University of Victoria Volume 6/7 ~ Fall 2005

RAL REFLECCULTURAL RL REFLECTIO

TIONS CULT

CulCulCulCulCultural Reflectionstural Reflectionstural Reflectionstural Reflectionstural ReflectionsJournal of the Graduate students of Anthropology

CulCulCulCulCultural Reflectionstural Reflectionstural Reflectionstural Reflectionstural Reflections

Journal of the GraduJournal of the GraduJournal of the GraduJournal of the GraduJournal of the Graduaaaaate Students of Anthropolte Students of Anthropolte Students of Anthropolte Students of Anthropolte Students of Anthropologyogyogyogyogy

PublisherUniversity of VictoriaDepartment of AnthropologyGraduate Students

Managing EditorsVanessa Di CenzoAndrea GemmillCynthia KorpanMichelle Rogers

Cover PhotosAndrea GemmillAnita Maberly

DesignAnita Maberlyanita.maberly@gmail.com

Publication of this issue of

CulCulCulCulCultural Reflectionstural Reflectionstural Reflectionstural Reflectionstural Reflections

would not be possible without the generous financialsupport of the following University of Victoria

sponsors:

Office of the Vice-President Research

Faculty of Graduate Studies

Faculty of Social Science

Department of Anthropology

Graduate Students’ Society

MISSION: Cultural Reflections is a peer-reviewed journal organized by anthropology graduate students.We accept anthropologically-relevant submissions from all university and college students on VancouverIsland, on a Call for Papers basis. Cultural Reflections strives to be a participatory publicaiton offering anopportunity for students to participate fully in the peer-review, evaluation and publishing process. TheEditors seek scholarly contributions including articles, reviews, and field notes, covering diverse topicsand issues from all four anthropology sub-disciplines: archaeology, cultural, physical and linguistic an-thropology.

Every attempt is made to publish Cultural Reflections (ISSN 1492-4293) annually. General enquiriesmay be forwarded to: Managing Editor, Cultural Reflections, University of Victoria, Department of An-thropology, Cornett Bldg, Room 214, PO Box 3050, Stn CSC, Victoria, B.C. V8W 3P5. Copyright 2005by Univeversity of Victoria Department of Anthropology Graduate Students. All rights reserved. No part ofthis publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,without written permission from the publisher. Opinions expressed by individual authors are not necessar-ily those of Cultural Reflections, the Department of Anthropology, or the University of Victoria. All au-thors retaint he right to republish their material. The Editors assume responsibility for typographical er-rors.

Cultural Reflections is a peer review journal produced by thegraduate students in the Department of Anthropology at theUniversity of Victoria. Cultural Reflections covers diversetopics and issues from all four anthropology sub-disciplines:archaeology, cultural, physical and linguistic anthropology.We invite submissions from all graduate students fromvarious disciplines at the University of Victoria, as well asfrom undergraduate Anthropology students from VancouverIsland colleges and universities.

Submissions for publication fall into the following categories:- Papers/Articles: maximum 20 pages, double-spaced, including notes and references.- Reviews of books, conferences or speakers: maximum 7 pages, double-spaced.- “Field Notes” consisting of thoughts, experiences, short articles, or diary snippets from field-work experiences: Maximum 7 pages, double spaced.- Image based work, in single or essay form: Include captions and relevant text.

Editors of the publication are responsible for:- soliciting submissions- coordinating peer review process- returning reviewed papers to the authors and

providing editorial feedback- formatting finalized articles into journal form- coordinating printing process- mail out to Canadian Universities and subscribers- managing Cultural Reflections account- soliciting funding from University donors

And it’s a lot of fun!!

About CulAbout CulAbout CulAbout CulAbout Cultural Reflectionstural Reflectionstural Reflectionstural Reflectionstural Reflections

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General ArGeneral ArGeneral ArGeneral ArGeneral Articlesticlesticlesticlesticles

7 Whose Home and Native LandEdith BladesEdith BladesEdith BladesEdith BladesEdith Blades

13 Lost in Translation: English in Japan

Dwayne CoverDwayne CoverDwayne CoverDwayne CoverDwayne Cover

22 Emancipatory Research: Diffusing Power RelationsVVVVVanessa DiCenzoanessa DiCenzoanessa DiCenzoanessa DiCenzoanessa DiCenzo

34 Queer Science, Queer Archaeology: Moving Beyond the Feminist Critique

Leah GetchellLeah GetchellLeah GetchellLeah GetchellLeah Getchell

47 Pharmaceutical Companies: Attempting to Change Ethnomedicine bySupplanting DoctorsSangeeta PSangeeta PSangeeta PSangeeta PSangeeta Parmararmararmararmararmar

52 Twentieth Century Travels: Tales of a Canadian Judoka

Michelle RMichelle RMichelle RMichelle RMichelle Rogersogersogersogersogers

69 Fitting Indigenous Rights to Land and Resources intoInternational Human Rights Law: The Challenge of Advocating Within aState-centred SystemJennifer SankeyJennifer SankeyJennifer SankeyJennifer SankeyJennifer Sankey

FFFFField Notesield Notesield Notesield Notesield Notes

82 Primate Paradigms: In the Field with Ringtailed LemursAndrea GemmillAndrea GemmillAndrea GemmillAndrea GemmillAndrea Gemmill

ReviewsReviewsReviewsReviewsReviews

87 A Review of No Aging in India: Alzheimer’s, the Bad Family, and other

Modern ThingsGoran DokicGoran DokicGoran DokicGoran DokicGoran Dokic

91 Visual Anthropology: A review of Working ImagesCynthia KCynthia KCynthia KCynthia KCynthia Korpanorpanorpanorpanorpan

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IntroductionIntroductionIntroductionIntroductionIntroduction

Welcome to the combined sixth/seventh issue of Cultural Reflections, a journal put to-gether by the graduate students of the Department of Anthropology at the University ofVictoria. Since its inception in the Fall of 1997, Cultural Reflections has remained anoverwhelmingly successful project, receiving high praise from students, professors andanthropology departments across the country. For those of you familiar with past issues ofour journal, we thank you for your continued interest and support, and we are confidentthat you will be delighted by this year’s selections. To all of our new readers, we hope youenjoy your first Cultural Reflections experience, and remember to look for us again nextyear.

This current issue of Cultural Reflections would not have been possible withoutthe dedication of the contributors and editors. Their commitment to the editorial processwas outstanding, as each participant had to anonymously review three other articles, aprocess that served to strengthen and polish the pieces that now appear in this volume. Wecommend this year’s authors for maintaining the high standards that have characterizedthe previous journals. We would also like to extend a warm thank you to our generousfinancial sponsors. These are individuals who recognize the importance and value of projectsthat aim to combine student’s academic interests with the practical, professional skillsoften required in the dissemination of information.

The team that was responsible for this issue of Cultural Reflections has benefitedtremendously from this opportunity of being involved in the production of a peer-reviewedacademic journal. Keeping in line with last year’s issue, we decided to solicit articles notonly from anthropology students, but from students in other academic departments whobelieved their work to be of anthropological interest. This issue is truly a testament to theincredible scope and diversity of contemporary anthropology.

We hope you enjoy reading this issue of Cultural Reflections!

The Cultural Reflections Team

Vanessa DicenzoAndrea GemmillCynthia KorpanAnita MaberlyMichelle Rogers

Whose Home and Native Land?

AbstractIndigenous peoples claim a particular bond to their ancestral land. This bond is the basis of theirclaim to these territories and belief in their inalienable right to this land. The deep connection byindigenous peoples to their land can be difficult to understand for some non-native people. This paperreflects on the concept of native homeland by comparing the concept of home among indigenous peo-ples to the Jewish concept of the land of Israel. In both cases the connection to the land is cultural,spiritual, economic, and environmental. Such parallel commitment to ancestral land leads to a reflex-ive consideration of the concept of homeland, which may provide insights to peoples of non-nativeheritage on the depth and importance of indigenous land claims.

Biographical StatementEdith Blades is a fourth year student at the University of Victoria where she majors in Anthropologywith a minor in Religious Studies. She was awarded the Bruce McKelvie Scholarship in 2004 and is co-author of the paper, The Pedagogy of Machina sapiens and the Curriculum of Teacher Education, whichwas presented at the 2004 Conference of the Journal of Curriculum Theorizing. She studies the anthro-pology of religious experiences and cultural changes caused by emergent technologies.

general article

Edith Blades

When I die and am laid out in my coffin,a small pillow of soil from myhomeland will be placed under myhead. This is a symbolic way offulfilling an ancient and traditionaldesire of most Jews to be buried in theirhomeland, the land of Israel. Althoughmy body will not literally be resting inIsrael, the fact that my head will reston Israeli soil is enough. The conceptof homeland is also applicable to theland originally occupied by indigenous1

communities. In both cases, homelandmeans an inalienable right to live in anarea of the world (International Year

of Indigenous Nations 2003). This concepthas become an opening for personalreflection, which in turn has furthered myunderstanding of land claims in process inmany regions of the world, and specificallyin North America. I have always givenmental ascent to the importance ofindigenous land claims but the conceptnever touched me personally oremotionally.

Margolis (2001) suggests areflexive rather than an analytical approachto gain understanding of another culture.Reflexivity encourages recognizing yourown biases by looking “increasingly

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inwards when studying ‘other’ cultures”(Margolis 2000:1). Reflexiveanthropology breaks away from whatcould be seen as the traditional “us andthem approach” towards anidentification with those of othercultures and traditions (Margolis 2001).As I reflected on my biases, I realizedthe concept of homeland, as it relatesto indigenous peoples’ traditional landand land claims, is similar to myunderstanding of a Jewish homeland.The term homeland specificallyencourages in me identification with,rather than a separation from,indigenous peoples who also claim ahomeland. This paper explores thesimilarity and the differences betweenhomeland from a Jewish and indigenousperspective.

Hurt defines homeland as,“places where people have bonded withtheir landscapes in an uncommonmanner” (Hurt 2003:1). For thisbonding to have occurred people needto have lived on the land long enoughto have adjusted to its environment, tohave marked that environment withtheir cultural stamp, and to havedeveloped their identity with influencesfrom both the cultural landscape and theenvironment. This bond with thelandscape results in a closely-knitethnic community that is partiallysegregated, socially and spatially, fromother communities (Hurt 2003). Thissegregation, most common during pre-contact years, serves to maintain thecommunities’ unique forms of culturallife and history. This historical andcultural tie with the land andenvironment also creates an emotionalloyalty to the homeland that includesthe desire of the community to defendthat space.

The United NationsChronicle echoes Hurt’s view notingthat “the bond between Indigenouspeople and their homeland is spiritual,economic and ancestral” (United

Nations Chronicle 1993:1). The spiritualnature of this bond is often embedded inthe cultural landscape2 of the homeland.According to the Chronicle, “Indigenouspeople often follow a land-based religionbelieving that when their land is takenaway so is the spirit that gives them life”(1993:1). As a result, when an indigenousperson is denied access to their homelandthey may feel a separation and loss fromtheir traditional spirituality that is basedon a belief that religious power and spiritflows from the land.

For indigenous people ahomeland contains areas that haveparticular spiritual significance. As Hurtexplains, “The homeland’s culturallandscape can be composed of privatesites…landmarks or shrines whichcommemorate events central to thehistorical narrative of the group” (Hurt2003:3). These sites are not removablefrom the land and in most indigenoushomelands these sites may even beinvisible to those outside the community.

For example Glavin retells atraditional story told to him by RosalieJohnny, an Elder of the Nemiah IndianBand located in the interior of BritishColumbia. Johnny relates how a sacredrock protects young women from painduring their menstruation. According to thetradition this rock is there as a result of agirl transforming into a rock. Youngwomen who have begun menstruating takea white cloth and stuff it into a crevice inthe rock saying, “Grandmother help me notto get sick anymore” (Glavin 1992:31).The passing down of this culturalknowledge needs to take place at the rock;it is at this site that the ritual is explainedby the Grandmother to her granddaughter,thereby retaining the meaning andrelevance of this special place. Access tothe sacred rock preserves this ritual;without access to this place this traditionalpractice would likely become a story fromthe past.

The connection between landand religion is also reflected in the belief

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that Mt. Tatlow, which towers over thelandscape of the Nemiah homeland,traditionally “watches over the peopleand takes care of them” (Glavin1992:7). This sacred mountain is acentral figure in the spiritual lives ofthe people of the Nemiah. Since thesesacred sites are essential to thelandscape, if anyone of the NemiahIndian Band moves to another locationthat person may need to return to theirhomeland for religious renewal orpractices associated with these sites.This need to return is also part of thedefinition of homeland. Hurt suggeststhat “group members typically wish tolive in the homeland or visit regularlyif they live outside the homeland. Sinceno other place can substitute for theunique social and religious life foundwithin the homeland” (Hurt 2003:4).For many indigenous peoples, notesCobbs, “the landscape is our church, acathedral. It is like a sacred buildingto us” (Cobbs et al. 1996:79).

Closely related to religion isthe category of ancestry, which is alsopart of the bond between indigenouspeoples and their land. Mostindigenous groups have stories of theirancestry, including stories about howthe creator either led them to the landor created them in a particular location.For example, the Haida believe thatRaven found Haida ancestors in aclamshell on the beach at Naikum onHaida Gwaii (Native AmericanCreation Stories 2001). In this way,ancestry is intimately part of the land,part of the very identity of a people.An Elder of the Pueblo peoples, livingin the South Western United States,explained the bond of ancestry thisway: “The story of my people and thestory of this place are one single storywe are always joined together” (Cobbset al. 1996:76).

This intimate connection tothe land through religion and ancestryincludes the way people earn a living

from the land, or their culturaleconomics. Often this economicassociation is expressed in tribaldeclarations or treaties. For example,the people of the Nemiah state in theirdeclaration: “We will continue inperpetuity: a) to have and exercise ourtraditional rights of hunting, fishing,trapping, gathering, and naturalresources, b) to carry on our traditionalranching way of life” (Glavin 1992:4).

Indigenous peoples clearlyhave their own homelands but theselands, which nourish the people bothphysically as well as spiritually, areoften not recognized by provincialgovernments nor the Canadian federalgovernment. In an attempt to ensure nofurther erosion of indigenous traditionalterritory many indigenous leaders arenegotiating land settlements with theprovincial governments in theirterritory. Elders from the Yukonspeaking with Julie Cruikshank, aCanadian anthropologist, explain thataccording to indigenous peoples,“understanding of ownership rarelyincludes formed boundaries and isexpressed in terms of knowledgeacquired during a lifetime” (Cruikshank1998:16). This forming of permanentboundaries is part of the land treatyprocess which lays out what is and whatis not indigenous peoples’ homeland.indigenous peoples’ knowledge of theirhomeland gained over their lifetime isintimately tied to their identity and anemotional attachment to their land. Thisattachment can sometimes lead toconfrontation as treaties are negotiated.The provincial and federal governmentsin Canada should legally recognize thatthe defense of one’s homeland is alsopart of being a people whose homelandis threatened.

The concept of Israel hasmany similarities with the concept ofhomeland among many indigenouspeoples. In Judaism, both spiritualityand ancestry come from the land. Jaffee

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writes that Israel “was permeated by asense that its land was the central pointat which the heavenly world, with itsdivine beings, came into contact withthe world of human activity” (1997:28).This direct contact with the divinehappened most commonly in the innermost part of the Temple in Jerusalem,called the Holy of Holies.3 This centralplace in the Temple covered a spiritualconduit to the land itself, a placeliterally where heaven and earth meet.Rabbinic sages argue that “the landretained a holiness in its soil, whichdistinguished it from any other spot onearth” (Jaffee 1997:117). FromJudaism’s inception the land of Israelhas always been central to the Jewishreligion; as Jacobs argues, “Judaism hascentered not only on a people but on aland -Eretz Yisrael, “The Land ofIsrael” (1984:157). The patriarchs of theJewish religion-Abraham, Isaac, andJacob-and Matriarchs-Sarah, Rebeccaand Leah-are buried in Israel, which isone of the reasons many Jews believe“that the very soil is sacred” (Jacobs1984:158).

Despite conceptual simila-rities, the indigenous use of the conceptof homeland reflects a stronger bondwith the environment than the Jewishconcept of homeland. Martin writes,“there is a difference between howNative people and non-Natives feelabout cultural resources…I am referringto the connection of the place to myculture” (2001:2). This difference isprimarily due to the extent the land hasbeen developed. In Israel the land ismarked with ancient tombs, buildings,roads, and sacred rocks. Thesemarkings are meaningful to me sincethey speak of a long relationship mypeople have had with this land.Indigenous people have all these signsin their homelands too, but they are notas evident to people with a non-nativeworldview. An Elder from the NemiahIndian Band could walk a tourist around

the landscape and point out the markingsof the long and intimate past her peoplehave had with their land, but thesemarkings are mostly of the natural world.In Israel the claim to the land is referencedto sacred sites, many of which are ofhuman construction built by the peoplewho inhabited the homeland or ancientbuilding and burial sites. While thesesignificant places narrate the story of theland, indigenous peoples significant placesare typically not marked by humantechnology; it is the land itself that issignificant, not what is constructed by theoccupants of a particular homeland.

