine social connection. Men, on the other hand, sought employment outside the estates, creating further separation. For those who have access to electricity, the preference is often to isolate themselves with the television set, disconnecting from the chaos that envelops them.

Threat of Eviction Induces “Anticipatory Uncanniness” 

No one comes to visit us. They come to evict us, to give us eviction notices, to mistreat and threaten us. . . . We have no rights here, as if we’re not Serbian citizens.
—Woman, Kamendin estate, Belgrade

Housing conditions were a source of frustration and complaint for everyone. Apartments were chronically overcrowded, electricity was cut over a decade ago, mold was difficult to eliminate due to widespread dampness, and the flats remained cold during winter. Despite these issues, the competent institutions appeared reluctant to invest in repairs or maintenance, let alone in constructing new homes. Moreover, they blamed the tenants themselves for the poor living conditions. In the Belgrade neighborhood of Kamendin, a campaign against “ungrateful” residents resulted in massive eviction orders.

In the Kamendin estate, gas is used for cooking, heating, and for threatening police and enforcement officers during forced eviction attempts. June 2024. Photo by Sara Nikolić.

In contrast to common eviction narratives (e.g., Desmond 2017; Sullivan 2017), the presence of legal coercion did not lead solely to feelings of worry or despair (though such emotions were expressed as well). My research revealed that, in addition to evoking fear, anxiety, tension, depression, shame, and grief (Dudley 2000; Han 2011), the threat of eviction also generated hope and a feeling of homeliness.

More precisely, the tenants I encountered responded to the potential coercion in varying ways, ranging from anger toward racialized welfare policies and optimism over the prospect of “moving out of here” to fear of facing the grim potential of once again losing their home. This anticipatory uncanniness (Davey 2019) demonstrates how the state, through its recourse to legitimate coercion and institutional racism, subtly influences the aspirations tenants develop in relation to their homes.

Conclusion

This ethnographic exploration of social housing conditions in Serbia sheds light on the complex and often overlooked experiences of residents, particularly those living in extreme housing precarity. The narratives gathered during my fieldwork challenge the stigmatizing portrayals of social housing beneficiaries as exploiters of welfare systems, revealing instead a population that deeply yearns for stability, care, and improved living conditions. Contrary to public perceptions, these individuals are not passive recipients of state aid but are actively engaged in homemaking under conditions of chronic neglect, overcrowding, and institutional abandonment.

The research also highlights the ways in which legal coercion and the ever-present threat of eviction shape the emotional landscape of social housing residents. The anticipatory uncanniness experienced by many residents underscores how the state’s subtle and overt forms of control impact not only their current living conditions but also their visions for the future.

In sum, this study offers a critical understanding of the relationship between the state, social housing, and its marginalized residents. It calls attention to the urgent need for rethinking housing policies in Serbia, where systemic neglect, bureaucratic hurdles, and inadequate resources continue to undermine the dignity and well-being of those most in need of secure and humane living environments. By focusing on the everyday struggles and aspirations of these communities, this research contributes to broader anthropological discussions on housing precarity, social justice, and the role of the state in shaping lives at the margins.

 

References

Damjanović, D. (2010). Socijalno stanovanje: Prikaz stambenih politika Srbije i odabranih zemalja Evrope. Beograd: Palgo centar. 

Davey, R. (2020). Snakes and ladders: Legal coercion, housing precarity, and home-making aspirations in southern England. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 26(1), 12–29. 

Desmond, M. (2017). Evicted: Poverty and profit in the American city. London: Penguin. 

Dudley, K. M. (2000). Debt and dispossession: Farm loss in America’s heartland. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 

Han, C. (2011). Symptoms of another life: Time, possibility, and domestic relations in Chile’s credit economy. Cultural Anthropology, 26(1), 7–32. 

Johnson, C. (2018). The moral economy of comfortable living: Negotiating individualism and collectivism through housing in Belgrade. Critique of Anthropology, 38(2), 156–171. 

Koch, I. (2014). Everyday experiences of state betrayal on an English council estate. Anthropology of This Century, 9.

Miller, D. (1988). Appropriating the state on the council estate. Man, 23(2), 353–372. 

Miller, D. (2001). Possessions. In D. Miller (ed.), Home possessions: Material culture behind closed doors, pp. 107–122. Oxford: Berg. 

Navaro-Yashin, Y. (2012). The make-believe space: Affective geography in a postwar polity. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press. 

Sullivan, E. (2017). Displaced in place: Manufactured housing, mass eviction, and the paradox of state intervention. American Sociological Review, 82(2), 243–269. 

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Facing the World Alone: New Perspectives on Iran’s Nuclear Negotiations through the Lens of Ehsan Abdipour’s All Alone

July 11, 2024
By 28868

The box office success of Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer suggests a strong public interest in the narrativization of scientific and political history. For Elham Hosseini (University of the Western Cape, 2019–20), it reconfirmed the effectiveness of cinematic techniques used in an Iranian film detailing the adverse impact of the Iran nuclear sanctions on the lives of ordinary citizens. This article is adapted from a longer paper written with Miki Flockemann, an extraordinary professor at UWC and Hosseini’s academic supervisor.

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All Alone: The Messenger of Peace is a 2013 Iranian film by Ehsan Abdipour about a boy living near the Bushehr nuclear power plant whose friendship with the son of a Russian engineer is forced to end as the result of the nuclear sanctions against Iran. The film tangibly illustrates the impact of international sanctions on the lives of individuals through the lens of children and highlights perspectives often not directly addressed in the adult world, as the liminal position of preadolescents provides new space for exploring the unacknowledged effects of the sanctions.

On a personal level, the 2023 release of Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer triggered in me—an Iranian who closely followed the nuclear talks between 2013 and 2015—immediate recollections of the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA), known more commonly as the Iran Nuclear Deal. In particular, the questions J. Robert Oppenheimer grappled with as a youth about the nature of the universe struck me as paralleling the dilemma faced by the young protagonist in All Alone. In the following, I will examine some of arguments advanced by Iran at the time All Alone was made in the light of new questions raised by Oppenheimer.

Illusion of Control

The connections between Oppenheimer and Iran’s negotiating team need to be clarified at the outset. Obviously, Oppenheimer’s mission to develop the most potent means of mass destruction the world had ever known is distinctively different from the attempts by Iranian negotiators, who included scientists and political representatives, to define the limits of the country’s nuclear program. Yet, one thing they had in common was the illusion of control—either over the results of their research or the outcome of the negotiations—a slippery slope when political interests are involved.

After the atomic bombing of Japan, Oppenheimer experienced a crisis of conscience and tried to warn American politicians against further nuclear development. He was met with hostility from rivals like Lewis Stauss, who supported nuclear development, as described in the Pulitzer prize-winning biography, American Prometheus: The Triumph and Tragedy of J Robert Oppenheimer: “Oppenheimer gave us atomic fire. But then, when he tried to control it, when he sought to make us aware of its terrible dangers, the powers that-be, like Zeus, rose up in anger to punish him” (Bird and Sherwin 2005, 15).

Iran’s second negotiating team, headed by a former foreign minister, meanwhile, made a successful attempt to break the international consensus against Iran by pledging a transparent nuclear program in return for revoking the threat of UN resolutions and the lifting of sanctions. However, the negotiators faced two serious obstacles: one was the presidency of Donald Trump, who ignored almost every international agreement between the US and the world—JCPOA being one of them—and the second was the position of hardliners in Iran, who scorned the team’s apparent naivety in believing what they saw as US false promises and urged the withdrawal from the deal as an act of retaliation—which did not, however, happen.