Chamberlin (2003) relates anincident from Northwest British Columbiathat occurred during a meeting between aindigenous community and somegovernment officials. The officials werestating their claim to some of theindigenous’ land for the provincialgovernment. The Elders at the meetingwere astonished by these relativenewcomers’ claims and finally one of theElders put what was bothering them intoa question: “If this is your land,” he asked,“where are your stories?” (Chamberlin2003:1). Then the Elder proceeded to tella story about the land in his own language.Everyone at the meeting understood themessage. In a similar way stories connectme to the land of Israel and remind methat perhaps my understanding ofhomeland is a matter of degree.

From a Jewish perspective thestories I have told my children and willtell my grandchildren are the stories thattell them who we are as well as who weare not. These stories are from the land ofIsrael but also include stories from Europeand even from Canada. Though I amcontent to live in Canada I have the needto visit the homeland of my faith, the landthat gave birth to my people and theirstories. It is this longing for the originalroots of a people that helps me toappreciate the great depth and intensityof the connection of indigenous peoples

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to their homeland and the desire topreserve their ancestral territories.

Conclusion

I have argued in this paper that a peopleand their homeland are inseparable; assuch removing access to the land of thepeople who call the land home, resultsin their economics, identity, andspirituality being weakened. I have alsostated that we, who are not from thehomeland, may not see the sacred sites,but that does not mean the land isempty. For each indigenous group, theirland is full of sacred and significantsites that can be learned and thusidentified through thousands of yearsof oral history. But for indigenouspeoples, as with Jews, the entirehomeland is sacred and the source oftheir sacred stories.

This degree of commonalityhas allowed me to reflect on the ideaof a homeland giving me a newperspective and understanding of theidea of a ‘land claim’. My people haveidentified with the land of Israel foronly 5000 years, a short span incomparison to the sense of homelandfor indigenous peoples in NorthAmerica. Yet I find the term ‘homeland’to be a potent way of understandingone’s connection to a place. As non-native I wanted to identify with thestruggle of many indigenous groups toretain their traditional territories. Ifound that reflecting on the word‘homeland’ enabled me to understanda little of what it might mean to aindigenous person to have theirhomeland denied to them or takenaway, and this has renewed myunderstanding of what it must be likefor any people to be displaced from anarea of the world they call home.

Endnotes

1 For the purpose of this paper the term“indigenous” will be used to refer to thepeoples who first occupied NorthAmerica.

2 An indigenous cultural landscape is “aplace valued by an Aboriginal group (orgroups) because of their long andcomplex relationship with that land. Itexpresses their unity with the naturaland spiritual environment. It embodiestheir traditional knowledge of spirits,places, land uses, and ecology. Materialremains of the association may beprominent but will often be minimal orabsent” (Parks Canada 2005:1).

3 In Judaism there is only one Templeand it is located in Jerusalem. Thissingular temple was constructed in itsentirety, including location, based oninstructions believed to be receiveddirectly from God.

References Cited

Chamberlin, J. E.1993 If This is Your Land Where Are

Your Stories?. Online. Internet.Accessed: 18 March 2004.Available <http://www.theglobeandmail .com/s e r v l e t / s t o r y /RT G A M . 2 0 0 4 1 2 3 1 . b k c h p041231/BNStory/SpecialEvents/>.

Cobbs, J., Flowers, C., Gardner, J. and Loomis,H.

1996“ Through Indian Eyes”. Montreal: Reader’s Digest Association.

Cruikshank, J.1998 The social Life of Stories: narrative

and knowledge in the Yukon Terri-tory. Vancouver:UBC Press

Glavin, T. and the People of the Nemiah Valley.1992 Nemiah The Unconquered

Country. Vancouver: New StarBooks.

Hurt, D.

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2003 “Defining American Homelands:A Creek Nation Example”.Journal of Cultural Geography21(1):1-14.

International Year of Indigenous Nations.1993 “International Year of Indigenous

Nations”. Online. Internet.Accessed: March 10 2004.Available <http://www.native-n e t . o r g / a r c h i v e / n l / 9 3 0 7 /0194.html>.

Jacobs, L.1984 The Book of Jewish Belief. New

Jersey: Behrman House.Jaffee. M.

1997 Early Judaism. New Jersey:Prentice Hall.

Margolis, E.2000 “Reflections on ‘Reflexivity’”.

Online. Internet. Accessed: 6January 2004. Available <http://

faculty.oxy.edu/tobin/anth370_9900/workshop/reflections/eva.html>.

Martin, R.2001 “Native Connection to Place: Policy

and Play”. American Indian Quarterly25(1): 1-6.

Native American Creation Stories2001 “Native American Creation Stories”.

Online. Internet. Accessed: 21 June2005. Available <http://www.geocities.com/Heartland/Prairie/8962/creation.html>.

Parks Canada2005 “An Approach to Aboriginal Cultural

Landscapes”. Online. Internet.Accessed: 21 June. Available <http://www.pc.gc.ca/docs/r/pca-acl/sec4/index_e.asp>.

United Nations Chronicle.1993 “Preserving the Past, Providing a

Future: Land Claims and Self-rule”.United Nations Chronicle 30(1): 1-3.

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Lost in Translation English in japan

AbstractFrom billboards to vending machines, mass media to education, English is virtually ubiquitous inJapan. However, for many, Japan is still assumed to be a homogenous, monolingual entity. This paperwill begin with a look at the historical background of English in Japan and then move on to the contem-porary setting. Two theories offering contrasting interpretations of the language contact phenomenonwill then be presented: the first views English as a hegemonic force colonizing the mental space of theJapanese population; the second claims English has undergone a complex process of domesticationand that it is now ‘Japanese English’, created by the Japanese for the Japanese.

Biographical StatementDwayne is currently a graduate student in the Department of Pacific and Asian Studies at the Univer-sity of Victoria. He spent the past six years teaching ESL/EFL – two years in Japan and four years inVancouver. His research interests are in the sociology of language and in second language acquisi-tion.

general article

Dwayne Cover

This scene would not be unusual in Tokyoor any other city in Japan. English has be-come a pervasive force reaching diverseareas of Japanese society through media,consumer products, and education. Al-though urban centres are more heavily im-bued with English, rural areas receive simi-lar advertising, movies, and television pro-grams. This overwhelming presence hasbeen interpreted in a variety of manners -from ally to antagonist to alien. This pa-per will focus upon two particular perspec-tives: the first, put forth by Tsuda Yukio2,labelling English an externally imposedform of foreign domination; and the sec-

On a bustling Friday night in downtownTokyo a young girl steps off the train.She wears Nike shoes, Levi jeans, anda Calvin Klein T-shirt. On her MP3player the songs flip from Madonna toEminem to the Backstreet Boys. Shestops to buy a Starbuck’s coffee and reada movie poster advertising the latestBrad Pitt blockbuster to hit Japan.Checking her watch, she sighs and re-luctantly heads into her juku1 classwhere she will spend the next few gru-elling hours working on her most trou-blesome subject: English.

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ond, from the work of James Stanlaw,suggesting that much of the English inJapan is created by the Japanese for theJapanese.

Framed over the historical pro-gression of Japan’s relationship with theEnglish language, each of these perspec-tives appears indicative of a differentperiod. Early contact, from the MeijiRestoration (from1868) to the AmericanOccupation (1945-52), may well beidentified with Tsuda’s “Hegemony ofEnglish” argument (1997). Inequalityin trade relations and military power –two factors intricately connected - al-lowed the English language to gain astrong foothold in Japan However, themore recent climate of language contactreveals a significantly different terrain.Alongside the rapid rise in economicproduction and prosperity, the Japanesehave also enjoyed a shift in their rela-tionship with English. As argued byStanlaw, English now appears to be im-ported and regulated within the countryrather than imposed externally. Thus theidea of English ‘domestication’ may of-fer a more accurate illustration of thecomplex patterns of language borrow-ing and employment seen today.

This paper will begin with abrief overview of the history of Englishin Japan and the present state of lan-guage contact within the country. It willthen move on to the contrasting argu-ments of Tsuda and Stanlaw, evaluatingboth against a historical backdrop in theconcluding discussion.

English in JapanHISTORY OF CONTACT

The English language is not a recent im-port to Japan. Although one might as-sume the influx began with the Ameri-can Occupation following World War II,or even more recently with the expand-ing global dominance of Anglo-basedmedia, the history of contact reachesback much further.

From the arrival of CommodorePerry in 1853 and the opening of trade re-lations between Japan and the West, Ameri-can and British merchants carried Englishand Anglo-based culture into the country.Foreign goods, including cotton cloth, wool-len fabric, sugar, and ironware, were in highdemand and various elements of Westernculture gained great notoriety - from an “in-terest in Western languages and Christian-ity, to Western art, apparels, hair style, andeven the eating of beef” (Hane 1992: 107).As a result of the increase in contact andtrade, Japanese/English pidgins began toappear around trading ports in Yokohama,Kobe, and Nagasaki (Loveday 1986). Eng-lish was viewed as a vehicle with whichJapan could “catch up to the West” and, in1871, the language became part of the na-tionally regulated curriculum at both theprimary and middle school levels (Reesor2002). Japan’s first officially recognizedpost-secondary institutions adopted Englishas the principle language of instruction. Amovement for national language reform -under which the Japanese language wouldhave been completely abolished and re-placed by English - also began and wassupported by a number of influential fig-ures - most notably Mori Arinori, Japan’sfirst Minister of Education (Kubota 1998;Loveday 1996). Although this radical sug-gestion was never adopted, the early im-pact of English upon the country was evi-dent.

Following this initial success, theEnglish language rode a tumultuous wavethrough periods of fanatical popularity andoutright contempt through to the SecondWorld War. By the latter half of the 1880sand into the 1890s, the rising tide of na-tionalism stemmed the influx of English,but the language maintained a level of im-portance as Japan’s link - economically,politically and scientifically - to much ofthe outside world. Japanese became themain medium of instruction in the schoolsystem, but English remained an essentialpart of the curricula (Loveday 1996). Af-ter the First World War, new forms of tech-

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nology (e.g. radio, film, and the gramo-phone) facilitated another wave ofAnglo-based culture into the country:“Urban daily life during this period [the1920s] was particularly characterized bythe enthusiastic following of Westernurban trends and fads such as the de-partment store, the ice-cream parlour,the Charleston, and jazz, not to men-tion fashion” (Loveday 1996:70). How-ever, by the 1930s, a strong anti-West-ern sentiment dominated and a numberof steps were taken to purge the coun-try of all things associated with the West.The English language was a primaryfocus of this movement and many termsthat had been in regular use were re-placed by newly coined Japaneseequivalents (e.g. ‘record’ becameonban, ‘ski’ became sekkobu) (Loveday1996:74). English language educationwas severely restricted and in somecases completely removed from publicand private institutions.

During the period of AmericanOccupation increased contact with for-eigners (primarily U.S. soldiers) andstrong influence from American politi-cal advisors helped to re-establish theinfluential position of the language.‘English fever’ swept the country withconversation classes filling up and Eng-lish language textbooks becoming bestsellers (Loveday 1996). Many saw Eng-lish as their primary link to internation-alization and democratization - in muchthe same way it had been envisionedduring early contact - and thus the quick-est method by which to rebuild the coun-try and regain a foothold in the globaleconomic order. During this period theJapanese politician Ozaki Gakubo res-urrected Mori Arinori’s call for Englishto be adopted as a national language(Kubota 1998; McVeigh 2004). Ozakimade the same pitch on two occasions,in 1947 and 1950, but was unsuccess-ful on both attempts.

Although the official and pub-lic acceptance of the language has con-

tinually fluctuated, English has been unde-niably significant for the Japanese. Thelong historical progression of this relation-ship has laid the foundation for the currentcontact setting.

ENGLISH TODAY

In contemporary Japanese society the Eng-lish language is virtually ubiquitous. Thelevel of penetration has reached a pointwhere there is now debate as to whether ornot it is even possible to carry out an eve-ryday conversation in Japanese withoutemploying a number of English-derivedterms. Stanlaw estimates that up to 10%of daily vocabulary for Japanese speakers(3000 to 5000 terms) is composed of Eng-lish ‘loanwords’ (2004), while Honna sug-gests it may be as high as 13% (cited inTomoda 1999). In addition, 60-70% of newlexical terms added annually to the Japa-nese dictionary are derived from English(Hogan 2003). In many cases, English vo-cabulary is adopted alongside an existingJapanese term with the same meaning; how-ever, the English term is galvanized with a“cool” or “modern” connotation that itsdomestic counterpart does not enjoy(Stanlaw 2004; Seaton 2001). Borrowinghas also occurred when there was a gap inthe Japanese lexicon - often in areas of newdiscovery relating to science and technol-ogy. Specialized fields such as medicine,engineering, and computer programmingheavily reflect this trend with gairaigo, orforeign words, being heavily prevalent intechnical terminology (Tomoda 1999).

Media sources have been the mostdominant force in broadening and strength-ening the presence of English in Japan.There are now five national English-lan-guage newspapers circulating in the coun-try, along with a large number of local andspecial interest papers (Stanlaw 2004).Foreign films, predominantly English, haveout-grossed domestic productions almostevery year for the past two decades (MPPAJ2005). In 2003 and 2004, English singersaccounted for approximately half of the

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‘Top 100’ songs at the most popular To-kyo radio station, and many of the Japa-nese singers had either their names and/or song titles listed in English (FM Ja-pan Ltd. 2005). The use of Englishwords and phrases within Japanese popsongs is also very common (Stanlaw2000, 2004). Although imported televi-sion programs have not yet seen thesame level of success, English-languageDVD and home video rentals are becom-ing increasingly popular.

English also maintains a promi-nent position in the education system.As mentioned above, English has beena part of the nationally regulated schoolsystem for over a century. Although itis not officially mandatory, the vast ma-jority of students at the junior and sen-ior high levels choose English as theirlanguage elective to prepare for univer-sity entrance exams. Stanlaw estimatesalmost all junior high students, at least70% high school, and 100% of first andsecond year university students are en-rolled in English (2004). As of 2001,the Ministry of Education, Culture,Sports, Science and Technology(MEXT) instituted English instructionbeginning at the elementary level. It isworth noting that English language edu-cation in the Japanese public school sys-tem has been frequently criticized forinefficiency and ineffectiveness (Gaineyand Andressen 2002; McVeigh 2004;Reesor 2002, 2003); however, the gov-ernment has recently taken steps to ad-dress this situation. In 2002, MEXTreleased the ambitious Action Plan toCultivate Japanese with English Abili-ties, which called for 100 super Englishhigh schools to be established, alongwith more study abroad opportunities forstudents, more foreign (i.e. native Eng-lish speaking) instructors in Japaneseschools, and better training programs forJapanese nationals teaching English(MEXT 2003).

The continued emphasis placedon English in education appears indica-

tive of its importance in the contemporarysetting. Political support has also beendemonstrated in revived attempts to haveEnglish declared an official language inJapan. As recently as 2000, the PrimeMinister’s Commission on Japan’s Goal inthe 21st Century floated the idea of elevat-ing English to official status (Miyai 2000).Although the proposed plan would not goas far as Mori Arinori’s original recommen-dation to abolish Japanese more than a cen-tury before, it would grant official recogni-tion within the country.

English appears as strong now asin any other period in its history of contactwith Japan. For anyone who has spent evena short time in the country, the actual levelof English language saturation is immedi-ately evident. The second section of thispaper will examine two opposing perspec-tives on how this phenomenon has beeninterpreted.

Imperialism vs. DomesticationJAPANESE VICTIMS

The charge of linguistic imperialism hasclosely followed the global spread of Eng-lish. Phillipson’s benchmark work, enti-tled Linguistic Imperialism (1992), pro-vides a systematic analysis of the ways inwhich the interests of English-speakingcountries have been furthered via“linguicism”. Phillipson defines linguicismas “ideologies, structures, and practiceswhich are used to legitimate, effectuate, andreproduce an unequal division of power andresources (both material and immaterial)between groups which are defined on thebasis of language” (1992:47). He then pro-vides material examples for this argumentto support the claim that language is closelytied to educational and cultural forms ofimperialism:

…commercial products of allkinds, films, television serials(the USA dominates telecom-munications and satellite com-munications worldwide), ad-vertising agencies abroad (the

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majority of which areAmerican), youthculture…[and] ensuring theplace of the dominant lan-guage as a school subject oreven as the medium ofeducation…(Phillipson1992:58).

Although Phillipson was not thefirst to posit this argument, he did suc-ceed in articulating a more comprehen-sive theory which other scholars werethen able to utilize in specific settings.