In this regard, the rise and fall of Oppenheimer, an expert in a specialized field of theoretical physics to whom the US government turned during a time of crisis, can be said to resemble the fate of the Iranian representatives tasked with breaking the impasse in the nuclear negotiations, in that both Oppenheimer and the Iranian team were subjected to false accusations despite having achieved what they were instructed to do.

The Figure of the Child in Iranian Cinema

Child-centered cinema has been a defining characteristic of neorealist filmmaking from the outset. As Deborah Martin (2019, 15) notes, these features typically include “a focus on the poor and working classes, a concern with social inequality, the use of natural actors and on-location shooting.” This aligns with All Alone, as Ranjero, the protagonist, and his young friends have to work to supplement the family income (although he is depicted doing so in a cheerful, entrepreneurial spirit, rather than as a victim of poverty). Shooting the film on location in Bushehr put this remote area of Iran and the struggles faced by the marginalized communities there in the spotlight. And while the youth playing Ranjero was not a “natural” actor, many of the other children in the film were nonprofessional, contributing to a sense of authenticity.

Two Iranian boys walk along a beach near the Bushehr nuclear power plant in a coastal village on the northern coast of the Persian Gulf. Bushehr is Iran’s first and only active nuclear power plant and was fully operational and connected to the national electricity grid in 2011 after a long history of construction delays and political challenges. ©Morteza Nikoubazl/NurPhoto via Getty Images

 

Martin notes, “where filmmakers wish to denounce injustice or wrong, the child’s gaze is particularly useful, since cinema ‘tends to project into the child a certain ideal of visual neutrality’” (Sophie Dufays, quoted in Martin 2019, 15). What is interesting in the case of All Alone is that the film interjects three scenes from an adult perspective at strategic points in the cinematic narrative to unsettle the “visual neutrality.”

Drawing on Hamid Reza Sadr’s (2002) comments about how depictions of children in the post-revolution cinema of Iran contribute to exposing lived social realities, Anne Patrick Major (2012, 25) notes, “children in Iranian post-revolutionary cinema function empathetically, and by relating to individuals in a way that bypasses national and social belongings, children become a device to produce intercultural meanings.” While this comment refers to the way the spectators empathize with the characters and are thus affectively drawn into the narrative, the “intercultural meaning” generated is also manifested by the way Ranjero and the Russian boy, Oleg, interact with one another despite language barriers.

Major adds, “Sadr goes on to explain that children’s ‘personal troubles tend not to remain personal,’ which implies their existence in the world anterior to a given film is more realistic,” and this is borne out by Ranjero’s incarceration on an Italian ship. The perspectives outlined here thus clarify how “children allow for humanistic empathy despite the presence of national or cultural signifiers that could produce political and ideological readings if inscribed upon an adult,” which can then explain why the effects of nuclear sanctions in Iran are more compellingly presented via a child-centered narrative.

Emmanuel Levinas’ ideas on ethics presented in Totality and Infinity questions the traditional Greek/European notions based on the “ego as the self-conscious knowing subject” (Levinas, quoted in Nojoumian and Nojoumian 2020, 200). Instead, Levinas proposes an ethical system that puts in question the subject’s own ego and as a result is essentially characterized by the other: “one is in a face-to-face relationship with the other, with infinite responsibility” (quoted in Nojoumian and Nojoumian).

Accordingly, the traditional notions of “self,” which ultimately nurture an egotistical subject, are replaced by a concept in which the self is not only defined by and dependent of but also responsible for the other in their very recognition or being. Attempting to further clarify this responsibility, Amir Ali and Amir Hadi Nojoumian explain that children do not feel responsible toward the other out of reciprocity but essentially as the “self’s obligation” (2020, 200), which sees the other as part of the self, thus enabling a relationship between two boys who do not speak each other’s language.

Making the Unseen Visible

What follows is a close analysis of the film All Alone, which helps clarify how children’s portrayal in fiction and film narratives can move beyond stereotypical assumptions and raise questions about the issues that adults find so difficult to approach. There are certain factors that help All Alone express the genuine feelings of children while also engaging effectively with the world of adults, that is, the nuclear negotiations and sanctions. The first is Ranjero’s age: he is an adolescent, about to step into adulthood but still very much in touch with childlike emotions, which puts him in an “in between” position throughout the film.

The second is the character of Olga, one of the engineers working at the Bushehr plant, who becomes the translator between the Oleg and Ranjero and a facilitator of their relationship. In her role as an interpreter of the events of Ranjero’s life to the captain of the ship in Italy where Ranjero was kept in custody as a stowaway, we too are being informed. Yet, as noted by Sadr, because of the affective identification with the child protagonist in a child-centered film, the viewer responds empathetically (like Olga) to the “intercultural meanings” (quoted in Major 2012, 25) of the worldview of Ranjero and Oleg.

Ranjero’s questions about the nuclear talks can be used to address a range of concepts from a child’s perspective. For instance, in “Visible Man or the Culture of Film” (2010), Béla Balzás makes a connection between a child’s point of view and “the secret corners of a room” (quoted in Han and Singer 2021, 4) that are exposed so that the often unseen becomes visible and open to question through the eyes of a child.

In her 1995 novel Ten Is the Age of Darkness, Geta Leseur uses a poignant metaphor to describe the child’s viewpoint as a “forgotten camera in the corner” (quoted in Flockemann 2005, 117), whose presence may not be felt but fulfills its function to observe and record and, in the process, offers an unconscious critique of the adult world (Flockemann 2005, 117). In a much broader sense, Negar Mottahedeh (2005, 342) draws on Sadr to offer a reading of the child figure in Iranian cinematography as an allegory of the restrictions faced by the film industry: “The child can embody spatial positions and emotional states that other filmic characters cannot. The figure of the child, then, allegorically foregrounds the constraints of the film industry under state-guided dictates.”

Challenging the Viewer

Ranjero’s role in the film is to serve as a liminal agent, moving between the children’s and adult worlds to raise new ethical questions regarding Iran’s nuclear program and the controversies surrounding it. His dreams, at the beginning and end of the film, parallel the troubled worldview of the youthful Oppenheimer, which is intriguing in that the physicist’s research can be seen as one source of Ranjero’s anguish. Like the young Oppenheimer, Ranjero is distraught, being stuck on a ship and homesick and crying aloud in his sleep for Heleylah, his hometown. An emotionally immature Ranjero is troubled by visions of a “hidden universe” that he thought he could understand.

What is troubling both Ranjero and Oppenheimer is an apprehension of what is to become of the adult world that, for Ranjero, constitutes “nightmares.” At the end of All Alone we are left with an unanswered question, namely, will Ranjero find a way to overcome the nightmares he has about the future and realize the sweet dreams he hopes for? The open-ended conclusion is deliberately unsettling because Ranjero’s question, posed as a child, offers a challenge to the grown-up viewer.

 

References

All Alone: The Messenger of Peace. Directed by Ehan Abdipour, Edris Abdipour (Studio), 2013.

Bird, Kai, and Martin J. Sherwin. American Prometheus: The Triumph and Tragedy of J. Robbert Oppenheimer. Vintage Books, 2005.

Bushati, Angela. “Children and Cinema: Moving Images of Childhood.” European Journal of Multidisciplinary Studies, Vol. 3, No. 3, 2018, pp. 34–39.

Flockemann, Miki. “Mirrors and Windows: Re-Reading South African Girlhoods as Strategies of Selfhood.” Counterpoints, Vol. 245, 2005, pp. 117–32. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/42978695.

Han, Yunzi, and Christine Singer. “Transformational Identities of Children within Iranian and South African Fiction Films: Ayneh (The Mirror) and Life Above All.” Open Screens, Vol. 4(1), No. 5, 2021 pp. 1–9. https://doi.org/10.16995/os.40.