Tsuda Yukio, now at the Univer-sity of Tsukuba, adopted the theory putforth by Phillipson and applied it to theJapanese context. Tsuda is highly criti-cal of English in Japan, which he inter-prets as a form of foreign imposed domi-nation upon the local population. Hecoined the term “Eigo-Shihai” - liter-ally, “English domination”, but definedby Tsuda as “the Hegemony of English”- to describe the current contact situa-tion (1997). However, Tsuda sees notonly linguistic and cultural oppression;he goes even further to suggest that thepresence of the English language andWestern culture in Japan is engender-ing a “colonization of the mind” for theJapanese (1997). This is portrayed as asubtle process through which Westerni-zation gradually alters the cultural val-ues and beliefs of the local population,until they surrender the ability to de-fine their own cultural identity. Thisparticular definition, as well as manyaspects of the “Hegemony of English”,falls quite firmly into the area of studyknown as Nihonjinron - or “theory ofJapaneseness” literally translated(Kubota 1998).

Nihonjinron is an ideologywhich places the Japanese in a uniqueposition, culturally, linguistically, andeven biologically, by virtue of their geo-graphic and historical isolation fromother peoples. This topic is heavily con-tested with supporters citing it as evi-dence of Japanese solidarity and critics

labelling it as ethnocentric racism (Dale1986; Kubota 1998; McVeigh 2004; Miller1982). His Hegemony argument definitelyidentifies Tsuda with the former. He ob-serves the relationship between the Eng-lish language and the Japanese people withthe concept of Nihonjinron firmly in mind:

The Japanese are now suffer-ing from the linguistic epi-demic, which I call “Eigo-Byo”,or “Anglomania”. Having afirm belief in the notion of Eng-lish as an international lan-guage, the Japanese are ob-sessed with learning and usingEnglish to the point where theyglorify English, its culture andspeakers (Tsuda 1997:25).

For Tsuda, “Anglomania” has become mostevident through disturbing trends in edu-cation and mass media. He points to thecommodification of the English language,in the form of popular advertising cam-paigns for Eikaiwa3, as a particularly in-sidious combination of the two (Tsuda1994). If the approach toward English isnot quickly altered, Tsuda predicts dire con-sequences for both the Japanese languageand culture:

Since language constitutes thecore of cultural identity, the useof English generates a divisionespecially in the personal iden-tity of speakers of English as asecond language…Some peo-ple throw away mother tonguesand use English alone. Thequestion in this case is whetherthey can or wish to continue tomaintain their cultural identity(Tsuda 1997:25).

However, he does offer an alternative tocombat the waves of English washing overJapan: “The Ecology of Language Para-digm” (Tsuda 1994).

The Ecology of Language calls forglobal linguistic equality whereby interna-tional activities (i.e. conferences, sportingevents, etc.) would always be conducted inthe language of the host country, instead of

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in English, as is often the case (Tsuda1994). If all of the representatives werenot skilled in that particular language,translators could be utilized to maintainlinguistic balance. In addition, culturalmores would be followed in referenceto individuals or subjects relating to aparticular country - such as Japanesename order (family name, given name)or indigenous country name (e.g. “Ja-pan” would be referred to as “Nihon”or Finland as “Suomi”) - regardless ofthe language being spoken (Tsuda 1994:58-9). It is important to acknowledgethat Tsuda is not expecting the suddenextrication of English from internationaluse, but is offering a process by which amore balanced language environmentcould be achieved.

Tsuda’s argument against thedomination of English in Japan findssupport with a number of Japanesescholars (Nakamura and Oishi cited inKubota 1998) and politicians (McVeigh2004; Miyai 2000), as well as in thegeneral public (Hogan 2003; Tomoda1999). Many of his claims appear cred-ible when focussing upon the ubiquitousnature of English in the country; how-ever, the presence of the language is onlyhalf of the equation. The following sec-tion offers an alternative perspective formuch of the English that is currentlyfound in Japan.

JAPANESE CONTROL

James Stanlaw suggests that much of theEnglish in the country has undergone aprocess of language “domestication” - aterm applied by Joseph Tobin in his ed-ited work Re-Made in Japan (1982).Stanlaw suggests that, “the English usedin Japan is not really borrowed, as iscommonly thought, but instead is moti-vated or ‘inspired’ by certain Englishspeakers or English linguistic forms; itis a created-in-Japan variety for use byJapanese in Japan” (2004:2). He arguesagainst the use of the terms borrowing

or loanword since both suggest a subordi-nate relationship with the donor language;the original term is considered to be proper,while the new form is but a deviation(Stanlaw 1992). Stanlaw advocates an ap-proach which recognizes that JapaneseEnglish terms may be English-inspired, buthave a form and meaning that are locallydetermined. Moreover, the terms are ex-clusively intended for domestic use andtheir meaning is often incomprehensible fornative English speakers. This process isunquestionably governed domestically, di-rectly refuting the argument that Englishin Japan is externally imposed.

In support of this argument Stanlawillustrates the extremely complicated andcreative processes through which JapaneseEnglish is created. He includes a wealthof examples including truncation (e.g.paso-kon for “personal computer” andapaato for “apartment”), acronyzation (e.g.oeru or O.L. for “office lady” and jaeru orJ.A.L. for “Japanese Airlines”), and meta-phorical transfer (paapurin or purpling inreference to “teenage motorcycle gangs whowear purple scarves and cause trouble”)(Stanlaw 2004: 16). He also offers someof the made-in-Japan terms which, whilein ‘plain’ English, are not transparent tonative English speakers: saabisu (service)for “a complimentary product for custom-ers”, baikingu (Viking) for “a smorgas-bord”, and baajin roodo (virgin road) for“the church aisle the bride walks down”(Stanlaw 2004:40-1). Many others casesare offered in the course of Stanlaw’s analy-sis, however, they are too numerous to coverin the course of this article. It is sufficientto acknowledge that if English were beingexternally imposed, these complex forma-tions would not occur. More standardizedpatterns of lexical borrowing and code-switching would dominate. In addition,newly created terms must be accepted andunderstood by the local population. If thisprocess of domestic ratification did not oc-cur, the terms would not survive.

Stanlaw also examines the widearray of strategies for which English terms

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are employed by the Japanese. He ac-knowledges the most commonly cited in-stance - to project an association with theWest that is interpreted as ‘cool’ or ‘mod-ern’ - and also provides a number of otherpoignant illustrations. He analyzes vari-ous situations where English is used inpop songs and contemporary poetry:

The English words used areoften creative and criticalJapanese (not American orBritish) poetic devices whichallow songwriters, and evensome poets, an access to awider range of allusions, im-ages, metaphors, and techni-cal possibilities than is avail-able from ‘purely’ Japaneselinguistic sources (Stanlaw2004:102).

He looks at the use of English by womenin Japan as a form of sociolinguistic cir-cumvention - expressing themselves in amanner that would be considered inap-propriate, or even impossible, in the Japa-nese language. There is also an in-depthanalysis of the Japanese colour nomen-clature system in which English terms arerapidly appearing to mirror, and occasion-ally to replace, the original Japaneseterms. The two parallel forms (e.g.murasaki = purple, paapuru = purple)have the same translated meaning, butinspire a different sensory feeling for thelistener. These examples provide furthersupport for Stanlaw’s argument: “[the]use of English is just one more very crea-tive tool in the linguistic repertoire of theJapanese language, used by Japanese peo-ple for their own communicative pur-poses” (2004:276-7).

As mentioned above, Stanlaw’suse of the term “domestication” originatedfrom the work of Joseph Tobin. Tobinacted as the primary editor for a collec-tion of articles published as Re-Made inJapan: Everyday Life and Consumer Tastein a Changing Society. The authorscontributing to the collection, includingMillie R. Creighton, William W. Kelly,

and Nancy Rosenberger, presented a widerange of topics in which foreign, predomi-nantly Western, style was given a home-grown Japanese twist for domestic con-sumption. Some of the areas covered weremagazine advertising, fashion, and even theTango (Tobin 1982). Tobin suggested thedominant theme throughout was “an ongo-ing creative synthesis of the exotic with thefamiliar, the foreign with the domestic, themodern with the traditional, the Westernwith the Japanese” (Tobin 1982:4). Hewent on to stress that the fusion of stylesseen in Japan was unquestionably “aboutJapanese importation rather than Westernexportation” (Tobin 1982:4) – a sentimentechoed in the work of James Stanlaw. Thisparticular pattern of domestication foundin such a broad range of topics offers strongsupport for Stanlaw’s findings in the areaof language contact.

Discussion

Tsuda’s ‘Hegemony paradigm’ views theEnglish language as an insidious Westernexport eroding the cultural and linguisticpurity of the Japanese. The sheer volumeof English within Japan’s borders over-whelming the populace and corrupting theirmental space. This vastly oversimplifiesmuch of the language contact and languagecreation occurring in Japan today. It alsogives little consideration to the role of theJapanese in negotiating their relationshipwith English.

The ‘Hegemony paradigm’ placesthe domestic population in a passive posi-tion unable to resist or adapt to the reali-ties of a fluid linguistic environment. Thisreading appears more apt for the former re-lationship between English and Japan, fromearly contact through to the post-Occupa-tion period. Following the Meiji Restora-tion, Japan frantically attempted to indus-trialize with the English language as oneof the primary vehicles to this end. Japansuffered in this subordinate position untilthe rising nationalist zeal attempted to ex-pel the language in the lead up to the Sec-

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ond World War. After the war andthrough the American Occupation, Eng-lish again surged into the country.Tsuda’s ‘Hegemony argument’ seems ap-propriate in describing this period. Infact, much of the ‘Hegemony argument’resurrects past images of Western Impe-rialism – a politically and emotionallypowerful reference for the Japanese –which may be part of the author’s intent.Kubota suggests that many scholars criti-cal of English in Japan work toward gen-erating awareness in the population andinspiring greater linguistic equality ratherthan toward eradicating English (1998).This is supported by Tsuda’s work in the‘Ecology of Language’. With the ‘He-gemony paradigm’, Tsuda may not bepresenting the most accurate depiction ofthe current language contact environ-ment, but rather attempting to maintainvigilance for cultural and linguistic pres-ervation within Japan.

The primary objective ofStanlaw’s domestication work is to con-vey the active role that the Japanese playin the importation of English. It focuseson the cognizant manner in which Eng-lish is moulded into a made-in-Japanform that is only recognizable to the Japa-nese. Although Stanlaw’s argument maynot be applicable to all of the Englishfound in the country – since many sur-viving terms do have a historical origin –it does offer a more holistic interpreta-tion of the contemporary contact than thatof Tsuda. Furthermore, examples fromother fields of study regarding mediapresentation, fashion, and the arts sup-ports the assertion that the Japanese doexert control over much of the foreigncontent that enters the country. In a pe-riod when many areas of the world ap-pear unable to resist the global expan-sion of Western culture and the Englishlanguage, Japan may be one of the bestpositioned to maintain a level of balanceand, in some measure, resistance that oth-ers do not enjoy.

Conclusion

This paper began with a look at the historyof English in Japan. This then followedonto an explanation of the current state oflanguage contact within the country. It wasargued that the overwhelming presence ofEnglish has now become an integral andinescapable part of Japanese life. Two al-ternative theories were then presented pro-viding differing perspectives for evaluat-ing the contact phenomenon. The first wasTsuda’s Hegemony of English, which por-trayed the language as a neo-colonial formof foreign domination. Stanlaw’s languagedomestication was presented as a counter-argument suggesting the Japanese are, inactuality, exercising much more controlover English found within the country.Tsuda’s position was identified with theearlier period of contact, while Stanlaw’sappeared closer to the current state.

Endnotes

1 Juku are private “cram” schools attendedby junior high and high school studentsseeking extra study time.

2 The scholar’s name, Tsuda Yukio, is ex-pressed in its original (Japanese) culturalorder with the surname preceding the givenname.

3 Eikaiwa are private English languageschools offering smaller class sizes (usu-ally 1 to 10 learners) at different timesthroughout the day to cater to homemakersstudying English as a hobby, children andteenagers looking for extra study outsideof public school, and businesspeople in-tending to use English for travel. The larg-est chain schools are NOVA, GEOS, andAEON, however hundreds of other inde-pendent schools are also in business.Eikaiwa English has become a billion dol-lar a year industry in Japan. See Reesor(2003).

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Phillipson, Robert1992 Linguistic Imperialism. Oxford: Oxford

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Emancipatory Research Diffusing Power Relations

Abstract

This paper discusses the topic of feminist methodology, with a focus on emancipatory research. Theways in which emancipatory research serves to diffuse the power relations inherent in research projectsis addressed. This is accomplished by exploring such issues as ‘insider status’, questioning objectivity,‘field’ construction, reflexivity, multivocality, interpretation and analysis of data, and political activ-ism. Finally, issues to be aware of when conducting emancipatory research are discussed, as well asthe positioning of these methodologies within mainstream academia.

Biographical StatementVanessa DiCenzo is currently a Master of Arts student within the department of Anthropology at theUniversity of Victoria. Her research interests include alternative birthing methods, reproductive health,feminist theory and method, as well as issues surrounding space and place.

general article

Vanessa DiCenzo

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Engaging with feminist theory and ideashas encouraged me to think about writ-ing anthropology in different ways. Thefocus on narratives (Cruikshank 1997),biographical, and autobiographical ac-counts (Ronit 2000) by some feminists,as well as a piece of postmodern archae-ology (Flannery 1982), has inspired meto employ a new way of writing; adialogic account regarding emancipatoryresearch.

For the most part, academiatends to focus on, and give credence to,objective, scientific methodologies andways of presenting material. However,there is much to be learned by partakingin subjective, inclusive, and reflexive

research and composition. Narrative formsof writing found within feminist research,including biographical and autobiographi-cal accounts, allow for the attraction of awider audience, thus increasing the possi-bilities for social change.

The following paper is a fictionalaccount of a graduate student’s encounterwith a published feminist anthropologist.The topic of feminist methodology is dis-cussed, with a focus on emancipatory re-search. The feminist anthropologist revealshow emancipatory research serves to dif-fuse the power relations inherent in re-search projects, by discussing issues suchas ‘insider status’, questioning objectivity,‘field’ construction, reflexivity,

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multivocality, interpretation and analy-sis of data, and political activism. Fi-nally, issues to be aware of when con-ducting emancipatory research are dis-cussed, as well as the positioning of thesemethodologies within mainstreamacademia.

Emancipatory Research: A GraduateStudent’s Account

Sometimes graduate school can get youdown. Now, it’s not that graduate stu-dents don’t enjoy being in school, or theirprogram, or even the classes that theyare taking – it’s the stress.

Classes have to be attended,courses and research materials must beread, teaching and marking responsibili-ties have to be met, and papers must bewritten; all the while still partaking inthe rigors of daily life. Now, we’re notall a bunch of complainers; most of ustake everything in stride, we did chooseto be here after all. It’s just that some-times the stress can get to you, especiallyat the end of every term, when multiplefinal papers are due; usually within aweek of each other. Most of us handlethe stress, because we have to. We mightoccasionally have to ask for extensions,or stay up all night drinking coffee tofinish a paper, but things get done. Per-sonally, I think I’ve been able to dealwith the stress of school, work, and lifeconstructively. Although, at the end ofevery term I do find myself questioningwhy exactly I torture myself like this. Icould have gone into business, or sci-ence, and had a nice comfortable officejob. But, I chose anthropology and allthe reading and paper writing that goesalong with it. I guess sometimes we haveto suffer a bit for the things we love.

So, like many graduate students,when it starts getting close to the end ofterm and I have a lot of work to do, Ifind myself procrastinating. I think some-times I just don’t want to deal with thework ahead of me, so I find myself cook-

ing, watching movies, ‘going for coffee’with friends, and other assorted activities.I know that the papers have to be written,but maybe I feel that I’ll be better equippedto deal with it the next day. Of course thisonly serves to increase my stress, as I endup with less time to accomplish my tasks.I guess I just need that push to get thingsdone.

At the end of one particularlystressful term, I once again found myselfprocrastinating. Classes had finished. Withone paper already written and handed in,and just one more to go, I found myselfyearning for the summer break. A timeduring which I could work a steady joband not have to worry about reading arti-cles, or writing papers, when I got homeat the end of the day. I also found myselfplanning for the Fall semester, when Iwould promise myself, as I do at the be-ginning of every semester, that I wouldmake a point of organizing my time moreefficiently. That way I would not be in theposition of scrambling to get everythingdone at the end of term. So this particularday, while I was mulling this over and try-ing to come up with an idea for my lastpaper of the semester, I found myself at abar on the outskirts of town.