Major, Anne Patrick. “Bahman Ghobadi’s Hyphenated Cinema: An Analysis of Hybrid Authorial Strategies and Cinematic Aesthetics.” Master’s thesis, University of Texas at Austin, 2012. https://repositories.lib.utexas.edu/items/f1475305-fd95-4a29-adc2-3c2c02812b3c.

Martin, Deborah. The Child in Contemporary Latin American Cinema. Palgrave Macmillan, 2019. https://link.springer.com/book/10.1057/978-1-137-52822-3.

Mottahedeh, Negar. Review of Richard Tapper, ed., The New Iranian Cinema: Politics, Representation, and Identity. Iranian Studies, Vol. 38, No. 2, 2005, pp. 341–44. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/4311731. 

Nojoumian, Amir Ali, and Amir Hadi Nojoumian. “Towards a Poetics of Childhood in Abbas Kiarostami’s Cinema.” In Bernard Wilson and Sharmani Patricia Gabriel, eds., Asian Children’s Literature and Film in a Global Age: Local, National, and Transnational Trajectories. Palgrave Macmillan, 2020, pp. 195-211, https://link.springer.com/chapter/10.1007/978-981-15-2631-2_10.

Sadr, Hamid Reza. “Children in Contemporary Iranian Cinema: When We Were Children.” In R. Tapper, ed., The New Iranian Cinema: Politics, Representation and Identity. I.B. Taurus Publishing, 2002.

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Enhancing Immigrant Integration through Social Connections: An Experimental Study in Sweden

February 7, 2024
By 28006

Olle Hammar’s (Uppsala University, 2020) Sylff Research Grant focused on evaluating a program aimed at promoting social inclusion of immigrants and refugees in Sweden. The project, involving a randomized controlled trial in partnership with an NGO, assessed the impact of contact with natives on immigrants’ social, economic, and cultural integration. Preliminary results suggest potential benefits, including sustained relationships and increased job opportunities for immigrants.

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Introduction

My project on “Social Networks and Immigrant Integration: Experimental Evidence from Sweden,” conducted together with Mounir Karadja and Akib Khan at Uppsala University, seeks to understand and enhance immigrant integration in Sweden, a country known for its progressive social policies but which is now grappling with the challenges of integrating its growing foreign-born population (Statistics Sweden 2019). The project began with a deep interest in understanding immigrant integration in Sweden. Intrigued by the pivotal role social networks can play, we aim to explore the impact of social interactions between immigrants and native Swedes on the integration process.

The study is conducted in partnership with Nya Kompisbyrån (New Friend Agency), a Swedish nongovernmental organization facilitating informal meetings between immigrants and natives in Sweden. Immigrants, predominantly from low- and middle-income countries, are matched with native Swedes, fostering opportunities for language practice, cultural exchange, and network expansion. Through a randomized controlled trial, we assessed the effectiveness of this program.

 

Nya Kompisbyrån operations manager Mardin Baban, left, and Mounir Karadja of Uppsala University’s Department of Economics.

The COVID-19 pandemic posed significant challenges to this project, temporarily forcing participants to shift from direct, in-person interactions to digital meetings. Thankfully, solutions to these challenges were facilitated by the SRG, which allowed for the implementation of a more structured and sustainable survey data collection approach.

Background and Methodology

Sweden has experienced a significant influx of immigrants from diverse backgrounds, and their social and economic integration has become a key issue (Statistics Sweden 2019). Our research focuses on evaluating the effectiveness of social networks in facilitating this integration by working closely with Nya Kompisbyrån, one of the largest NGOs of its kind in Sweden.

In this project, we use a randomized controlled field experiment to evaluate a novel program administered by Nya Kompisbyrån.

The methodology is based on the observation that, since more immigrants than natives sign up for this program, not all immigrants can be matched with a native Swede. As such, our evaluation uses a randomization design where two immigrants are selected as potential matches for each native, based on common interests, gender, and age.

One of the immigrants is randomly assigned to meet with the native, while the other is placed in the control group. Individuals in both groups, as well as the participating native Swedes, were surveyed by an external survey company (co-financed by SRG) during the implementation period between October 2022 and September 2023. Using this data and methodology, we are able to assess the causal effects of contact with natives on immigrants’ social, economic, and cultural integration.

While the data collection phase is now finished, which was the aim of the SRG-funded part of the project, our next step will be to analyze the data and assess the final results. Preliminary findings suggest large potential benefits for the participating immigrants. Most matched pairs continue to meet after their first contact, indicating that a large share of matches results in meaningful and sustained relationships. In addition, many of the job-searching participants indicate that they have received a job or internship through their native Swedish contact. The interactions also seemed to facilitate stronger social networks for participating immigrants.

Adapting to COVID-19

The pandemic posed significant challenges to our original plan of studying in-person meetings between the participants. We adapted to these circumstances by shifting to a more sustainable format of long-term survey data collection, which allowed us to continue our research without compromising the integrity of the participants or the depth of our analysis. The project had to be temporarily suspended when COVID-19 made in-person meetings impracticable, but we were able to continue conducting fieldwork thanks to SRG.

The project will potentially have broad implications for Sweden’s approach to immigrant integration. It examines the importance of social connections and cultural exchange in breaking down barriers and fostering a more inclusive society (Allport 1954). The findings will offer valuable insights for policymakers, demonstrating how initiatives promoting direct social interactions between immigrants and natives can enhance the integration process.

Another contribution of this project is its experimental attempt to evaluate an NGO-driven intervention for immigrant integration. Many NGOs are active in the field of integration across the globe and often have innovative approaches based on voluntary participation, as well as low operating costs (Lundberg et al. 2011). In Sweden, the government identifies civil society as an important actor for integration. Yet, despite public and private investments, there is a lack of knowledge on the causal effects of civil society organizations in this domain (Osanami Törngren et al. 2018). As such, this project also contributes to evaluating civil society’ broader role in immigrant integration.

Both Academic and Practical Benefits

This journey has been both challenging and rewarding. Adapting to the unforeseen circumstances posed by the pandemic while maintaining the integrity of our research project was a significant learning experience. We are very grateful for support from the Sylff Association in helping us quickly adapt to these changed circumstances. The SRG funding was instrumental in the success of this project, enabling us to navigate unforeseen obstacles and contribute significantly to the field. It has also allowed me to continue my collaboration with my research colleagues and the NGO, as well as other actors in the area of immigrant integration in Sweden and abroad.

The project has been pre-accepted for publication in the Journal of Development Economics (Hammar, Karadja, and Khan 2023), based on a pre-results review. This, we believe, is a testament to its academic significance and practical relevance. The insights gained from this research will contribute not only to the academic understanding of immigrant integration but also offer practical insights for NGOs and policymakers on the potential of social networks and informal meetings. It strengthens our belief in the power of simple human connections to bridge cultural divides and enhance societal cohesion.

Our next step will be to analyze and disseminate the final results of this project. Going forward, we will further explore the dynamics of immigrant integration in different cultural and societal contexts. Our research also highlights the need for more innovative approaches to policymaking in the realm of migration and integration.

 

Social integration through coffee?

References

Allport, G.W. 1954. The Nature of Prejudice. Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley.

Hammar, O., Karadja, M., and Khan, A. 2023. “Social Networks and Immigrant Integration: Experimental Evidence from Sweden,” Journal of Development Economics, Accepted (Pre-Results Review).

Lundberg, E., Brundin, P., Amnå, E., and Bozzini, E. 2011. “European Civil Societies and the Promotion of Integration: Leading Practices from Sweden, Great Britain, the Netherlands and Italy.” In Social Rights, Active Citizenship and Governance in the EU. Baden-Baden: Nomos Verlagsgesellschaft.

Osanami Törngren, S., Öberg, K., and Righard, E. 2018. “The Role of Civil Society in the Integration of Newly Arrived Refugees in Sweden.” In Newcomer Integration in Europe: Best Practices and Innovations since 2015.

Statistics Sweden. 2019. “Integration: En beskrivning av läget i Sverige,” Integration 13.

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Credence, Chlorine and Curfew: Doing Ethnography under the Pandemic

July 15, 2021
By 28933

If there is one profound truth about ethnography, it is that intimacy,
and not distancing, is crucial.
(Fine and Abramson 2020, 1)

 

Sara Nikolić, a 2020 Sylff fellow, has had to conduct ethnographic fieldwork under the coronavirus pandemic. In this candid account of how the challenge affected her, emotionally as well as in terms of the course of her research, Nikolić says the experience reinforced her love of ethnography and her belief that it is not interchangeable with other methods.

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Starting fieldwork and facing the most significant academic endeavour in a young researcher‘s life is probably never easy. Starting fieldwork in your neighbourhood may sound like a good idea—only until the first wave of the doubt to your research site, the ability to set boundaries and juggle the insider perspective engulfs you. However, starting fieldwork in a densely populated large housing estate under the “first wave” of a global pandemic never sounded like a good idea.

“The expected delay in collecting data will abort many ethnographies. COVID-19 and its future viral siblings may deter those who would pursue ambitious field studies”. However, my research is not really that ambitious. So I try. In weeks when the number of infected seem to be declining, when everyone around me is healthy and when I manage to overcome typical postgraduate insecurities, I keep trying.

These lines are a testament to my confrontation with the flagrant fact that it is not entirely up to me—that I have chosen to relinquish control. In that sense, this essay is an attempt to become aware, articulate and accept how the coronavirus pandemic has affected the course of my doctoral research. This essay is an intimate confession about waiting and learning patience rather than about concrete adjustments of urban ethnography methodology to the crisis that has befallen us. In the following lines I will try to reconstruct the pandemic induced research challenges that led me to reinforce my love of ethnography and the value-laden belief that it is not interchangeable with other qualitative methods.

Alterations in a two-storey residential unit in blok 70, New Belgrade. Photo: Dušan Rajić

 Strict curfew introduced by the Serbian Government in March 2020 prohibited people over the age of 65 from leaving the house and occasionally prohibiting younger citizens from leaving their homes for up to 84 hours. When a vibrant and pulsating city dies abruptly, when its citizens’ movement is more restricted than during the bombing, little of the urban life remains for us, researchers of the everydayness, to explore. In the COVID-19 urban landscape of Belgrade—and any other city—intimate, in-person human subject research was (unofficially) prohibited, making ethnography an almost impossible method. Not only did conducting research seem impossible to me at the time, but the very idea of denying the situation we were in deeply disturbed me. The repulsion was so strong that it paralysed me even to dare to approach my neighbours, the rare passers-by who enjoy the spring sun, or the “privileged” individuals who were allowed to walk their dogs, with a request to participate in the research that had nothing to do with our current lifeworlds.

 However, hundreds of photographs, dozens of folders, transcripts, voice recordings, several “smell maps” and a few new acquaintances testify that I have not given up. Nevertheless, for senso-biographic approach and focusing on smell-evoked memories of urban environment that form the backbone of my doctoral research, as well as for the informants’ photographic diaries not to become (only) testaments of life under siege by the virus, I had to wait for the “first wave” to come to an end.

 I don’t know what the smell of my building would be, before this, I would probably say mould from the basement or the smell of cigarettes in the elevator, but all I feel now is chlorine. It smells like a kindergarten. (M, blok 45, female)

 One of my main research interests—self-management in socialist era large housing estates—lurked behind every freshly disinfected staircase. Many buildings’ occupants self-organised into weekly or even daily cleanings to keep the entrances and corridors clean and their families or flatmates safe from the virus. In improvised protective equipment consisting of colourful scarves tied over their faces, rubber gloves and old clothes, armed with their buckets, rags, brooms and mops and the last remaining Domestos or any other chlorine-based disinfectant provided by the municipality, these female troops regained control of the space for the benefit of all. As if taking control of the cleaning schedule, maintaining a routine, following the prescribed steps and performing it together for a moment made the situation outside seem less uncertain.

Bestowing details of these events I recognised as an initiation into the house council simply seemed too intrusive. I hesitated and refused to keep a journal record about self-organized cleaning episodes and to reiterate muffled staircase gossip I overheard during these rites of passage. It almost felt treacherous as in a moment of crisis I perceived my role in the apartment building as a tenant, a neighbour and a girl next door—rather than a cold, rigid and objective researcher.

Therefore, a fellow researcher reading this essay could assume that the research’s explicit part—such as interviews—went better than sketching notes and palpation of the neighbourhood pulse based on informal encounters. A reader could also assume that I, being a girl next door, had no trouble recruiting my neighbours. However, that assumption would be wrong. The fact that I lived close by and was a few minutes’ walk from them, that I was a friendly face they saw on their evening strolls was simply not enough. Nor was the fact that I knew some mutual friends and shared the local references. Lastly, the incentives that I could offer under the Sylff fellowship were irrelevant and insufficient. None of that matters when the danger from an infection is so tangible, and your family members are chronically ill, or you are pregnant or homeschooling your children, or someone close to you has passed away. And on my part, as a vulnerable and empathetic researcher, I could not give up the contacts I built under those trying circumstances and the trust I gained. To this day, I haven’t been able to use some deadline as an argument to recruit new, healthy, childless or carefree informants instead of ones who expressed interest and indicated trust, but their participation was postponed due to objective circumstances.

Ethnographic kit under COVID-19. Photo: Sara Nikolić

As a trained ethnographer, I learned about great heroes who went into the wilderness, who “through toughness and perseverance . . . overcome entry barriers”. I, of course, looked up to them. I too wanted to become a hero who overcame the ethnographic odds.

The reality is that I was anxious, frustrated, and impatient. I envied colleagues who enjoyed moments of privilege where they “finally have time to write”. The rising academic pressure, the “figure-it-out-on-your-own” University policy, the “just send me any chapter you have, and we will count it an exam” helping hand of my professors, the crowdsourced documents that offer solutions for “avoiding in-person interactions by using mediated forms that will achieve similar ends” seemed to conflict with the immersion aspect of ethnography I strived for.

These attempts to stay loyal to the ethnography I believe in bring along many pursuits to establish contact with potential respondents, many cancelled or indefinitely postponed meetings, many unanswered calls and messages, and too many sympathetic shrugs. Moments of elation are quickly followed by ones of letdown and despair. I try to push forward. Sometimes I slip or get lost along the way. Sometimes I try to fix it, reinvent my entry strategy, and rely on snowballing instead of a more organic approach. Seeing that I am only halfway in the process of collecting “the deep data”, I cannot refer to the quality and density of the obtained material.

Working version of the “smell map” of Blok 45, New Belgrade. Source: Sara Nikolić

 We will take a walk outside, in the fresh air and try to grasp your neighbourhood’s smells, and we will both wear masks. It does not interfere with the quality of the recording—I often explain to my potential informants. Smell mapping while wearing (K)N95 masks, however, does not really work. Instead of fleeting but current and vivid neighbourhood smells that we could not detect while wearing masks, during our strolls we frequently evoked childhood memories intertwined with the ubiquitous scents of the area, such as linden blossom or sludge.