I had spent the day in the librarylooking for sources on the topic of femi-nist methodology in anthropology, hopingthat an idea would come to me. Unfortu-nately, for every idea I had, I could onlyfind a limited number of sources. Sure thecomputer told me that there were anywherefrom fifteen to forty-three assorted booksand articles on a particular topic, but onceI actually made my way to the stacks Icould find only, on average, a quarter ofthe sources I had listed. Either the bookwas missing, that particular journal vol-ume hadn’t been ordered, or someone hadmisplaced the source somewhere in thelibrary. As a result, I left the library frus-trated and uninspired. At that point I defi-nitely was not in the mood to tackle anyprojects related to school. But, I also didn’treally feel like calling any friends to see

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what they were up to, or going home tomy partner, who would tell me that eve-rything would work out in the end, as healways did. Since I wanted to get awayfrom everything, I headed out of the citycentre and ended up at the airport bar. Ifound myself seated on a bar stool drink-ing a beer and hoping that a viable ideawould occur to me at some point duringmy reprieve.

As I sat alone sulking and hop-ing for an epiphany, a woman sat downbeside me. After the bartender took herorder, she looked over and said, “Youseem upset”. I told her that I was stressedbecause it was the end of the term and Icouldn’t seem to decide on a topic formy last paper. She proceeded to ask mewhat class this paper was for. I respondedthat it was for a graduate seminar enti-tled “Feminist Research in Cultural An-thropology”. At this point I was gettinga little irritated, as I was not in the bestof moods and wanted to be left alone.But, when she said, “Well, I considermyself a feminist anthropologist, and I’dbe happy to help you come up with someideas,” my ears perked up.

“Well I’m interested in feministmethodology, as I intend to take a femi-nist approach and stance when I conductfieldwork of my own” I said.

She asked, “Are there any par-ticular methods that you are interestedin?”

To that I replied, “Yes, I’m in-terested in emancipatory forms of re-search, because I think the multivocalityit allows should be more visible in an-thropology”.

She said, “There are many rea-sons why emancipatory research is im-portant, not only to feminism, but to allacademic disciplines. It is especiallyimportant in anthropology, where somescholars pride themselves on speakingfor those who might not be able to speakfor themselves.”

“Yes, I know it’s important, andI’ve read a few articles on the subject.

But, I can’t seem to find enough sourcesthat discuss that importance to facilitatewriting a 20 page paper”, I responded.

“If you look at the work of authorssuch as Deborah D’Amico-Samuels(1991), Teresa L. Ebert (1996), SherryGorelick (1991), Kathleen Lynch (2000),Bob Pease (2000), as well as others, youwill see that there are many reasons why itis important for feminism and anthropol-ogy to engage in emancipatory types of re-search,” she said.

She went on to explain that thesereasons include the diffusion of power andconsciousness-raising (Ebert 1996), amongothers, but that she felt that diffusion ofpower was really the most important rea-son for conducting emancipatory research.Then she explained, in detail, how thispower diffusion can be achieved in eman-cipatory research.

Diffusion of Power

She began with the issue of power in con-ducting research. She explained, “There isalways an inherent power relationship be-tween the researcher and those being re-searched. One goal of feminist research isto limit the power differentials that exist.In anthropology we try to be objective andstand back and observe which only in-creases the gulf between researcher andsubject. Even engaging in participant ob-servation does not eliminate this powerdisparity. If anthropologists are going togo ‘home’ and take it upon themselves towrite about certain communities, and whythey do the things the do, the role of theanthropologist as objective scientist andpower-holder is perpetuated”.

“So, emancipatory research is oneway to get around the power relationshipsthat exist when conducting research?” Iasked.

“In a way. Although we can nevertotally eliminate the power relations inher-ent in conducting research, emancipatorytechniques are the most efficient ways wehave at present of trying to diffuse the

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power. Think of it this way… if you arean anthropologist and you live with agroup for a year or two, you interviewpeople, you take part in the activities inwhich they engage, and basically expe-rience the events of daily life with them,and then write a descriptive or explana-tory account of this group of people, whatpurpose does that serve them? What pur-pose does it serve anyone? But, if an-thropologists take part in “open-ended,dialogically reciprocal” (Lather 1986:269) discussions and co-operative write-ups of data, then we can challenge the“assumptions of mainstream social sci-ence practice” (Lynch 2000:82), elicitsocial change, and alter the ways inwhich we interpret and analyze data bydiffusing the power relations that existbetween researcher and researched,” shesuggested.

“How, exactly, does emancipa-tory research serve to diffuse the powerrelations that exist between a researcherand those being researched?” I asked.

“Well, first I think we need tolook at the conception of power. Oncewe possess that knowledge, then we willbe able to determine how we can begindiffusing power. Michel Foucault hasbeen widely cited and referred to for hisdefinitions of power. He suggests thatpower ‘must be understood in the firstinstance as the multiplicity of force re-lations immanent in the sphere in whichthey operate and which constitute theirown organization’ (Foucault 1978: 92).To elaborate, power exists in relation-ships, is exercised and not simply pos-sessed, and is present at multiple points(Fawcett and Featherstone 2000). Ebert(1996:187) also points out that power is‘marked by chance’, ‘not historicallydetermined’, ‘heterogeneous’, and ‘un-stable’. Therefore by provoking resist-ance, power serves to undo itself (Ebert1996). That is exactly what occurs whenemancipatory research is conducted,” shereplied.

“So, what you are saying is that

how power has been conceptualized hasled feminists, and feminist anthropologistsmore specifically, to develop researchmethods that serve to unravel those powerrelations. In essence we have witnessedpower ‘provoke resistance’ and conse-quently unravel itself in the process.”

“Yes,” she answered.“In what ways do you think eman-

cipatory research helps to diffuse thepower that exists between the researcherand the researched?” I asked.

“There are many techniques thatfeminists can use to diffuse the power re-lations that exist in research. The mostprevalent ways visible in the literatureinclude realizing that women do not pos-sess a kind of ‘insider status’, question-ing objectivity, considering how ‘the field’is constructed, being reflexive, includingmultiple voices in all aspects of research,altering the ways that we analyze and in-terpret data, and engaging in political ac-tivism,” she suggested.

“What do you mean by these tech-niques?” I asked.

“Let me explain,” she offered.Then, my new acquaintance went

on to describe how feminist anthropolo-gists use these methods in attempts to dif-fuse power.Relations and ‘Insider Status’

“First, we need to take a look atresearch relations if we want to determinehow feminist anthropologists can work todiffuse power between them and those theyresearch. Staeheli and Lawson (1994:97)argue that exploring relations is “neces-sary for understanding the substantiveprocesses that structure the social worldand so shape the process of feminist field-work”. In discussing the methods feministsuse in attempts to diffuse power, we elu-cidate the ways researchers put processesin place to alter the social structure, andhence, the process of fieldwork.

One dimension of the relationsbetween researcher and researched is thenotion of ‘insider’ and ‘outsider’, or‘othering’. For the most part, anthropolo-

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gists are thought to be ‘outsiders’ whenthey conduct fieldwork. Even instanceswhere we have what some would call‘native anthropologists’ (those who studytheir own communities) there is still thedisparity of ‘insider/outsider’. This is dueto many factors, including differences ineducation, economic class, or gender, toname a few. But, I’m getting off topic.Where I was heading with this, is thefact that status as an ‘insider’ or ‘out-sider’ can alter the power relations be-tween the researcher and the re-searched,” she explained.

“But, how does this pertain toemancipatory research?” I asked.

“Well, as early as ten years ago,the idea that women researchers had an‘insider’s’ view when conducting re-search with other women was circulat-ing amongst some scholars (Gilbert1994). This idea is an essentialist viewthat ignores “the various dimensions ofdifference that distinguish women andthe issues with which they are con-cerned” (Staeheli and Lawson 1994:97).The realization of this essentialism gen-erated a sense of crisis for some, andfeminist researchers began to questiontheir relationships with the people,places, and power structure they study(Staeheli and Lawson 1994).

The move away fromessentializing women, and the question-ing of relationships existing within re-search, lead to the imposition of tech-niques that some feminist anthropolo-gists use to conduct emancipatory re-search,” my acquaintance explained.

Questioning Objectivity

“One of these new techniques was thequestioning of objectivity. This was a bigmove in anthropological research. Someanthropologists like to think of them-selves as scientists conducting objectiveresearch. By attempting to be objective,researchers are detaching themselvesfrom those being researched. This cre-

ates a position of ‘knowing observer’ forthe researcher who is separated from theindividual(s) being researched and sub-jected to analysis, therefore reinforcing thepower of the researcher (Armstead 1995Gilbert 1994).

Feminists questioned if objectiv-ity was even possible, much less desirable(Gilbert 1994). Some anthropologists, in-cluding myself, would argue that a re-searcher can never be totally objectivewhen conducting fieldwork (Armstead1995, Bloom 1997, Gilbert 1994). As hu-man beings, we all carry our ownworldviews with us, whether they are at aconscious or subconscious level. Our gen-der, social or economic class, education,ethnicity, or some other aspect of our lifemay influence us. Due to these aspects thatmake us different we can never be com-pletely unbiased, and we, as researchers,need to acknowledge this.

Feminists have recognized thisand argued against objectivity. It has alsobeen suggested that researchers ‘need tosee women as the subjects of, not objectsof our research’ (Gilbert 1994: 93). Thisobviously has implications for not onlyhow feminist anthropologists conduct theirresearch, but how they interpret, analyze,and present their data (Gilbert 1994). Gil-bert (1994:90) has suggested that‘[i]nstead of attempting to be a neutral,distant researcher, feminists focused on themutuality of the research process;intersubjectivity not objectivity and dia-logues in place of monologues became thegoals.’ As a result of this methodologicalchange toward emancipatory types of re-search, the relationship between the re-searcher and the researched was madeobvious and open to debate (Gilbert 1994).The feminist anthropologist was not as-sumed to be objective or value-free, nordoes she/he keep a distance from thosebeing researched (McDowell 1992:405).

Questioning the objective “natureof social science research and the privi-leged voice of scientific discourse”, asD’Amico-Samuels (1991:78) suggests, has

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lead to the use of different methods whenconducting feminist research, with theaim of empowering women,” she ex-plained.

“Okay, so emancipatory researchis obviously one of the methods feministsused to engage in more subjective re-search. You also talked about how ques-tioning objectivity diffuses power rela-tions. What other aspects of emancipa-tory research allow for this diffusion?” Iinquired.

Constructing “the field”

“Feminists have started to think abouthow we construct ‘the field’ (D’Amico-Samuels 1991, Katz 1994, Mascia-Leeset al. 1989, Staeheli and Lawson 1994,Trinh 1986-1987). In most anthropologi-cal research it is the researcher who de-fines ‘the field’. They are the ones whoget to draw the lines, and define what isand is not part of their field of investiga-tion (Katz 1994). In this way, ‘the field’is an ideological concept. Artificialboundaries of time and space are estab-lished, and differences within groups areobscured (D’Amico-Samuels 1991). Thisconstruction also serves to create a sepa-ration between those researching andthose being studied, as the research groupis thought to be fixed and homogenous,and therefore distinct from the researcher(Katz 1994, Staeheli and Lawson 1994).

Among others, Katz (1994) hasurged feminists to blur the boundariesthat exist between ‘the field’ and theacademy. She argues that ‘the field’ isalways constituted through sets of powerrelations. It is academics who create‘fields’ to study. We do this through ourprojects and research accounts (Katz1994, Mascia-Lees et. al. 1989, Staeheliand Lawson 1994, Trinh 1986-1987).”

“How do we go about ‘blurring’these boundaries?” I asked.

“I would suggest that anthropolo-gists be mindful that the academy is partof ‘the field’. We never do research in a

vacuum. Our life experiences, the way theinstitutions within which we work arestructured, how funding is allocated etc.,all influence the construction of ‘the field’.We also need to collaborate with those weresearch when attempting to construct ourfield of research, which would be a part ofmy extension of Katz’s suggestions,” shesaid.

“That being?” I asked.“I would also argue that we need

to ‘blur the boundaries’ that are createdwhen fieldwork is conducted. We need tostep away from research projects that ex-plore only a certain snippet of time occur-ring within a specified region. We mustkeep in mind that events that took placefifty years ago, for example, can and oftendo affect the way people live their livestoday. Also, limiting ‘the field’ to a smallarea serves to create a homogenous group.People living around areas we are study-ing may have an effect on the people andevents anthropologists study, and that issomething that we also need to acknowl-edge.

Being aware that it is academicswho create ‘fields’, that space and timeboundaries give us a limited vision, andthat the creation of ‘fields’ is always donethrough power relations, means we needto focus on creating more inclusive‘fields’,” she suggested.

“How do we do that?” I asked.“We can do that by collaborating

with the people we wish to research. Thisincludes, but is not limited to, asking whatthey think is important, how the commu-nity is affected by people living in otherareas and actions that take place elsewhere,and questioning people who do not livewithin the community of study. We shouldalso talk to people within and outside ofthe community about important events thattook place in the past, and question themconcerning how the present might beshaped by these occurrences. If we must‘create a field’, this allows for those beingresearched to be involved, therefore dif-fusing power, as well as giving a more in-

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clusive view of the community,” she ex-plained.

Reflexivity

“Another important way thatfeminist researchers attempt to diffusethe power relations between themselvesand those they study is by maintaining alevel of reflexivity. Sandra Harding(1987) argues that a conscious reflexiv-ity places the researcher and the re-searched on equal footing. This is accom-plished by researchers being aware ofand disclosing “their own histories, val-ues, and assumptions that they bring intothe field” (Nast 1994:59) when conduct-ing research, as well as when interpret-ing, analyzing, and reporting their results(Bloom 1997). This is very similar to theissues surrounding objectivity that wejust discussed. We can never be entirelyobjective so we need to acknowledge thatfact, not only within ourselves when do-ing research, but also to those we studyand those who read our written accounts.Not only does this consciousness serveto decrease the sense that researchers are“neutral, objective observers” (Bloom1997:112), but it also increases aware-ness of how knowledge is produced inthe researcher/researched relationship,where dynamics of power andpositionality are at play. This introspec-tion that researchers take part in can alsolead to new research questions and/ornew hypotheses (England 1994).”

“This seems very similar to thenotion of questioning objectivity that wediscussed earlier, as you said. How isreflexivity different?” I asked.

“Well, not only does reflexivityencourage the awareness of the research-er’s biases, it also promotes the continu-ous analysis of the theoretical and meth-odological standpoints taken by the re-searcher (Lynch 2000). As relationshipsare formed and more is learned about thecommunity being studied, a researchermay find that his/her particular theoreti-

cal and/or methodological leanings needto be altered, or changed completely. Thisconstant reflection allows for more perti-nent questions to be asked, and for the re-searcher, those being studied, as well asacademia, to obtain more constructive anduseful information through the researchproject.

It is also imperative that research-ers ‘retain an awareness of the importanceof other people’s definitions andunderstandings of theirs’ (Lynch 2000: 90-91). Encompassing reflexivity allows re-searchers to include multiple voices in theirprojects. We will talk about multivocalitya little later. In terms of reflexivity, it isimportant for researchers to take into ac-count, and fully understand, the researchgroup’s definitions and conceptualizations.To exclude this knowledge could lead tomisunderstandings and misrepresenta-tions. To avoid further misunderstandings,it is crucial that the researcher be confi-dent that members of the community ofstudy understand her/his definitions andunderstanding of concepts, events etc. Fi-nally, researchers should outline their useof concepts and/or definitions in writtenaccounts to elicit accurate comprehensionfrom the academic community,” she said.

Multivocality

“I think that we need to talk aboutmultivocality as well,” she suggested.

“I hear a lot about multivocality,and that researchers need to give voice toother points of view. But I question howoften anthropologists actually take the in-terpretations of other people, namely thepeople they study, into account,” I said.

“Recognizing, and incorporating,other worldviews into social science re-search might not be general practice as ofyet, but in feminism, and especially femi-nist anthropology, I think that it is fairlycommon,” she said.

“How do feminist anthropologistsgo about including other voices in the re-search they conduct?” I asked.

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“Feminists began by thinking offieldwork as a dialogical process occur-ring between the researcher and thosebeing researched (Acker et. al. 1983,England 1994, Gilbert 1994, Gorelick1991). England (1994) has suggestedthat there are two main benefits of thistype of research: 1) the probability thatthe research may be transformed by theinput of the researched is increased, and2) the researcher becomes a visible partof the research setting, which leads toanalysis of the role of the researcher,resulting in a more reflexive stance. But,we talked about reflexivity already, solet’s focus on the transformative valueof multivocality.