Ding dong! The sound of footsteps, the unlocking of doors and clumsy contactless greetings. Just there, I would usually insist on taking off my shoes, as is the epidemiological recommendation and custom in this area. Furthermore, as good hosts, as an expression of respect for the guest, they would insist that I leave the shoes on. After those initial negotiations at the front door, I would get a bottle of alcohol to disinfect my shoes and mobile phone upon entering the apartment. And then, still from a distance, a hand gesture to signal in which direction the toilet is so that I can wash my hands before the interview. When the weather was nice, we would spend visits to the apartment on the balconies or with the windows open, sitting within a reasonable distance.

On a sunny September day, when everything was going at a good pace, the unglamorous and petty disappointment came. It was caused by an informant’s rejection to invite me into his apartment for the final interview, although it was agreed in advance. Of course, I did not let the injured ego peek outside, so I played it cool. However, I was still ashamed of my feelings, of the vanity that flooded me. Why did I take it so personally? Wasn’t I the one who told him he has the right to give up at any moment and set boundaries in which he feels comfortable and safe? How could I not have understood the respect he had for advised physical distance? Have I forgotten that I am not merely a researcher but a possible vector too?

Object elicitation and disinfection in the informant’s apartment. Photo: Sara Nikolić

 Although I do not attach half the importance to this episode today as I did on that September day, it encouraged me to think about how many people passed through my apartment from March to September? Very few, and I knew them all. I trust them. I know how responsible they are, how much they follow all the recommendations, how much they care and how much they are in solidarity with the people around them. Is it possible that I was so upset because I interpreted this man’s responsibility or privacy as distrust? So what if he was distrustful? Don’t we all have the right to be distrustful at a time when we are in danger from an “unknown enemy”, when the media is co-opting military rhetoric, when contradictory information and mutually exclusive recommendations are coming from all sides? Aren’t we, citizens of a country that declared coronavirus “the most ridiculous virus in the world”, and shortly afterwards deprived us of freedom of movement, justifiably distrustful towards anything and anyone? Amidst growing distrust that surrounds us, how can we closely and intimately research something as personal as home, something as inseparable from issues of trust as community relations and self-organization?

 Much as we might adapt our research plans to alternative methods in the current crisis and agree to data-oriented techniques such as structured interviews, we must not forget the importance of the immersive experience and deep hanging out for ethnography. As this crisis helped me rediscover that ethnography is not interchangeable with other qualitative methods, I realised that the pragmatic choice to take time was ideological. The choice that was the only possible one, and the one that I needed—to embrace the vulnerable researcher within me and remain faithful to ethnography at the cost of breaking deadlines and delaying my studies. The choice to advocate for slow science. A science that is not an end in itself, a science that is not cruel and does not require sacrifices or preposterous heroic deeds, a science that does not exploit or endanger the subjects under study. That is science based on questioning and building trust instead of taking it for granted.


Reprinted from https://www.ijurr.org/spotlight-on/becoming-an-urban-researcher-during-a-pandemic/credence-chlorine-and-curfew-doing-ethnography-under-the-pandemic/

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When It Comes to Sustaining Community Relationships, Small Businesses Are Not Small

June 1, 2021
By 28958

In this thought-provoking essay, 2002 Sylff fellow Patrick Kabanda advocates for small businesses like local dry cleaners. These mom-and-pop establishments play an outsized role in the community, says Kabanda, contributing to the well-being and cohesion of people and neighborhoods. But public relief programs have been less than successful at keeping these businesses afloat in the time of COVID-19.

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Small businesses such as dry cleaners keep our communities healthy and sustain the harmony of our public life. But unfortunately, many of them have had to close down due to the COVID-19 pandemic.
Photo by Mikes-Photography from Pixabay

Among the many valuable lessons I learned as a music student, besides analyzing how the harmony of meaningful relationships works, was that the dry cleaning expenses for my concert clothing could be tax deductible; by the way, the tax code for artists, at least in the United States, can be complicated to a degree more than many of us would care to know.[1] And so, although it was customary in my native Uganda to iron clothes personally, knowing that my dry cleaning could be tax deductible has, in a way, always been an incentive to visit the dry cleaners—never mind that I’m not that religious about keeping the receipts.

When I moved to the Washington, DC area in 2014 (I never thought I’d stay this long), I kept my routine: one of the first places I searched was where I could do my dry cleaning. As I quickly discovered, from state to state, city to city, town to town, many such small businesses are usually family owned and operated by immigrants. As an immigrant myself, I often strike up conversations with attendants, and to my delight, they often reciprocate, as they are curious to know how I got into music. In terms of social capital, we get to bond in a way that otherwise wouldn’t have happened.

My most recent dry cleaner got to know me so well that whenever I showed up to pick up my clothes, she wouldn’t even need to check my phone number or my name. She would simply press a green buzzer on a machine that appears as if it’s supporting a thick forest of apparel, and my clothes would appear as if by magic from the thicket, well pressed, looking and smelling new. And if there were no other customers in line we confabulated for a while before I paid and left.

Then came COVID.

When the pandemic hit the globe, for months I never needed to go to my dry cleaner, nor did I give it much thought. But when things started to slowly reopen, I thought, “Well, some of those shirts with sweat from Zoom meetings could use a good clean.” So I went to my dry cleaner in early December 2020. But instead of being excited to see my friend, when our eyes met, we both were awash in sadness. For there was a sign in big red letters in front of her shop announcing that the business was closing.

As I tried to make sense of this, my friend said that the landlord couldn’t afford to keep reducing the rent, and with all the customers they’d lost during the pandemic, the dry cleaners had no choice but to close. What about those billions from the Paycheck Protection Program, which, as the pandemic raged, were supposed to keep millions of small businesses afloat?[2] It’s complicated.

There’s word that dozens of large restaurant chains, thanks to the restaurant industry’s lobbying efforts, somehow became eligible for relief that was intended for small businesses. There’s word that the money wasn’t shared evenly, because, as many had suspected from the very beginning, the biggest sums went to a tiny minority of the businesses in need; that is, “a mere 1 percent of the program’s 5.2 million borrowers” seeking over $1 million “received more than a quarter of the $523 billion disbursed.”[3] And there’s word that the haphazard nature in which the rules were poorly designed, coupled with the program’s hasty rollout, was an invitation to fraudsters; indeed, by the end of 2020, the US Justice Department had made “at least 41 criminal complaints in federal court against nearly 60 people, who collectively took $62 million from the Paycheck Protection Program,” as the American journalist Stacy Cowley has reported.[4]

After absorbing all that, I asked my dry cleaner if I could interview her for this story. She was reluctant to talk, because she feared her English wasn’t good enough, not to mention that she was concerned for her privacy. But eventually she agreed on the condition that I wouldn’t use her real name or the name and location of the shop. And so, let’s call her Anna, and her shop Da Capo Dry Cleaners.

Anna, a petite soft-spoken woman who is married and has a son in his late thirties, came to the United States from South Korea in the early 1980s. She got into the dry-cleaning business a few years thereafter. She has worked at Da Capo Dry Cleaners for more than 12 years. Although there’s an older lady who would occasionally come in on Saturdays for about four to five hours to help, Anna worked alone most of the time, all day long. “Nobody bothers me,” said Anna, who rarely, if ever, took a sick day off. It’s happy, responsible work, she added. If items were cleaned off-site, she would check and fix anything that looked amiss; for what kept her happy was to give a customer something nice. “Some people don’t work like me, because they don’t know how I do it,” she said. “I’m a very experienced, long-time cleaner, and if I see something bad, oh my gosh! I don’t know, I have to fix something bad, I have to fix.”