If fieldwork is undertaken as adialogical process between the re-searcher and the researched, then theresearcher has the opportunity to exploreand clarify the issue(s) being investi-gated (Acker et. al. 1983, Armstead1995, Cancian 1992). When research isconducted as a collaborative process, theknowledge of subjects is valued(Armstead 1995). I think that Maguire(1987:45-46) summarizes the goals andbenefits of a multivocal research projectwhen she suggests that both researchersand community members, “know somethings; neither of us knows everything.Working together we will both knowmore; and we will both learn more abouthow to know”. When viewpoints asidefrom those of the researcher are takeninto account not only does the researcherallow herself/himself to be educated inan alternative way and transform the re-search project, but ownership of thatknowledge then rests not only with theresearcher, but with those researched(Gorelick 1991, Lynch 2000). Lynch(2000:81-82) suggests that the “fact thatthe subjects are co-creators of the knowl-edge means that they can exercise con-trol over definitions and interpretationsof their life world. They are also in aposition to be introduced to researchpractice through their ongoing involve-

ment in the research process”. This servesto diffuse power by giving subjects somecontrol over the research and what is re-ported, as well as instilling knowledge ofthe research process,” she illustrated.

“What about writing-up the re-search with the people anthropologistsstudy?” I asked.

“Yes, that is something that someanthropologists practice. It doesn’t happenall that often unfortunately,” she answered.“Some feminists have gone so far as co-authoring written accounts of research withthe individuals that were the focus of theirstudy (Gilbert 1994, Mbilinyi 1989).Mbilinyi (1989) credited the women shestudied with co-authorship when she pub-lished the results of her research. How-ever, this is not as easy as it sounds.Mbilinyi (1989) was working on life his-tories with a very small group of women.But, what happens when an anthropolo-gist conducts research within a communitywith a population of 100 people? Timewould rarely allow for an anthropologistto collaborate with that number of people,nor would space when attempting to pub-lish results. With the input of 100 people,or even 20 people, it would be impossibleto write an article short enough to submitto a scholarly journal, or a book conciseenough that people would want to read.”

“If co-authorship is impracticalmuch of the time, are there other ways thatfeminist anthropologists have attempted toacknowledge the multiple voices that ex-ist within any research project?” I asked.

“Some anthropologists have pre-sented any conflicts arising from data in-terpretation in their final texts (Borland1991, Gilbert 1994, Mbilinyi 1989). Mostanthropologists don’t have the time orspace to include the interpretations of everyperson they interacted with while conduct-ing their research. Focusing on conflictingideas between researcher and researchedthat arise once the interpretation and analy-sis of data is complete is one solution thatallows for multiple voices to be heard. Thismakes readers of written texts aware that

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there are different interpretations ofevents or interactions that are just asvalid as the researchers,” she stated.

“Don’t some feminists give edi-torial power to their research commu-nity?” I asked.

“Yes, that does sometimes hap-pen,” she said. “Some feminists havegiven copies of their written accounts totheir community of study, and giventhem power to remove parts of the textthat they were uncomfortable with (Gei-ger 1986). Some feminists have alsogiven research groups editorial powerwith regards to the researcher’s inter-pretations and analysis (Staeheli andLawson 1994). This is another form ofco-operation between researcher and re-searched that helps to distribute controlover what is produced, therefore diffus-ing power,” she said. “Those are the onlyforms of multivocality that I can thinkof at the moment. You can see that itdoes help immensely when the research-er’s goal is to diffuse power”.

Analysis and Interpretation of Data

“Another issue that arises when discuss-ing the power relations inherent in theresearch process, and the attempt to dif-fuse that power, is the analysis and in-terpretation of data (Gilbert 1994). Manyanthropologists still conduct researchprojects where they spend variousamounts of time in ‘the field’, whateverthat is for them, and then return home.They sit in their office at their compu-ter, and, once transcriptions are com-pleted, analyze their data, using variousmethods, and then interpret what theinformation could mean. Granted mostof these anthropologists will have spentprolonged periods of time within theircommunity of study, but how do theyknow definitively that they are interpret-ing the data ‘correctly’? The people stud-ied might have different ideas about theevents or conversations that the re-searcher may write about. Also, and

more importantly in discussions regardingpower, this system serves to perpetuate thepower inequities that inherently exist be-tween the researcher and the researched.

When discussing a research projectthat Acker et al. (1983) had undertaken,the researchers themselves suggested thatthe act of compiling data, summarizinganother person’s life (or part of it), and thenplacing it within the context you have cre-ated as the researcher, is objectification”she explained.

“So, then what do we do? How canwe find our way out of this system ofobjectification?” I asked.

“One answer that feminist anthro-pologists have fashioned is to engage withthe people you are studying with regardsto analysis (Staeheli and Lawson 1994).Researchers need to look at the categoriesand concepts that shape the projects theyare conducting and include the people theyare studying in a “critical, self-reflexiveanalysis” (Staeheli and Lawson 1994:100).Depending on time constraints, this maybe done during research, such as duringinterviews, or after the data is collected.Anthropologists might be able to spendtime following data collection discussingthe analysis and interpretation of the datawith the people in the community, or tran-scripts and field notes could be sent elec-tronically to subjects for their input, de-pending on the available technology. Nev-ertheless, the point is to include the peo-ple being studied in the process of analy-sis and interpretation of the data. If thereare any discrepancies between what theanthropologist feels she/he deserved andwhat the study subjects feel to be the case,these differences in view should be ac-knowledged in any written accounts,” sheanswered.

Political Activism

“Finally, political activism is another popu-lar method used by feminists to attempt todiffuse the power existing in research re-lationships. Part of the move toward eman-

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cipatory research is an approach to po-litical change (Gilbert 1994, Kobayashi1994, Lather 1986, Staeheli and Lawson1994). Feminist research is concernedwith the many different types of inequali-ties that exist within our world, and theways in which these inequalities can belessened and finally eradicated,” shestated.

“How does political action fit inwith collaborative forms of research?” Iasked.

“Well,” she started, “taking partin more democratic or collaborative re-search serves to connect those beingstudied to the academic world, thereforebeginning the process of social transfor-mation (Staeheli and Lawson 1994).When we aim to transform not only theequalities apparent between researchersand researched, but also the inequalitiesthat exist within the communities we re-search, or between these communitiesand the rest of the world, that is engag-ing in political action with the goal ofdiffusing power.”

“Also,” she went on, “givingback to your community of study is oneway of trying to lessen the inequalitiesthat exist between the researcher and theresearched (Gilbert 1994), that is also aform of political action. Some anthro-pologists might choose to send their bookroyalties to their community of study, orto set up a foundation in the communi-ty’s name. Whatever they do, they bringattention to the plights of that commu-nity on some level, thereby, helping toempower the members of the commu-nity of study”.

ConclusionsIssues to Consider

“There are some other issues that needto be considered. Emancipatory researchis the best method we presently have todiffuse power relations, but that doesn’tmean it’s perfect,” she cautioned.

“What are these issues that we

need to take into account?” I asked.“There are two main factors that I

can think of at the moment,” she said.“First, we need to remember that “evenfeminist researchers have the power toexploit respondents” (Bloom 1997:117).Our intentions may be genuine, but weneed to make sure that we don’t fall intothe trap of using our research subjects forour own means,” she warned.

“That’s true,” I said. “What is yourother concern?” I asked.

“We need to make sure that we arenot appropriating the voices of our researchcommunities. If we are going to includethe voices of those we research, we needto specify that they are in fact the opin-ions, understandings etc. of the researchsubjects. Allowing for any type of confu-sion regarding ownership simply reinforcesthe ‘patterns of domination’ (England1994:81) that we are trying to impede,” sheargued.

“That’s understandable,” I said.

Positioning Emancipatory Researchwithin Mainstream Academia

“So, how do we go about positioning eman-cipatory research within mainstream an-thropology?” I asked.

“Well, that’s not an easy questionto answer,” she sighed. “I’m not sure any-body has the answer. I do think that if femi-nist anthropologists keep on conductingthis type of research, presenting their find-ings at conferences, and publishing theiraccounts in prominent journals, then even-tually it will catch on. By doing thesethings, hopefully the colleagues of thesefeminist anthropologists will see the ben-efits of emancipatory research, and beginengaging with it themselves. I’m not re-ally sure what else to tell you. Like I said,I don’t have a concrete answer to that ques-tion,” she admitted.

“Oh, that’s fine. I just wanted toknow what you’re ideas were on the sub-ject,” I said.

By this point it was getting pretty

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late in the evening. I know I was gettingtired, and I think my acquaintance wasas well. I explained to her that I shouldgo grab a bus before service stops forthe night, and get home to bed so I couldstart working on my paper the next day.

“Yes, I should probably go see ifthey have started boarding my plane,”she said.

“Well, thanks for all your helptonight. I have a lot of ideas for my pa-per now,” I said.

“You’re very welcome,” shesaid.

“It was nice meeting you. Havea good night,” I said.

“Thanks, you too,” she said.At that point I left the pub to

head to the bus stop, and my new ac-quaintance left heading in the oppositedirection. Once I was on the bus I real-ized that I didn’t even get her name. Ihaven’t seen her again since that night.I don’t know who she is, and I guess Inever will.

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Queer Science, Queer Archaeology:Moving Beyond the Feminist Critique

AbstractFeminism still remains a ‘dirty’ word in some academic disciplines today, particularly in the hardsciences. It is argued however that a feminist critique of Western scientific thought has shed much lighton the omissions of the androcentric discipline. Feminist theory has influenced how archaeologistshave both theorized about and practiced archaeology over the last two decades. What this articleargues however is that the feminist epistemological standpoint, while important, situates itself in anextremist standpoint as the scientific objectivists do. In order to find an even more holistic and appro-priate way to explore and think about our human past, a queer science and archaeology should beundertaken. Not only does queer theory provide a more holistic way to critique lived experiencestoday and in the past, it moves beyond the feminist focus and provides a more compelling evaluation ofhistorical and modern institutions of power and knowledge production.

Biographical StatementLeah is in the second year of the anthropology masters program at the University of Victoria and herarea of interest is that of social anthropology. My thesis work examines female table-top role-playinggamers and role-playing games as a possible site for resistance or perpetuation of gender stereotypes. Along side her research on gender issues my other areas of anthropological fascination include socialand archaeological theory, participatory action research, youth sub-cultures, and play.

general article

Leah Getchell

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Despite the movements in feminist theoryover the last two decades it can be arguedthat feminism is still a ‘dirty’ utterance,particularly when it is associated with theword science. Feminist critiques of sci-ence have provided cross-disciplinaryinsights into the androcentric history andnature of Western scientific thought, andthe discipline of archaeology is no excep-tion. Since the mid 1980s the presenceand acknowledgment of the archaeologyof gender has fostered a wide audience ofsupporters from field archaeologists like

Elizabeth Prine, who searches for thirdgenders in a Middle Missouri village, toAlison Wylie who theorizes about thepresence and use of a feminist science andits contributions to archaeological theoryand method. Although I agree with thecritical nature that feminist researcherspostulate, I suggest the feminist critiqueactually situates itself in an extreme fash-ion the same way objectivist science theo-ries situate themselves as being the crea-tors of truthful knowledge production—thus positioning feminist theory in an

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extremist light. I will argue that clearlysome elements of feminist theory and cri-tique are essential both in science and inthe way we think about and practice ar-chaeology, however I will suggest we needto move beyond the dichotomous bi-gendered theoretical framework of objec-tivist processualism and extreme relativ-ist postprocessualism.

Queer theory not only provides anopportunity to move beyond the male/fe-male dichotomy but also away from theheteronormative standpoint that still per-meates scientific knowledge and archaeo-logical theory and practice today. It pro-vides us with a more holistic and criticallens from which we can address issues ofpower and knowledge, both in present dayacademic/scientific practice and in ourinterpretations of the past.

Before one can begin to under-stand and critique feminist epistemology,and its analysis of modern Western sci-ence, the role that science has playedwithin the discipline of archaeology mustfirst be reviewed to give the reader a moresolid platform with which to follow myargument.

It has been agreed that science canbe seen in both a positive and negativelight. Science has brought us modernadvancements such as aviation, theInternet and astonishing medical technol-ogy. On the other hand, the role of sci-ence in medicine has recently brought upmoral and ethical issues like embryonicstem cell testing—which one could argueallows scientists to play God all in thegood name of Science. These new moraland ethical issues are now bringing upthe fine question—what is Science?

Auguste Comte suggests that sci-ence is an institution of authority andpower such as the Roman Catholic Churchwas only a century ago (Johnson 1999).With this I will agree, however the ques-tion of what is science needs to be directlyaddressed in terms of its history withinthe discipline of archaeology. It was thesesorts of questions archaeologists were

asking in the early 1960s: What is Sci-ence? What are the different forms ofScience? And which form, if any, shouldarchaeology strive to appropriate?

Moving way from the CultureHistory approach, New Archaeologists,who later called themselvesprocessualists, solidified their paradigmshift with the slogan “we must be morescientific” (Johnson 1999:34). After theSecond World War, science-based tech-nological advancements and proceduresstarted penetrating academia and archae-ologists hung up their Stetson hats andtrowels for crisply starched white lab jack-ets and became immersed in laboratorylife. Archaeologists were moving awayfrom creating and organizing intricate andcomplicated pottery typologies to beingmore concerned with pollen diagrams,carbon-14 dating, dendrochronology dat-ing, and other more measurable scientificmethods. However it was argued that al-though archaeologists were using scien-tific methods this did not imply that it wasa distinctive and useful way of finding outabout the past. David Clark is quoted assaying the uses of scientific techniques“no more make archaeology into a sciencethan a wooden leg turns a man into a tree”(Clarke 1978: 465 qtd. in Johnson 1999:36). Nevertheless, New Archaeologistsargued that the natural sciences and thearising technological advances affordedarchaeologists the ability to bridge the gapbetween the past and the present and wasthe solution to the conundrum of infer-ence (Johnson 1999).

Before I argue more about thevalidity of science within archaeology, letme first explain how I am defining sci-ence in this particular context. Johnson(1999) provides a succinct explanation ofthe different forms of science archaeolo-gists concerned themselves with, and out-lines the most pervasive form—positiv-ism. Positivistic science is said to beconducted using the following beliefs;1. The notion that we should sepa-rate theory from method.

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2. The separation of the context ofthe discovery of an idea from the contextof its evaluation.3. A generalizing explanation is theonly valid form of explanation.4. Un-testable statements are out-side the domain of science.5. Scientific thought should be in-dependent of value judgments and politi-cal actions, (Johnson 1999:38-39).

To a critical academic and social theorist,several of these statements are likely togive goose bumps and send one runningto the liquor cabinet. These beliefs arethe foundation of positivist science and,as we will see later, are critiqued by notonly feminists, but by other members ofacademia as well. An example providedby Johnson of how archaeologists at-tempted to use this model to explain thepast looks something like this;1. Hypothesis: early states involvedifferential access to resources, in otherwords, elites have greater access to basicgoods.2. Test: dig a cemetery from an earlystate society and chemically analyze thebones.3. Deduction: the elite ate moremeat, so we deduce that they did indeedhave greater access to nutrition.4. Generalization: early states dohave such differential access, subject tofurther testing, other examples from othercultures at the same phase of social de-velopment, etc. (Johnson 1999: 41).

It is obvious how New Archaeologists andlater processualists attempted to situatetheir work, and the archaeological disci-pline in general, within a scientific frame-work.

There were people during thistime and long after that did not agree withthis strict and generalizing use of scienceand Johnson (1999) outlines some of thecritiques. Firstly, science is based on test-ing and observation of results and it isstill argued today this is a difficult task

with studying the past. This is a strongand ongoing debate and thus I will leaveit in its simplest form here. The secondargument against positivist science is that,as in chemistry or biology, science isbased on predictions and it is argued thathuman behavior cannot prescribe to thisblind predictability as our behavior is saidto be purposive or intentional (Johnson1999). Thus in order to understand hu-man actions and ultimately cultures of thepast, it is implied that we must try to un-derstand and recreate people’s thoughtsor their intentionality behind the produc-tion of specific pottery types or irrigationplans. It is argued that archaeology shouldbe concerned less with dating andtypologies and more with the thoughts andintentions that create the materialrecord—this task is something that evenscience is incapable of accomplishing(Johnson 1999).

Kuhn and Feyerabend (Johnson1999) take the critique of science one stepfurther in a direction that aligns with thefeminist critique. They suggest that posi-tivism is, in fact, not a theory but a myth.More clearly they suggest that positivismis an ideal model of scientific philosophyand as such, sheds a dim and murky lightonto what it is that scientists actually do.Johnson (1999) clearly points out that toask archaeology to follow such a philoso-phy would be asking them to create theirown fantasy world.

So the question remains, if sci-ence is merely a myth, what are scien-tists getting up to in their laboratories?Khun and Feyerabend suggest there areno authentic observable realities that areconsuming the funding dollars and mindsof scientists, but rather what they observeas fact and truth is socially, historically,and politically influenced and situated.Feyerabend follows Comte’s ideas thatscience itself is a large and excessivelypowerful institution that masks its self-serving interests behind their objectivistplacard. “Positivism in Feyerabend’sview masks ‘institutional intimidation’ by

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pretending to be neutral, hinders the de-velopment of science, and encouragesscientism and the ‘cult of the expert’”(Johnson 1999:45). Feyerabend makes anacute observation with his remark on the‘cult of the expert’ and I will return tothis point as it fits nicely into my laterdiscussion of the feminist epistemologi-cal standpoint on science.

What Kuhn, Comte andFeyerabend are arguing is a case of ‘so-cial constructivism’. This is the idea thatscience, and every other element of hu-man life, is socially constructed. Furtherthere can be no real objectivity in science,archaeology or any other discipline, be-cause what we know or proclaim to dis-cover from facts, theories and methodswill always be laden with the influencesof the social world within which we work.Lewis Binford suggests in his 2001 arti-cle “Where do Research Questions ComeFrom?” that “the recognition and discus-sion by archaeologists of ‘where do prob-lems come from’ is probably most char-acteristic of the contemporary era. Sucha problem does not appear to have beenacknowledged during the era of traditionalarchaeology” (670). Binford continues hisdiscussion with careful attention paid tothe claims of the contemporary era, or thatof a social constructivist standpoint, asmerely the business of the humanitieswith no position in the science of archae-ology.As a traditionalist and a member of theold academic elite it is understandablethis standpoint of social constructivismwould make Binford uneasy as he hasdedicated his career to objectivist inquiry.Questioning anybody’s epistemologicalparadigm, one on which they have builttheir life’s work no matter what the areaof study, will always become a powerstruggle—one which I will argue is es-sential when examining the andocentricnature of scientific thought itself.

The debate over the nature of sci-entific thought and practice within archae-ology has been ongoing since the early

1970s when many archaeologists, like IanHodder, began questioning notions ofobjectivity, inference, and analogy whenexamining past remains. Alison Wylie isanother influential participant in this theo-retical debate. In her article, The Reac-tion Against Analogy (Wylie 1985), shedescribes Kluckhohn’s wariness in theprocessual era of archaeology as the “lin-gering effects of overreaction to the ex-cesses of evolutionary speculation” (Wylie1985: 69) and the disciplines wariness ofthe more abstract queries of anthropologi-cal thought. Kluckhohn was ahead of histime when he stated, not only is it impos-sible to eliminate all interpretive, theo-retical inferences beyond the data—thevery identification of a body of empiricalphenomena as ‘archaeological’ presup-poses a vast network of such inferences—but also that this restrictive policy is pro-foundly counterproductive (Wylie1985:69).

This statement and others like itchallenge the notion of objectivity not onlyin the natural sciences, but in whatBinford would call the ‘Archaeology ofScience’ as well. Questions arise over thenature of the material record and howwhat we call ‘data’ can be considered datain the scientific sense if methods of analy-sis rely on inference and analogy and, asWylie argues, are laden with the socialexperiences of the researcher. The trou-ble with objectivist archaeology, if we canconcede for a moment that objectivity isan attainable goal, is what Johnson de-scribed above. We are dealing with a deadhuman past, so the possibility for one tostand back and make objectivist state-ments about a culture that is no longerpresent or patterns of human behavior thatwe can no longer see is a non-realitywithin a scientific framework. Wylie con-tinues to support this by saying that anyfact that is put forth comes only from ourcontemporary understanding and experi-ence of the way different cultures aroundthe globe work. In essence, any conclu-sion, assumption, or objective fact derived

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from either the archaeological record orin any other scientific realm, is purely aconstruction of the powerful institution ofscience itself which supports the goals ofthe few at the expense of the many.

It is appropriate to reflect back onwhat Feyerabend said earlier about thescientific institution being a ‘cult of theexpert’. I will now place a feminist lenson this discussion of science to exploreand discuss the androcentric nature ofscience and subsequently archaeology it-self. This will open the door to explainwhy the search for gender in archaeologyis so important to the discipline.

Gender and Archaeology

Viable human populationsnecessarily include two bio-logical sexes, sufficient num-bers of both, and their inter-actions. The archaeologicalliterature shows a past peo-pled mainly by men (e.g.‘Early man’, ‘craftsmen’,‘big men’) and with little con-sideration for the interactionbetween genders. As is it isrepresented, the human racesimply does not have a viableprehistoric population.(Hurcombe 1995: 87 qtd. inHurcombe 1997:15).

This quote by Linda Hurcombe is a suc-cinct summary of why issues of gendermust be addressed within the archaeologi-cal record. I have argued above thatprocessual archaeology (i.e. thinking ofarchaeology as a kind of science) has con-cerned itself with larger issues like theimportance of ranking and hierarchies incultural change, and largely has a biologi-cal reductionist and environmentally de-terminist approach. It lacks an under-standing of the significance of both thesymbolic realm and individual agency(Scott 1997). Since then, questions havebeen raised about the “proper study ofmankind” (Scott 1997:1) and here we see

the move away from the strict positivistapproach of processualism to the moreinterpretive and multi-vocal approach ofpost-processualsim—the introduction offeminist thinking, critique and concern forlooking at how we have been interpret-ing our human past. As the quote fromHurcombe suggests, archaeological inter-pretation has largely been one sided andthus does not create a picture of a viablelife-sustaining prehistory and she sug-gests, with the current picture of the pastwhich archaeology has painted for us, itis a miracle humans have made it as faras we have. Lucy (1997) aptly points outhow the androcentric interpretations of thepast represent a gap in the scholarshiprather than inherent holes in the archaeo-logical data itself. Lucy’s work withAnglo-Saxon burials in Yorkshire dem-onstrates the ineffective interpretation ofburials based solely on evidence of sexualdimorphism that lead to shallow andlikely inaccurate interpretations of pastAnglo-Saxon life. Instead, her researchdemonstrates that as an alternative foronly using grave goods to ascribe sex toburials, the examination of two otherequally significant assemblages (jewelryor no grave goods at all) need to be ex-amined. Thus, the examination of Anglo-Saxon furnished or non-furnished inhu-mation burials can shed more light on therealities of social organization and gen-der relations. This is more scholarly in asense because it does not solely rely onsexual stereotypes that explain nothing asthey are formulated not on reality, but onour contemporary biases and misconcep-tions. Lucy concludes her study by stat-ing, “[U]ltimately, the unquestioned au-thority of the sexual stereotype must bechallenged” (Lucy 1997:164). By includ-ing questions of gender in our archaeo-logical research, we are able to add moreholistic interpretations of the past.

Margaret Conkey and Joan Gerohave, both together and independently,had a significant impact within the ar-chaeological discipline, bringing gender

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to the forefront of study. Conkey was amember of the American Anthropologi-cal Association Committee on the statusof women from 1974 (chair in 1975-1976)and due to this she was drawn into theorganization of a panel for the 1977 AAAmeetings on gender research in the vari-ous sub fields of anthropology. Joan Gerohas also done important work on her ownand published a number ofgroundbreaking articles on these issuesand was actively involved in promotingresearch on the political dynamics, includ-ing the gender dynamics within the dis-cipline (Gero 1983, 1985, 1991). To-gether they organized a conference inSouth Carolina that was one of the firstarchaeological events to focus on the is-sue of gender. This was in response tothe famous 1989 Chacmool conference atthe University of Calgary, where the titleof the conference was “The Archaeologyof Gender”. It drew over one hundred con-tributions and was the first conference ofits kind (Wylie 1992). It marked the be-ginning of a new era within archaeologyand the wheels are still spinning over adecade later.

In their informative 1997 article,“Program to Practice: Gender and Femi-nism in Archaeology”, Conkey & Geroconcurrently argue with Lucy that the pri-mary purpose for undertaking a genderedarchaeology is to both identify and assertthe presence and activity of women atprehistoric sites. Such a practice forcesconscious attention to startling assump-tions about gender, where traditional as-sessments of the division of labor wereextremely biased.

They continue to argue that theconcepts of both gender and sex are con-structed, that is to say not rooted in biol-ogy, procreation, or are inherently dichoto-mous. This point clearly supports one ofthe first arguments made in this paperwith reference to the social constructivistnotions of science, and that allconstructionist critiques start from the as-sumption that our analytical categories are

deeply embedded in historical, sociocul-tural, ideological and material contexts.The materiality of the archaeologicalrecord brings about an important issue onhow to analyze the dialectic between hu-man life as socially constructed and thevery materiality of human life. In sum“the idea of gender as a social construc-tion mandates that archaeologists inter-rogate their starting assumptions whensetting out to do an archaeology of gen-der” (Conkey & Gero 1997: 418). Clearlywe can see the importance of includingthe search for gender—multiple ways ofexperiencing life in the past—into ourfield methodology and theoretical posi-tioning. It provides us with a more holis-tic view of the past, one that includeswomen as active participants within thesocial and cultural realms of prehistoricreality, and consequently allows us toengage in a more successful scholarship.This position also opens up the doors formultiple interpretations bringing us per-haps that much closer to a more robustscientific understanding of our past.

A Feminist Critique of Science

As I mentioned in the opening statement,the word feminism in the 21st century isstill at times considered a dirty word es-pecially when it is associated with sci-ence. I have experienced this first hand,particularly when talking to male col-leagues in the natural sciences, such asmath and physics. When I mentioned Iwas writing a paper on feminist science,or using a feminist lens to critique sci-ence, I received several blank stares or askeptically cocked eyebrow. Perhaps thisis a result of the skepticism that is raisedwhen the words feminist and science areused in the same sentence. What I wouldhave explained however, if I had felt thesocial climate was receptive, is that femi-nism in the sense that I will use it here isnot only about equal rights between bothsexes, but that the feminist critique of-fers a critical lens with which we (and it

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does not always mean woman, as men cantake a feminist approach, too) can take abird’s eye view of how power structureshave been organized. This could rangefrom the formation of academic institu-tions, the political economy, religious in-stitutions, or the discipline of science. Afeminist critique allows the user to ques-tion the status quo, the taken-for-granteds,and question issues of power and knowl-edge.

Why then were my male col-leagues so dismissive when I mentionedmy current pursuit? I would suggest it isthe misconception among both men andwomen about what the word feminism,in the academic sense of the word means.I will heretofore use Alison Wylie’s defi-nition of feminism as applied to the sci-ences. She suggests that feminist inter-ventions with science “exemplify a criti-cal engagement of claims to objectivitythat refuses reductive constructivism asfirmly as it rejects unreflective objectiv-ism. This is a strategic ambivalence thatholds enormous promise and is typical ofmuch feminist thinking in and about sci-entific practice” (Wylie 1997: 80). Shegoes on to say the hallmark of the post-positivist philosophy of science “ is a com-mitment to ground philosophical analy-sis in a detailed understanding of scien-tific practice (historical or contemporary),an exercise that has forced attention tothe diversity and multidimensionality ofthe sciences” (Wylie 1997: 87). Thisstatement is a difficult one as it requiresus to maintain faith that science has a dis-tinctive, unifying rationality that can bereconstructed across any discipline wehave historically or culturally identifiedas ‘scientific’ (Wylie 1997). What hascome from these conclusions is that noexisting science studies have the re-sources to make sense of science from astrictly philosophical, sociological or his-torical point of view. Andrew Pickeringmakes the point that “[S]cientificpractice…is situated and evolves right onthe boundary, at the point of intersection,

of the material, social, [and]conceptual…worlds [and it] cuts verydeeply across disciplinary boundaries”(Pickering 1992 qtd. in Wylie 1997: 87).The necessary task at hand is to developa truly interdisciplinary approach that willtake us away from the more dichotomousthinking of the traditional sciences.

It is this strict dichotomous think-ing that I will address as being the coreissue of both the traditional scientificframework and the feminist critique. Al-though, as Wylie (1997) suggests, break-ing down these dichotomies has been thepurpose of the feminist critique of science,I will argue that even though much workhas been done by feminist thinkers, thefeminist approach places itself at the topof the ‘how to know’ pyramid, doing whatthe traditionalists did with their philo-sophical approach to the production ofknowledge.

Conkey & Gero (1997) suggestone of the goals of a feminist critique ofscience is to question strict dichotomieswithin scientific knowledge in order toacknowledge and explore other ways ofknowing and experiencing life that is be-twixt and between such opposing notions.Additionally as stated above, it offers abasis for a critical evaluation of author-ity, symbols, the canon(s) of science, andthe arrangements by which science is pro-duced—thus the very nature of scientificinquiry. Conkey & Gero also suggest thatfeminist critiques of science question whocan be a knower, as well as the relation-ships of power between the communityof expert knowers and the knowledge theycooperatively produce. Ultimately, theyare asking questions about the moraliza-tion of objectivity.

When one takes a look at the sug-gested task at hand, which is todeconstruct what Western society hascome to know as science, it is no doubtan undertaking that would require perhapsan impossible combination of intellectualbrawn and pragmatic magic. Conkey &Gero suggest that it is the long-standing

feminist critique of science that hasopened the eyes of many archaeologiststo the current state of affairs within thediscipline. Those who have accepted thefeminist critique are those who havejoined Conkey and Gero in their effortsto incorporate issues of gender in theirtheories and methods. They outline fourmain sections within the feminist critiqueof science, which have proven to be par-ticularly influential in questioning ar-chaeological practices—I will outlinethem briefly.

Feminists and other critical think-ers have recognized that politics and thesubstantive products of knowledge gen-eration are essentially inseparable. Theyhave long been suspicious of science as abastion of male privilege—a point inwhich a counter argument would be dif-ficult to substantiate—and that sciencebetrays a pervasive disinterest in the con-cerns of women. Additionally sciences,particularly the social and medical sci-ences, not only reproduce but also legiti-mize precisely the ideology of gender in-equity that feminists question. I will addhere what I hope will provide a good ex-ample of just how androcentric science isby looking at scientific language used todescribe the human fertilization process.In Emily Martin’s intriguing and telling1991 article, “The Egg and the Sperm:How science has constructed a romancebased on stereotypical male-femaleroles”, she succinctly outlines the verygender biased language that modern dayscience uses. In an effort not to lose thepotency of her argument, I will quote herin full:

How is it that positive imagesare denied to the bodies ofwomen? A look at lan-guage—in this case, scien-tific language—provides thefirst clue. Take the egg andthe sperm. It is remarkablehow “femininely” the eggbehaves and how“masculinely” the sperm.

The egg is seen as large andpassive. It does not move orjourney, but passively “ istransported,” “is swept,” oreven “drifts” along thefallopian tube. In utter con-trast, sperm are small,“streamlined,” and invariablyactive. They “deliver” theirgenes to the egg, “activate thedevelopmental program ofthe egg,” and have a “veloc-ity” that is often remarkedupon. Their tails are “strong”and efficiently powered. To-gether with the forces ofejaculation, they can “propelthe semen into the deepestrecesses of the vagina.” Forthis they need “energy,”“fuel,” so that with a“whiplashlike motion andstrong lurches” they can “bur-row through the egg coat” and“penetrate” it, (Martin1991:489).

This provides an excellent example of thekind of male dominated language, thoughtand knowledge present in not only mod-ern, but arguably in historical science aswell. I suggest this kind of androcentriclanguage is present within the sciencesas there has been a noticeable absence ofwomen contributing and writing withinthe discipline. It is also argued that thestatistical absence of women in the sci-ences not only affects the androcentricbias in the discourse, but has also pro-duced overtly masculine understandingsand research conclusions (Conkey & Gero1997).

In terms of how this has influ-enced possible notions and research inarchaeology, Gero (1993) presents evi-dence from Paleo-Indian sites that havelargely been interpreted with a male bias.This consequently has permitted a domi-nant paradigm which focuses on huntingas the primary and definitional activityof early Paleo-Indian groups and does not

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examine elements in which womenplayed a role in the survival process oftheir tribes. This is a clear statement ofhow interpretations of the past can beblindly colored by the exclusion of othergender possibilities, namely women, inthe archaeological record. This kind ofomission can be seen across the board inthe sciences. If we do not insist that is-sues of gender be a primary focus of ourarchaeological inquiry, then we are notonly being poor researchers—as we arenot exploring all the possibilities—we areexcluding fifty percent of the populationand their role in prehistoric life. Clearlythe men could not have done it all on theirown.

Queer Theory—Moving Beyond theFeminist Critique

As reviewed above feministtheory is one that attempts to breakdownthe status quo of existing power struc-tures, like those within the discipline ofarchaeology and in science as well. Whenwearing a feminist lens to critique powerstructures within archaeology one willrealize the discipline has largely over-looked the presence of women in the ar-chaeological record, leaving us with a veryunrealistic representation of our historicand prehistoric past.

Looking for gender, that is to saymen and women in the archaeologicalrecord, has subsequently encouraged ef-forts to look for other less ‘traditional’elements in the material record such aspast sexualities and the presence and in-volvement of children. These are all valu-able and worthy goals that postprocessualists have undertaken, and I willcontinue to support these efforts as I agreewith the above scholars who suggest thata critical lens, a feminist lens, “is a use-ful and legitimate interpretive andclassificatory device” (Lesick 1997:39).