It’s little wonder that when asked what she is going to miss the most, she said it was the people, her customers. “How are you going to miss them,” I asked. “Ha ha ha,” her face beamed. “You know,” she added, as she recounted recent gifts from her customers, and I paraphrase: Some people have brought me cake, some people have given me money—she pulled out a crisp twenty-dollar bill to show me—some person, a candle and chocolate; one person brought a flower, another person yesterday gave me fifty dollars. But the gifts aside, she concluded that the interactions with her customers and their compliments for her meticulous service were irreplaceable.

In terms of public policy, what has been much debated is the need to save these mom-and-pops for the commerce and jobs they sustain. Rightly so. Nevertheless, although these businesses are small, what’s missing is the value of the important relationships they foster in our communities. In the West, where loneliness is taking such a toll to the point that in 2018 the UK government appointed a Minister for Loneliness,[5] there’s especially a need to consider how the closure of small businesses has affected communities since COVID swept the globe.

It’s encouraging that discussions are being held[6] on how the pandemic is impacting mental health.[7] But if we understand that—from health and community to jobs and relationships—these issues are interconnected, helping small businesses is bigger than helping them weather the worst in terms of commerce and job losses. Their contribution to our well-being could mean that they should also be supported on the basis of how they glue neighborhoods together, how they keep communities healthy, and how they sustain the harmony of our public life. That, in a way, could help open up resources and collaborations between and within governmental and nongovernmental agencies to deal with a wide range of challenges, including speedily crafting policies that are less susceptible to exploitation and fraud. It could also encourage continuous “systems thinking,”[8] rigorous interdisciplinary research, and ample cross-cultural analysis.

In New York, where I studied music at Juilliard, a New York Times editorial titled “They Offered Us Comfort and Normalcy. Now They Need Our Help.” concluded as follows: “In the darkest days of the pandemic this year, it was New York’s small businesses—its coffee shops and restaurants, groceries and bakeries—that remained open, serving up comfort and normalcy to millions who sorely needed them. Now they need our help in return.”[9]

Many small businesses across the world—in New York City alone, over 230,000 of them employ roughly 1.3 million people[10]—undoubtedly need our help now. How cities, states, and countries are going to successfully do this will certainly vary from place to place. That help, as in the case of New York, can run from “giving them direct federal aid and access to inexpensive capital” to cutting “onerous red tape” that complicates their work.[11] Also, subsidizing rent for struggling mom-and-pops until they’re back on their feet could be considered from country to country.

As Ray Oldenburg writes in his book The Great Good Place, “third places”—cafés, hair salons, dry cleaners, and the like—are “essential for the health both of our communities and ourselves.”[12] Once we take that argument to heart, we’re more likely to see small businesses not just as businesses, but also as part and parcel of the well-being of our society, especially during a global pandemic. Anna and I couldn’t agree more.

[1] Amy Sohn, “How the Tax Code Hurts Artists,” New York Times, April 1, 2015, https://www.nytimes.com/2015/04/01/opinion/how-the-tax-code-hurts-artists.html.

[2] Stacy Cowley and Ella Koeze, “1 Percent of P.P.P. Borrowers Got over One-Quarter of the Loan Money,” New York Times, December 2, 2020, updated February 1, 2021, https://www.nytimes.com/2020/12/02/business/paycheck-protection-program-coronavirus.html.

[3] Cowley and Koeze.

[4] Stacy Cowley, “Spotting $62 Million in Alleged P.P.P. Fraud Was the Easy Part,” New York Times, August 28, 2020, updated December 2, 2020, https://www.nytimes.com/2020/08/28/business/ppp-small-business-fraud-coronavirus.html.

[5] Ceylan Yeginsu, “U.K. Appoints a Minister for Loneliness,” New York Times, January 17, 2018,

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/17/world/europe/uk-britain-loneliness.html; Grace Birnstengel, “What Has the U.K.’s Minister of Loneliness Done to Date?” Next Avenue, January 17, 2020, https://www.nextavenue.org/uk-minister-of-loneliness/.

[6] Kira M. Newman, “Seven Ways the Pandemic Is Affecting Our Mental Health,” Greater Good Magazine, August 11, 2020, https://greatergood.berkeley.edu/article/item/seven_ways_the_pandemic_is_affecting_our_mental_health.

[7] Bilal Javed et al., “The Coronavirus (COVID‐19) Pandemic’s Impact on Mental Health,” International Journal of Health Planning and Management 35, no. 5 (2020): 993–96, https://doi.org/10.1002/hpm.3008.

[8] Zeynep Tufekci, “Using ‘Systems Thinking’ to Make Sense of the World, from Pandemics to Politics,” interview by Meghna Chakrabarti, On Point, WBUR 90.9 FM, February 25, 2021, https://www.wbur.org/onpoint/2021/02/25/zeynep-systems-thinking-to-make-sense-of-the-world-from-pandemics-to-politics.

[9] The Editorial Board, “They Offered Us Comfort and Normalcy. Now They Need Our Help.,” New York Times, December 5, 2020, https://www.nytimes.com/2020/12/05/opinion/nyc-small-businesses-covid.html.

[10] The Editorial Board; The Partnership for New York City, “‘NYC Small Business Resource Network’ Launch,” September 30, 2020, https://pfnyc.org/news/nyc-small-business-resource-network-launch/.

[11] The Editorial Board.

[12] Ray Oldenburg, The Great Good Place: Cafés, Coffee Shops, Bookstores, Bars, Hair Salons, and Other Hangouts at the Heart of a Community (Cambridge, MA: Da Capo Press, 1999), fourth cover.

 

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Multi-Dimensional Challenges, Multi-Sectoral Innovations: The Resilience of Common Forest Management in Japan

June 22, 2020
By 26719

Yance Arizona[1] is a 2011 Sylff fellow from the University of Indonesia and currently a PhD candidate at Leiden University in the Netherlands. Using an SRA award, he visited the Osaka University of Tourism in Japan and the University of New South Wales in Australia to sharpen the comparative elements of his research on customary land recognition in Indonesia. In this article, he focuses on lessons learned about the resilience of common forest management in Japan by discussing the challenges and innovations of state and nonstate actors.

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Community-based forest management has a long history in rural Japan. Since the Edo period (1603–1868), rural communities have shared their collective land and labor to maintain forest and other natural resources for self-sufficiency. This model of natural resource practice is known as common forest management. The common forest, called iriai in Japanese, became integrated into the traditional village system.[2] The membership of iriai common forest groups is embedded in that of traditional Japanese villages (mura). However, common forest management has slowly changed over time due to internal and external factors since Japan entered the industrial revolution. This article discusses several challenges concerning the current practice of common forest management in Japan. I also reveal several initiatives by the government and citizens to restore collaborative forest management and to renew interest in rural development. The analysis in this article is based on interviews, literature studies, and observations conducted in two rural areas in Japan during my Sylff Research Abroad (SRA) fellowship in November and December 2019.

 

What Is the Common Forest in Japan?

Many scholars have used the iriai forest or common forest in Japan as an illustrative example of potential community-based management as an alternative to private property ownership and an extractive model of natural resource management (Mitsumata and Murata 2007; Berge and McKean 2015). For a long time, the rural population in Japan has collectively engaged in agricultural activities in shared communal land by planting trees, especially sugi and pine, to meet their daily needs. Iriai groups have collectively cleared, planted, maintained, and harvested forest products to provide mutual benefits among the members. The membership of the common forest group was initially based on the membership of a village. Since the Japanese government installed modern development programs, primarily through the Meiji Restoration (1868), many traditional concepts, laws, and activities have slightly changed. In the following section, I will discuss five concerns about recent developments in common forest management in Japan.