What I would like to examine fur-ther is the idea that feminism and thefeminist critique has situated itself, per-

haps unknowingly, in a dichotomous andhyper-relativist standpoint parallel to theuber-positivist processualist standpoint.As I mentioned earlier, the word feminismis still considered a dirty word, which stillrequires further examination within thediscipline of archaeology. As Lesick(1997) suggests, it has taken archaeologyfar too long to acknowledge that a femi-nist critique aims at more then simplyaddressing the Western battle of the sexes.

Alison Wylie (1992) puts forthsome salient questions that support myidea that a feminist standpoint, albeitunintentionally, sets itself up in a directand almost pious opposition to the ex-treme objectivist standpoint they wish toavoid. Wylie suggests the current researchon gender is clearly motivated and shapedin part by an explicitly feminist commit-ment and that in so doing it can be, andstill is I suggest, dismissed as an extremeanti-objectivist standpoint. In position-ing themselves in this way feminists ex-emplify the sort of partisan approach toinquiry and scholarship that Binford(2001) identified as conceptual posturing.More concisely, if political obligations asI have acknowledged above are insepara-ble from our theory and inquiry, does thisnot irrevocably compromise the commit-ments to objectivity and value neutralitythat stand as the hallmark of science? Ifthis is the case, what credibility can begiven to such an inquiry that claims itsresults are just as limited and biased asthose they are meant to displace? In ad-dition, if an explicitly partisan feministstandpoint suggests that it is providing amore objectivist view, as it is operatingoutside the dominant androcentric frame-work of inquiry, does this not suggest thatany view which uses a critical lens canbring new ways of understanding the past,and therefore suggests that any numberof standpoints might do the same? Trig-ger (1998) advises that any standpoint thatclaims its position is the appropriate andcorrect one, as much of the undertones offeminist literature suggests, it only suc-

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ceeds in becoming another extreme stand-point. The real foundation of its criticaltheory is side stepped by many and it isseen as having little credibility archaeo-logically or scientifically. This is whathas continued to happen with the femi-nist critique and its efforts to bring gen-der issues to the surface of the archeo-logical investigation, and is perhaps oneof the reasons many scholars in the disci-pline have been slow to ‘catch on’.

In response to Wylie’s 1992 arti-cle, Little (1994) provides an intriguingresponse, one that fuelled my own inter-est in exploring an alternative to the rela-tivist standpoint that follows feministtheory, which still alienates many contem-porary scholars across the disciplines.

Little directs her argument backto the musings of seventeenth-century phi-losopher and historian Francis Bacon andhis view that science is the domination ofman (explicitly) over nature. This is anappropriate interpretation of the histori-cal framework within which science hasdeveloped over the centuries. However,Keller (1985) interprets Bacon’s visionof masculine science as ambiguous butreflective of the epistemological effortsof the time. Keller suggests that in orderto move past the dichotomy of the male/female bias of the scientific framework,a hermetic standpoint is more useful. Isuggest this could be useful indeconstructing the rigid relativist stand-point much of the feminist literaturetakes. She also suggests that gender ide-ology was a crucial mediation betweenthe birth of modern science and our con-temporary political and economic trans-formations. The mechanical and hermeticwere opposing epistemologies based onphilosophies rather than empiricism.“The former separated matter from spiritand both hand and mind from heart. Thelatter suffused matter with spirit and be-lieved understanding required heart aswell as hand and mind” (Little 1994:541).The hermetic vision, that is not to say thephysical joining of male and female but

of the male and female elements in har-mony, was dismissed as the scientificrevolution responded to and supported thepolarization of gender required by indus-trial capitalism. Thus, the idea of a har-monious union of both female and maleelements was lost to the archives untilnow. What I hope to demonstrate is thatby moving away from explicit male/fe-male dichotomies and adopting a queerepistemology we may be able to push thelimits of our theoretical thinking. By sug-gesting the adoption of a hermetic or queerview of the world, and subsequently aqueer view of science, the notably dan-gerous division created by an extremefeminist standpoint epistemology can beavoided.

It is necessary at this point to de-fine what I mean by queer science. Theterm queer is again a very politically, so-cially, and historically loaded term. How-ever the epistemological standpoint be-hind queer theory allows for a more in-clusive theoretical paradigm then thefeminist male/female dichotomy—as itincludes anyone who does not fit withinthe normative framework. Therefore Iposition my argument of queer science notspecifically around the word queer butaround the standpoint of queer theory asa standpoint which aims to be inclusiveto all genders and sexualities and can of-fer both science and archaeology a moreholistic theoretical approach altogether.

In Goldman’s (1996) article,“Who is that Queer Queer? ExploringNorms around Sexuality, Race and Classin Queer Theory”, she identifies thatqueer theory, and the term queer itself,has many conflicting interpretations.Some people take queer theory to repre-sent another nebulous abstract form ofacademic discourse understood onlythrough the signifier queer: a complexterm which itself allows for many albeitcontradictory, interpretations. Therefore,depending on one’s position and knowl-edge, the term queer theory can meanseveral different things: a theoretical per-

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spective from which to challenge thenorm; another term for lesbian and gaystudies, or more radically another way thatqueer academics waste their time and tax-payers money (Goldman 1996). Clearly,this is an encumbered term, and I willagree that it may even be more of a con-tested term then the word feminism; how-ever, queer theory seeks to break downthe rigid ‘bi-gender’ structure and I ar-gue it provides researchers with a usefultheoretical tool, as it gets away from theoppositional stance which a lot of femi-nist and objectivist debates create.

Goldman continues defining howa queer theory standpoint allowsinclusivity, flexibility, and is a “rejectionof a minoritarian logic of toleration or sim-ple interest-representation. Instead, queerpolitics represents an expansive impulseof inclusion; specifically, it requires a re-sistance to regimes of the normal”(Goldman 1996:170). Relaying heavilyon postmodernist theorists like Foucaultand Derrida, queer theory aims to revo-lutionize power structures by changing theway discourses around sexuality and gen-der are structured as attempts to disruptthe hegemony of the heteropatriarchy(Goldman 1996). Using queer theory asa basis for a critique of science, it can beseen as a useful tool above and beyondhow a strictly feminist—based on a strictbi-gender approach—is used. It allowsfor an even more inclusive approach toaddressing issues of power and knowl-edge.

Moving Beyond the Feminist Critique

In Thomas Dowson’s 2000 article, “Whyqueer archaeology: An introduction”, heoutlines why queer theory is an effectivestandpoint for archaeologists to use wheninterpreting the past. He argues the pastis interpreted in a strictly heterosexualmanner that subsequently excludes sev-eral other ways of being. Notions of thefamily are never challenged and the West-ern and heterosexual ideas of family have

been transposed as being not only thenormative way of today, but in the past aswell. As noted earlier bringing ones ownsocial, historical and political mores andbiases into the realm of research is some-thing that is largely indisputable in thecurrent academic literature. What queertheory provides, which no other theoreti-cal perspective has achieved to this point,is an even more holistic method ofcritiquing not only lived experiences inthe past but current and historical insti-tutions of power and knowledge produc-tion.

Dealing with issues ofnormativity has had a long-standing andentrenched position within archaeologi-cal thinking. Although the progressivepostprocessual trends have introduced amuch-needed critical and self-reflectiveapproach to archaeology, they have largelykept their theory and analysis snug withinthe bounds of the normative. Dowson ar-gues that a new kind of archaeology isthus required. This will not be an easytask, and will force us not only to learnhow to better reconstruct the past, but itwill teach us new ways of approachingthe past altogether. This mandate willnot go uncontested and Dowson arguesthat even the most liberal archaeologistshave had a hard time actively supportinga queer inquiry of the past. Althoughpostprocessualism has brought some in-tegral and necessary reflexivity to howarchaeologists can interpret the past, wecannot stop there. The discipline of ar-chaeology must continue to push the barhigher and rise to the theoretical andmethodological challenge of a more in-clusive way of thinking about and re-searching our human past (Dowson 2000).

Dowson continues his argumentfor more archaeological engagement withqueer theory by suggesting, “queer theoryactively and explicitly challenges theheteronormativity of scientific practice”(Dowson 2000:163). This remark bringsus back to my argument that instead of afeminist science, we must adopt a queer

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science and thus a queer archaeology. Notonly has the scientific institution beenconstructed through an androcentric lens,it has also been built on a hetero-androcentric notion. So where a feministcritique brings up essential questions ofgender bias in scientific writing, dis-course, and practice, a queer perspectivetakes this one step further by addressingthe heteronormative framework fromwhich science is created. By adopting aqueer standpoint, archaeologists and criti-cal thinkers are opening up space for aneven more inclusive and critical analysis.This includes discussions concerning con-temporary institutions that claim to pro-duce truthful and normal ways of know-ing and being. It will allow the activeengagement of queer theory as a way ofcontinuing to improve work carried out asinterpreters of the past. This will not onlyimprove archaeological theory and methodbut will strengthen our commitment toaddressing the very foundation of West-ern scientific knowledge itself.

References Cited

Binford, Lewis.2001 “Where Do Research Questions

Come From?” American Antiquity66(4):669-678.

Conkey, M and Joan Gero.1997 “Programme to Practice: Gender and

Feminism in Archaeology.” AnnualReview of Anthropology 26:411-37.

Dowson, T.2000 “Why Queer Archaeology-An Intro-

duction.” World Archaeology32(2):161-165.

Gero, Joan M.1983 The Socio-Politics of Archaeology.

David, M. Lacy and Michael L.Blakey (eds). Amherst: Departmentof Anthropology, University of Mas-sachusetts.

1985 “Socio-Politics and the Women-At-Home Ideology.” American Antiquity(50)2:342-350.

Gero, Joan M. and Margaret Conkey1991 Engendering Archaeology: Women

and Prehistory. Oxford: Blackwell.

Goldman, Ruth.1996 “Who is That Queer Queer? Explor-

ing Norms around Sexuality, Race,and Class in Queer Theory”. InQueer Studies: A Lesbian, Gay, Bi-sexual and Transgender Anthology.Brett Beemyn and Mickey Eliason,eds. New York University Press:New York. Pp.169-183.

Hurcombe, Linda.1997 “A viable past in the pictorial

present: Invisible People and Proc-esses”. In Writing Gender andChildhood into European Archaeol-ogy. Jenny Moore and Eleanor Scotteds. Leicester University Press:London and New York. Pp.15-25.

Johnson, J.1999 Archaeological Theory: An Intro-

duction. Massachusetts: BlackwellPublishing.

Lesick, Kurtis.1997 “Re-engendering gender: some theo-

retical and methodological concernson a burgeoning archaeological pur-suit”. In Writing Gender and Child-hood into European Archaeology.Jenny Moore and Eleanor Scott eds.Leicester University Press: Londonand New York. Pp.31-41.

Little, Barbara J.1994 “Consider the Hermaphroditic

Mind: Comment on “The Interplayof Evidential Constraints and Politi-cal Interests: Recent ArchaeologicalResearch on Gender.” American An-tiquity 59(3):539-544.

Lucy, S.J.1997 “Sex and gender in Anglo-Saxon

burials”. In Writing Gender andChildhood into European Archaeol-ogy. Jenny Moore and Eleanor Scotteds. Leicester University Press: Lon-don and New York. Pp.150-168.

Martin, Emily.1991 “The egg and the sperm: How sci-

ence has constructed a romancebased on stereotypical male-femaleroles” Signs. 16(3):485-501.

Scott, Eleanor.1997 “Introduction: On the incomplete-

ness of archaeological narratives”.In Writing Gender and Childhoodinto European Archaeology. JennyMoore and Eleanor Scott eds.Leicester University Press: London

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and New York. Pp.1-12.Trigger, Bruce G.

1991 “Archaeology and Epistemology:Dialoguing across the DarwinianChasm.” American Journal of Archae-ology. 10:21-34.

Wylie, Alison.1985 “Reaction Against Analogy.” Advances

in archaeological method and theory

8:63-111.1992 “The Interplay of Evidential Con-

straints and Political Interests: RecentArchaeological Research on Gen-der.” American Antiquity 57(1):15-35.

1997 “The Engendering of Archaeology:Refiguring Feminist ScienceStudies.”The History of Science So-ciety 12:80-99.

Pharmaceutical Companies:Attempting to Change Ethnomedicine

by Supplanting Doctors

AbstractPharmaceutical companies are an important resource in medicine. However the relationships culti-vated by these companies, with physicians and patients, have negative consequences on the delivery ofadequate medical care. This paper draws attention to some of the potential problems and tactics usedby pharmaceutical companies to form relationships with physicians and patients. Furthermore it makessuggestions on how to buffer negative interference by pharmaceutical companies. This article aims toraise awareness of the need to protect our ethnomedicine.

Bibliographical StatementSangeeta Parmar is an undergraduate student at the University of Victoria, pursuing a double major inBiology and Anthropology. In addition to these fields, she has a special interest in Medicine. Herpersonal health and health care experiences had allowed her to look critically at medicine and theneed for refining and protecting our ethnomedicine. She hopes that in the future, medicine will becomemore people-orientated than profit motivated.

Acknowledgements:Thanks to my family, friends and professors: Dr. Beattie, Dr. Botting and Dr. Foster.Special thanks to both my younger brother and closest friend, always my enthusiasts.

general article

Sangeeta Parmar

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Pharmaceutical companies in NorthAmerica are increasingly promoting drugsolutions for the treatment of health prob-lems. These companies influence bothpatients and doctors through various tac-tics that often disguise their profit mo-tive from the public eye. The negativeconsequences of their interference in thedelivery of adequate medical care can,in part, be prevented by drawing atten-tion to the relationship these companies

foster with physicians through gift giving,paying large wages, and continuing edu-cation, and with patients through direct toconsumer advertising. Within the field ofMedical Anthropology some are attempt-ing to draw attention to these problematicrelationships and to suggest solutions.Recommendations have included increas-ing doctors’ awareness about their relation-ship with pharmaceutical companies,strengthening the doctor-patient relation-

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ship, and increasing the accountabilityof companies for unethical behavior.

Each society has its own beliefsabout sickness, which include ideasabout how we stay healthy, how we con-tract certain illnesses, and what we needto do to get better. These beliefs andideas, which determine when and whywe seek medical help and from whom,comprise our ethnomedicine, or cultureof medicine (Quinlan 2004). Pharmaceu-tical companies are attempting to trans-form ethnomedicine into a profit-focusedindustry by targeting doctors and pa-tients. These companies are undermin-ing the authority of doctors by using theircredibility as script writers and loyalhealers to promote their products to pa-tients. In addition, pharmaceutical com-panies are also targeting patients throughdirect to consumer advertising. Throughthese tactics, pharmaceutical companiesare increasingly gaining power overtreatment options, altering the relation-ship between physicians and patients andultimately changing the beliefs and ideascomprising our ethnomedicine.

The pharmaceutical industry’saim of improving profits is leading tovarious social consequences, includingincreased drug prices, and the misuse,or overuse, of medications in ways thathave potentially adverse affects on pa-tients (Blumenthal 2004).

In 2002, the industry spent ap-proximately 12-15 billion dollars on mar-keting to doctors in the United Statesalone (Blumenthal 2004). Some of thetactics used by the pharmaceutical com-panies include dispensing of gifts, ghost-writing of articles for academic physi-cians, payments of large consulting feesand the funding of lavish trips and en-tertainment for those who support theindustry’s products (Blumenthal 2004).In addition, companies compete to tar-get medical residents in order to buildloyalty with future doctors and to createprescribing practices that are difficult tochange until a company invests heavily

in the development and marketing of anewer product (Oldani 2004). Further-more, influential faculty members are con-tinuously targeted either to gain their sup-port for particular products or to neutral-ize their opinions if they are opposed tothe products (Oldani 2004).

Drug companies pay large sums toentice reputable physicians to publish re-search about their drugs without disclos-ing any conflicts of interest. For example,a Brown University professor of psychia-try published research supporting the prod-ucts of a pharmaceutical company, fromwhich he earned $556,000 of his $842,000yearly income, without disclosing informa-tion about his relationship with the com-pany (Oldani 2004). In addition, drug com-pany representatives, trained in sales strat-egies, not only provide medical residentswith free meals, promotional items, schoolsupplies, and travel expenses to attendmeetings, but are also allowed to teach resi-dents (Blumenthal 2004). It has beenshown that medical schools with strict poli-cies restricting student contact with drugrepresentatives during physician trainingproduce residents who are more critical ofthe information they receive from repre-sentatives (Detsky et al. 2001).