Five Challenges of Common Forest Management

The common forest practice in Japan faces multidimensional challenges. Here I will briefly discuss five major challenges of the common forest in Japan, including demographic, economic, environmental, institutional, and regulatory factors.[3] Firstly, legal uncertainty leads to misrecognition and disputes among iriai rights holders (regulatory factor). During the Meiji era (1868–1912), Japan’s Civil Code began to take effect. The Civil Code is a mark that Japan began incorporating a modern legal system inspired by the German and French legal traditions (Kanamori, 1999). Regarding the property right regime, the modern Civil Code strictly divides land property into private and public properties (Suzuki, 2013: 67–86). In short, private property is in the ownership of individual citizens, whereas public property belongs to the state or other public bodies. This dichotomy leads to uncertainty regarding the legal status of iriai forests because the iriai model cannot be categorized as either private or public property. As a result, Article 263 of the Civil Code considers the common forest to be in the co-ownership of a group of citizens. By contrast, Article 294 stipulates iriai as the right of the local population to use state land or forest. Neither of these articles represents the original model of iriai forest rights, which combine communal and individual land ownership.

Misrecognition of the legal status of the common forest in the Civil Code generates ambiguity in land registration practices. Iriai rights holders have to register their common land and forest under “nominal names” on behalf of other legal entities. Gakuto Takumura (2019) demonstrates six models of how iriai rights holders register their communal land rights. These six models of adaptation to the modern land administration system appear in the registration of a common forest on behalf of other legal entities, such as (a) a leader of a village, (b) several leaders of a village, (c) all household heads in a village, (d) a shrine or temple of a village, (e) a new municipality, or (f) a district, a cooperative, or an authorized community association. Registering the iriai right under nominal names has occasionally caused legal disputes among the iriai rights holders. One case that received much attention in Japan was the Kotsunagi case, which took decades for the courts to settle (Inoue and Shivakoti 2015).

 

The author gives a guest lecture on customary forests and tourism in Japan and Indonesia at the Osaka University of Tourism. Detailed information can be found at https://www.tourism.ac.jp/news/cat3/5810.html.

The second concern is government imposition of the modernization of iriai forest management (institutional factor). Besides the legal status, another institutional challenge to the iriai forest is the modernization of the rural administrative system. In the early period of the Meiji era, the Japanese government announced a policy to modernize village governments. The modernization of village government affects iriai forest management because iriai group membership was traditionally based on membership in a traditional Japanese village. This challenge parallels the general trend in rural Japan to merge villages rather than splitting them into several smaller villages. When two or more villages are merged, a question arises regarding the ownership and membership of iriai rights, whether it still belongs to the initial village that has merged or it becomes the co-ownership of the new village union.

Another striking policy by the Japanese government to modernize iriai forest management is the Modernization of the Common Forest Act of 1966 (Takahashi and Matsushita 2015). This act intended to transform traditional common forest practices into modern forest management. However, the implementation of this act did not result in a uniform model of forest management; instead, the act has been adopted in different models of forest management depending on the social conditions of iriai rights holders. Research by Daisaku Shimada (2014) revealed how rural communities in the Yamaguni district in Kyoto adapted to the Modernization of Common Forest Act and other external influences, such as population change and the timber liberalization policy in securing common forest management. Rural communities modify their common forest institution to allow migrants to be members of new forest management boards.

The third challenge is depopulation and urbanization (demographic factor). In contemporary Japan, depopulation and urbanization are central issues in the debate on rural development. Japanese society is experiencing depopulation because of a low birthrate and an aging population. At the same time, the urbanization level is dramatically high. Many young people move away to live in urban areas, leaving the rural areas mainly inhabited by older generations. Depopulation and urbanization affect the membership and decision-making process in common forest management. The membership of iriai forest groups shrinks as some of the members move to the city or elsewhere, causing a reduction of the workforce in the management of the common forest. In the past, iriai rights holders lived permanently in a village. When someone moved to other villages, his or her rights to the iriai forest vanished. Today, some people consider their rights to remain valid even when they have moved to other villages. Another problem in terms of people’s mobility concerns the decision-making process in common forest management. Traditionally, iriai rights holders decide on common forest management through a consensual agreement among the group members (Goto 2007). If a member of the iriai group is not involved or disagrees with the majority opinion, it means that the group has not reached a consensual decision. Currently, some iriai groups apply flexible categorization to their common forest membership by including newcomers to the board and involving them in the decision-making process. The lack of a clear decision-making process and a shrinking workforce have led to the underuse of iriai forests in several places in rural Japan.

The fourth problem is the timber liberalization policy (economic factor). In the 1960s, the Japanese government introduced a timber trade liberalization policy to support industrial development. This policy increased timber import from other countries, mainly from the United States, Russia, and Southeast Asian countries. As a result, this strategy decreased the competitiveness of domestic timber production and the economic value of wood, which has been the core commodity of common forests. Before the timber liberalization policy, the common forest supplied wood for building houses, offices, castles, and temples, as well as for making furniture, and provided firewood for cooking and heating. From the 1960s onward, as the country entered a period of rapid economic growth, Japan replaced the use of wood with other resources. The use of concrete and steel is more dominant for residential buildings and offices, and the use of fossil fuels in place of firewood is increasingly widespread. In addition, to meet domestic wood demand, the Japanese government no longer relies on domestic supplies and relies instead on imported wood. This timber import policy devastated Japan’s domestic timber production and market. Consequently, the core business of iriai forests, that of meeting domestic wood demand, has gradually declined. Lack of productive activities in rural areas also became one of the drivers for rural people to move to big cities.

 

Together with a group of postgraduate students from Kyoto University, the author visits a private forest in Kawakami Mura, Nara Prefecture. This forest site is the oldest planted forest in Japan.

The final concern relates to land degradation (environmental factor). Iriai rights holders maintain the common forest by growing supporting plants around the main trees. These plants support soil fertility and provide economic benefits to farmers. However, due to the shortage of labor to maintain the common forest, conifer plantations are left unmaintained. At first glance, this condition looks good for conservation, because forests are left green and trees grow for long periods. But apparently, this is not suitable for the healthy growth of the main trees because they are in competition with the shrubbery. Moreover, unmanaged conifer plantations cause frequent landslides in rural areas. These disasters are compounded by the typhoon and earthquake catastrophes that often occur in Japan. This environmental vulnerability is not only the cause but also the result of underutilization of the common forests.

Revitalization Movements

The revitalization of common forest management in Japan corresponds with an attempt to improve rural livelihoods. The Japanese government and nongovernmental organizations engage in rural development, including the revival of common forest management. The Japanese government, through the Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications, implements a program to increase the interest of urban residents, either Japanese citizens or immigrants, in living in rural areas. These people from different locations assist rural community members in meeting their basic needs, especially related to health and livelihood. Moreover, the Japanese government promotes a “forest volunteer program” to attract people’s interest in getting involved in forest restoration activities. Forest volunteers are individuals other than forest owners or those with a direct interest, who participate in on-site work necessary for forest management in response to the critical state of the forests. Shinji Yamamoto (2003) found that the forest volunteer program has been generating a positive impact on drawing urban people’s interest in forestry activities. This program began in the 1970s and has since spread across the country. According to Japan’s Forestry Agency, the number of citizens’ organisations that have participated in forest volunteer activities was 2,677 as of 2010 (Yamamoto 2003). 

Nonprofit organizations and universities also run several programs to enhance the interest of young generations regarding rural livelihood and environmental management. A crucial example is the kikigaki program. Literally, kikigaki consists of the words kiki (“listening”) and gaki (“writing”). The kikigaki program encourages young people to take an interest in the stories of local people. Kikigaki is a learning method for understanding someone’s life story through direct dialogue. Since 2002, high schools in Japan have adopted the kikigaki method to raise students’ awareness of societal problems faced by rural communities (Effendi 2019). Due to the increase in global attention toward environmental issues, the kikigaki program also covers environmental education for children. Environmental issues allow students to get involved in the revitalization of common forest management. The kikigaki program initially developed in Japan and spread out to other countries, such as Indonesia. I interviewed Motoko Shimagami, who is developing kikigaki programs in both Japan and Indonesia. According to Shimagami, youth involvement is an essential factor in improving rural livelihood and sustainable environmental management. Several years ago, Shimagami conducted a comparative study of common forest management between Indonesia and Japan (Shimagami 2009) and found that similar methods of revitalization of the common forest through the education of high school students are pivotal in both countries.

 

Matsutake Crusaders, a voluntary group dominated by elders who gather every week to maintain a hill landscape, creating a suitable condition for matsutake mushrooms to grow.

Another initiative that I have seen in Japan is the ecovillage network. An ecovillage is an intentional, traditional, or urban community that is consciously designed through locally owned participatory processes encompassing social, cultural, ecological, and economic dimensions to regenerate social and natural environments.[4] In 2013, I visited the Konohana Family ecovillage in Shizuoka Prefecture. This ecovillage is part of a worldwide ecovillage network. The Konohana Family, though it calls itself a family, consists of 100 members who are not of the same blood. They live in rural areas and cultivate collective agricultural land. With the spirit of “togetherness” as a family, they fulfill basic needs through collective land management. During my visit to Japan with the support of the SRA fellowship program, I visited the Matsutake Crusaders in the northern part of Kyoto. This group consists of more than 30 retirees who gather once a week to engage in collaborative natural resource management. They nurture matsutake, a wild mushroom typical of Japan that has high economic and cultural values (Tsing 2015). They voluntarily cut some pine wood as a precondition to creating a suitable environment for matsutake to grow. Professor Fumihiko Yoshimura, the leader of this group, said that although this initiative is different from the iriai rights model, they called it a satoyama movement. The satoyama concept in landscape management combines forest and agricultural activities, mainly in hill areas. Currently, many rural communities in Japan are involved in satoyama movements (Satsuka 2014). In another location, a study by Haruo Saito and Gaku Mitsumata (2008) shows the integration of matsutake production with traditional iriai land use in Oka Village, Kyoto Prefecture.

This article has illustrated five major challenges of common forest management in Japan. These challenges are responded to with a variety of innovations by the government and nongovernment organizations to help the common forest practices survive in supporting rural livelihood. These innovations to revitalize community-based natural resource management have been developed with various narratives such as environmental movements, rural livelihood supports, family and community orientation projects, and voluntary civic education. Although rural communities have encountered serious challenges since Japan entered industrial development, villagers continue to maintain the common forest with some modifications. Villagers demonstrate the resilience of common forest management by taking an inclusive approach that includes migrants in the board membership of common forest management and by involving themselves in broader networks of community-based natural resource movements. Community resilience is the crucial factor in common forest management in Japan.

 

References

Berge, Erling, and Margaret Mckean. 2015. “On the Commons of Developed Industrialized Countries.” International Journal of the Commons 9, no. 2 (September 2015): 469–85.

Effendi, Tonny Dian. 2019. “Local Wisdom-based Environmental Education through Kikigaki Method: Japan Experience and Lesson for Indonesia.” IOP Conference Series: Earth and Environmental Science 239: 012038. https://doi.org/10.1088/1755-1315/239/1/012038.

Goto, Kokki. 2007. “‘Iriai Forests Have Sustained the Livelihood and Autonomy of Villagers’: Experience of Commons in Ishimushiro Hamlet in Northeastern Japan.” Working Paper Series No. 30. Afrasian Centre for Peace and Development Studies, Ryukoku University.

Inoue, Makoto, and Ganesha P. Shivakoti. 2015. Multi-level Forest Governance in Asia: Concepts, Challenges and the Way Forward. India: Sage Publication.

Kanamori, Shigenari. 1999. “German Influences on Japanese Pre-War Constitution and Civil Code.” European Journal of Law and Economics 7, no. 93–95. https://doi.org/10.1023/A:1008688209052.

Mitsumata, Gaku, and Takeshi Murata. 2007. “Overview and Current Status of the Iriai (Commons) System in the Three Regions of Japan: From the Edo Era through the Beginning of the 21st Century.” Discussion Paper No. 07-04. Kyoto: Multilevel Environmental Governance for Sustainable Development Project.

Miyanaga, Kentaro, and Daisaku Shimada. 2018. “‘The Tragedy of the Commons’ by Underuse: Toward a Conceptual Framework Based on Ecosystem Services and Satoyama Perspective.” International Journal of the Commons 12, no. 1: 332–51.

Saito, Haruo, and Gaku Mitsumata. 2008. “Bidding Customs and Habitat Improvement for Matsutake (Tricholoma matsutake) in Japan.” Economic Botany 62, no. 3: 257–68.

Satsuka, Shiho. 2014. “The Satoyama Movement: Envisioning Multispecies Commons in Postindustrial Japan.” In Asian Environments: Connections across Borders, Landscapes, and Times, RCC Perspectives, no. 3: 87–94.

Shimagami, Motoko. 2009. “An Iriai Interchange Linking Japan and Indonesia: An Experiment in Interactive Learning and Action Leading toward Community-Based Forest Management.” Working Paper Series No. 46. Afrasian Centre for Peace and Development Studies, Ryukoku University.

Suzuki, Tatsuya. 2013 “The Custom and Legal Theory of Iriai in Japan: A History of the Discourse on the Position of the Rights of Common in the Modern Legal System.” In Local Commons and Democratic Environmental Governance, edited by Takeshi Murota and Ken Takeshita. Tokyo-New York-Paris: United Nations University Press.

Takahashi, Takuya, and Koji Matsushita. 2015. “How Did Policy Intervention Work Out for Commons Forests in Japan? An Analysis of Time-Series Prefectural Data.” Paper in the IASC Conference 2015 Edmonton W23 (2015-5-27).

Takamura, Gakuto. 2019. “The Bundle of Rights Model to Explain the Underuse of Japanese Common Forest from History.” Presentation in Asian Law and Society Association (ALSA) Conference, Osaka Univesity, December 12–15, 2019.

Tsing, Anna L. 2015. The Mushroom at the End of the World: On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruin. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Yamamoto, Shinji. 2003. “Forest Volunteer Activity in Japan.” In Local Commons and Democratic Environmental Governance, edited by Takeshi Murota and Ken Takeshita. Tokyo–New York–Paris: United Nations University Press. 287–302.

 

 

 

[1] I would like to express my gratitude to Professor Sozaburo Mitamayama (Osaka University of Tourism) for his hospitality and assistance during my research visit in Japan. I am also thankful for a series of insightful discussions that I have had with Motoko Shimagami (Ehime University), Gaku Mitsumata (Hyogo University), Gakuto Takamura (Ritsumeikan University), and Mamoru Kanzaki and Daisuke Naito (Kyoto University), and for the fruitful comments by Hoko Horri (Leiden University) for this article.

[2] In this article, the terms “common forest” and “iriai forest” are used interchangeably.

[3] See also Kentaro Miyanaga and Daisaku Shimada (2018), who identify three main driving factors that lead to the underuse of common forests in Japan: demographic drivers, socioeconomic drivers, and institutional drivers.

[4] See. https://ecovillage.org/projects/what-is-an-ecovillage/