Currently, a common way pharma-ceutical companies interact with physiciansis through continuing medical education.It is estimated that pharmaceutical com-panies provide about $900 million of theone billion spent annually on continuingmedical education in the United States(Blumenthal 2004). Some physicians, in-cluding Marcia Angell, former editor-in-chief of The New England Journal of Medi-cine, are sceptical of the educational valueof the information provided by pharmaceu-tical companies (Lexchin 2001). InAngell’s words, “to rely on the drug com-panies for unbiased evaluations of theirproducts makes about as much sense asrelying on beer companies to teach us aboutalcoholism” (Lexchin 2001). Furthermore,companies continue to target not only in-dividual physicians, but also the whole

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organization, by providing financial sup-port to the American Medical Associa-tion (Blumenthal 2004). One of the waysto increase awareness of the potentialproblems that may be caused by phar-maceutical companies is to educate andcorrect misconceptions that doctors andthe medical association may have abouttheir interactions with pharmaceuticalcompanies. A substantial amount of theo-retical and empirical literature, includ-ing the documented concerns of physi-cians about their colleagues, suggeststhat many physicians may be mistakenin believing that their interactions withdrug companies have only educationaland patient improvement value(Blumenthal 2004). According toStuddert et al. (2004:1898) “when a giftor gesture of any size is bestowed, itimposes on the recipient a sense of in-debtedness. The obligation to directlyreciprocate, whether or not the recipientis conscious of it, tends to influencebehavior.” Furthermore, research con-ducted within the social sciences indi-cates that humans are prone to a self serv-ing bias (Blumenthal 2004). Therefore,it would be surprising if most doctorswere not influenced by the tactics em-ployed by pharmaceutical companies,regardless of their training. In a studydone by Wazana (2000), physicians whointeracted with drug companies weremore likely to request the inclusion ofdrugs from the pharmaceutical compa-nies they interacted with on hospital orhealth maintenance organization formu-laries, and more likely to prescribe theseproducts versus generic brands.

Not only are doctors influencedby pharmaceutical companies throughgift giving and the provision of continu-ing education, but they are also beingundermined by direct-to-consumer ad-vertising, which shifts power away fromdoctors as patients go into clinics re-questing specific drugs. Patient demandcreates a further incentive for increasedinteraction between doctors and pharma-

ceutical companies as doctors must obtainrelevant products. In addition, patients,like doctors, must research productsthrough the resources provided by phar-maceutical companies (Oldani 2004).

The work of anthropologists hasadded significant insight into the problemof pharmaceutical companies manipulat-ing the interests and intentions of both themedical profession and consumers throughcoercive sales strategies such as playingon the positive association between tak-ing pills and happiness. For example,Michael Oldani (2004) has drawn atten-tion to the feedback loop that exists be-tween doctors, patients, and the pharma-ceutical companies aiming to increase in-dustry profits through drug demand anddependency. The marketing of drugs, di-rectly to patients, raises the question ofwhether drug companies are not onlymanufacturing drugs but also manufactur-ing sicknesses (Vancouver Sun 2004). Forexample, in an article in the Vancouver Sunone pharmaceutical company’s list ofsymptoms for Social Anxiety Disorder in-cludes, “butterflies in the stomach” whenat a staff party, giving a speech or meetingstrangers (Vancouver Sun 2004:c9). Thesecommon symptoms could be attributed tonervousness rather than a condition need-ing treatment, yet pharmaceutical compa-nies encourage consumers to see their doc-tors and request specific drug solutions fortheir supposed problems. Over half of therequests made by patients for specificdrugs are inappropriate for the treatmentof their complaints (Donelan et al. 2003).However, as more patients are encouragedto self diagnose and to make drug requests,many believe that specific drugs are thebest cure and will doctor shop seeking thedesired prescription, thereby decreasingthe probability of developing a trusting re-lationship with one doctor. Further, patientsatisfaction is regularly used as a bench-mark for quality of care. Therefore, somephysicians may acquiesce to such requests,provided the patient does not suffer anyharmful effects (Donelan et al. 2003).

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However, this changes the dynamic ofthe doctor patient relationship becausethe doctor is consulted for script writingservices rather than for his or her opin-ion about treatment options.

Doctors often perceive the spe-cific drug demands of patients as chal-lenges to their authority and expertise,and the time required to thoroughly dis-cuss the patient’s request is often con-sidered inefficiently used and betterspent discussing valid treatment options,including suitable drug possibilities. Tominimize the negative effects of direct-to-consumer advertising, physiciansmust invest time to strengthen their re-lationships with patients. Doctors couldencourage their patients to criticallythink about drug advertising while re-searching their patients concerns anddiscussing all treatment options. Thisrelationship would increase patient con-fidence and trust in the medical adviceprovided and would create a mutuallyrespectful relationship, ultimately buff-ering the effects of outside influences,such as pharmaceutical companies, tar-geting this relationship.

Currently there are minimalguidelines setting boundaries for thebehaviour of pharmaceutical companies.The Food and Drug Administration(FDA) was designed to help enforce safe-guards but has fallen short in many re-spects. Further development of the au-thority of the FDA and enforcement ofstricter guidelines would help minimizeand limit the negative effects of phar-maceutical companies. Fraud and abuseby pharmaceutical companies did leadthe United States federal government toimplement legislation designed to allowfederal prosecutors to investigate theextent of illegal activity on the part ofpharmaceutical companies, chemical in-dustries, laboratories, and various urolo-gists (Studdert et al. 2004). The appli-cation of this legislation led to the phar-maceutical industry setting marketingguidelines for itself in 2002 (Studdert et

al. 2004). Although the legislation is astrong deterrent, the degree of adherenceto and self–enforcement of the imposedguidelines is questionable. Furthermore,as studies are being conducted whichanalyze the various tactics used by phar-maceutical companies, guidelines set bythe industry for itself are becoming increas-ingly controversial. For instance, gift giv-ing continues despite evidence that evensmall gifts create a sense of indebtednessleading to inappropriate prescribing behav-iour (Studdert et al. 2004). Pharmaceuti-cal companies circumvent the guidelinesset out for regulating their interactions withphysicians and for marketing their prod-ucts through developing relationships withand influencing the FDA, congress, andthose selected as neutral intermediaries.This is best exemplified by the lack of in-vestigation on part of the FDA before theapproval of Rofecoxib, also known asVioxx (Topol 2004). Without adequate tri-als or evidence supporting the benefits orindicating the side effects, the drug wasused by 80 million people with sales top-ping two and a half billion before its with-drawal on September 30, 2004 due to vari-ous negative and potentially fatal side ef-fects arising from its use (Topol 2004).This situation brings into question theFDA’s role in public health, since it hasonly been given the authority to act in re-questing reviews and trials by the compa-nies prior to drug marketing. The FDA hasnot been held accountable for their role inapproving Vioxx for use. If the FDA is heldresponsible, perhaps a similar catastrophecould be averted. There are also increas-ing numbers of lobbyists targeting mem-bers of congress, which is leading to thelack of scrutiny on drug circulation. Fur-ther development and enforcement of leg-islation and guidelines, perhaps throughthe FDA demanding appropriate behaviourof pharmaceutical companies, would be agiant stride in deterring pharmaceuticalcompanies from marketing unsafe prod-ucts. Furthermore, by limiting the rolepharmaceutical companies have in suggest-

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ing treatment options their negative in-fluence on the delivery of health carewould be decreased. It is an indisputablefact that pharmaceutical companies areimportant in research and drug develop-ment; however, it is also essential to con-trol and manage their interactions and in-fluences. Through their marketing tactics,pharmaceutical companies are altering ourethnomedicine by influencing our percep-tions of how to stay healthy, how to pre-vent illnesses, how to get better, andwhen, why, and from whom we seek medi-cal advice. Pharmaceutical companies tar-get doctors through gift giving, payinglarge wages, and continuing education inthe hopes of gaining the doctor’s confi-dence in their products. They indirectlyinfluence doctors by gaining the confi-dence of consumers who, demanding spe-cific drugs, ultimately question the author-ity of the doctor by relying on the infor-mation provided by the pharmaceuticalcompanies. By targeting consumers, phar-maceutical companies also weaken therelationship between physicians and theirpatients which, in turn, increases the im-pact of negative external influences ontreatment choices.

Conclusion

By creating awareness about the tacticspharmaceutical companies use to achievetheir goal of increasing profits, it is pos-sible to limit their influence on physicianswho would then be more vigilant aboutprotecting themselves and their patientsfrom exploitative relationships. A largestep towards minimizing the influence ofpharmaceutical companies on the doctor-patient relationship would be for doctorsto sever all giftgiving ties (Oldani 2004).To quote David Blumenthal’s article, theprofessional organization of medicinemust reflect the values of the profession,“so too, in the end, must the interactionsbetween drug companies and physicians”(Blumenthal 2004:1889).

References Cited

Blumenthal, David2004 “Doctors and Drug Companies.” The

New England Journal of Medicine351(18):1885-1890.

Detsky, A., Brill-Edwards, P., McCormick, B. andTomlinson, G.

2001 “Effect of Restricting Contact BetweenPharmaceutical Company Representa-tives and Internal Medicine Residentson Posttraining Attitudes andBehavior.” Journal of AmericanMedicineAssociation 286(16):1994-1999.

Donelan, K., Lee, K., Lo, B., Murray, E. andPollack, L.

2003 “Direct-to-Consumer Advertising: Phy-sicians’ Views of Its Effects on Qualityof Care and the Doctor-Patient Rela-tionship.” The Journal of the Ameri-can Board of Family Practice 16:513-524.

Lexchin, J2001 “Interactions Between Doctors and

Pharmaceutical Sales Respresen-tatives.” Editorial. Canadian Journalof Pharmacology 8(2).

Oldani, Michael2004 “Thick Prescriptions: Toward an Inter-

pretation of Pharmaceutical Sales Prac-tices.” Medical Anthropology Quar-terly 18(3):325-356.

Quinlan, Marsha2004 “From the Bush: The Front Line of

Health Care in a Caribbean Village.Case Studies in Cultural Anthropology.”George Spindler, Editor. Pp. 2-3.

Studdert, D., Michelle Mello, and Troyen Brennan2004 “Financial Conflicts of Interest in Phy-

sician’ Relationships with the Pharma-ceutical Industry - Self-Regulation inthe Shadow of Federal Prosecution.”The New England Journal of Medicine351(18):1891-1900.

Topol, Eric2004 “Failing the Public Health-Rofecoxib,

Merck, and the FDA.” The New Eng-land Journal of Medicine351(17):1707-1709.

Vancouver Sun, The2004 “Another Epidemic.” Oct. 30:C9.

Wazana, Ashley2000 “Physicians and the Pharmaceutical In-

dustry: Is a Gift Ever Just a Gift?” Jour-nal of the American Medical Associa-tion 283(3):373-380.

Twentieth Century Travels:Tales of a Canadian Judoka

AbstractIn 1960, Doug Rogers, my father, travelled to Japan in search of an ‘authentic’ training experience inthe martial art of judo. In this paper, a shortened version of the first chapter of my Master’s thesis, I aminterested in the act and the idea of travel: not only Rogers’ experiences of travelling to Japan, but alsohow his experiences intersect with the evolution of travel practises in the West between the late 18th

century and the middle of the 20th century, and the manner in which ‘travel’ has been reviewed andreported in anthropology.

Bibliographical StatementMichelle graduated with an M.A. in Anthropology in June of 2005 from the University of Victoria. Shehas recently been accepted for a Foreign Affairs Canada Young Professionals International placementthrough the Centre for Asia-Pacific Initiatives (CAPI) at Uvic. She is currently in Kuala Lumpur, Ma-laysia for an eight-month internship with CARAM Asia (Co-ordination of Action Research on AIDSand Mobility).

AcknowledgementsI would like to thank my father, Doug Rogers, for his patience in allowing me explore his early life;Andrea Walsh, my supportive, insightful thesis supervisor; and the graduate students of the Depart-ment of Anthropology at UVic, for their kindness and encouragement.

general article

Michelle Rogers

During the middle part of the 20th cen-tury the exchange and reproduction ofcultural forms and ideologies betweenJapan and North America intensified asa result of the Second World War (1939-1945) and the American Occupation ofJapan (1945-1952). This increased ‘cul-ture contact’ between Japan and NorthAmerica nurtured an environment ofmutual curiosity – inspiring dreamsabout an exotic ‘other’, and even en-

couraging some to travel overseas.

As a young boy living in St. Catharines,Ontario, Doug Rogers (b. 1941), my fa-ther, became interested in Japan and themartial arts. Captivated by “all thingsJapanese,” as he says, Rogers would ac-tively seek out ‘Japanese culture’ inCanada, whether reading comic bookswhich emphasised the mystical powers of‘super jujitsu’, eating family dinners with

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chopsticks or taking judo lessons at thelocal YMCA. His fascination withJapan and the sport of judo ultimatelyresulted in his travelling to Tokyo, Ja-pan in 1960 in the romantic pursuit of‘Japanese culture’ and an ‘authentic’training experience. Rogers lived inTokyo for a little over five years (1960– 1965), where he was able to hone hisabilities in judo, enabling him to suc-ceed in the sport at both the national(Canadian heavyweight champion[’72, ’67, ‘66, ’65, ’64]; ’65 All JapanUniversity Games – gold) and inter-national level (’67 Pan AmericanGames – gold and silver; ’65 PanAmerican Games – gold; ’64 Olympics– silver).

In this paper, a shortened version of thefirst chapter of my Master’s thesis, I aminterested in the act and the idea oftravel: not only Rogers’ experiences oftravelling to Japan, but also how hisexperiences intersect with the evolutionof travel practises in the West betweenthe late 18th century and the middle ofthe 20th century, and the manner in which‘travel’ has been reviewed and reportedin anthropology. I found that Rogers’travel to Japan paralleled some of theideals associated with ‘romantic’ travelundertaken by men, for the most part,during the latter half of the 19th centuryin Europe, which celebrated uncon-strained impulse, individual expression,the creative spirit and the desire to ex-perience ‘exotic’, local colour(Baranowski and Furlough 2001;Duncan and Gregory 1999; Withey1997). As Rogers said to me, there wasa certain amount of “wanting to get outon my own.” He wanted to travel to aJapan that, from his vantage-point inCanada, appeared “mystical,” “exotic,”“special,” “natural,” and “superior.”

In relation to the work beingdone in anthropology on travel and tour-ism, I found that my interest in Rogers’travel was not congruent with some of

the more prominent concerns in this field,such as the moral discourse on travel (re-lated to travel between ‘first’ and ‘thirdworld’ nations) (Butcher 2003; Lanfant1995b; Strain 2003; Wilson 1993), anddefinitional concerns that attempt to deter-mine who is a ‘tourist’ and who is a ‘trav-eller’ (Boorstein 1961; Cocker 1992; Cohen2001; MacCanell 1976; Risse 1998).Rogers’ travel experiences elide easy clas-sification. To demonstrate this point I il-lustrate how his experiences are in someways consistent with the image of the he-roic, masculine adventurer-traveller, whoattempts to escape the mundane everyday(Clark 1999; Featherstone 1995; Minh-ha1994; Ravi 2003; Williams 1998;) – buthow, at the same time, Rogers really didnot prize ‘the journey’ above all attachmentto person or place. The stories he tells,some of which are presented in this chap-ter, recall his everyday struggles of ‘get-ting by’ in Japan and highlight the intensebonds he formed with individuals while hewas there. Overall, Rogers feels that histravelling to Japan (1960-1965) furnishedhim with a myriad of positive experiencesand memories. I go on to review this againstthe fact thats a great deal of the theoreticalwork being done on travel in anthropology(which draws on refugee, migration anddiasporic studies) frames human movementas an unnatural and tumultuous event(Carey 2003; Gungwu 1997; Masquelier2003; Sarup 1996).

* * *

To begin this exploration of Rogers’ travelexperiences to Japan I will start with theterm ‘travel’. At the most basic level travelcan be understood “as the movement be-tween geographical locations and culturalexperiences” (Ravi 2003:1); or simply,“movement from one place to another”(Robertson et al. 1994:2). These minimaldescriptions, though, belie the fact thattravel is a far more complex and unsettledmatter, for travel depends upon one’s rea-son to move; one’s position of gender, race,

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class, and ethnicity; and one’s relationsto place, power and identity (Roberson2001). Under the umbrella of ‘travel’such disparate experiences as a seasidevacation, a shopping trip to the mall,political exile, and immigration havebeen theorised and reported. At one endthere is travel as movement betweenfixed locations with self-arranged depar-ture and arrival points, and the intima-tion of an eventual return. Whereas theother end is marked by variations ofmigrancy, suggesting that neither depar-ture nor arrival are immutable or cer-tain, and the privilege of “domesticat-ing the detour” is all but an impossibil-ity (Chambers 1994:5). This being said,it is difficult to slot Rogers’ travel toJapan at one point on the spectrum –one’s experience of travel, particularlyone’s freedom, can shift markedly overthe course of a trip – but, for the mo-ment, Rogers’ experience can readily becompared to Clifford’s (1997) definitionof travel. One that sees travel as a setof more or less voluntarist practices ofleaving ‘home’ to go some ‘other’ placefor the purpose of gain: material, spir-itual, scientific. A process that involvesobtaining knowledge and/or having an‘experience’ – that is often exciting,edifying, pleasurable, estranging, and/or broadening. This is a description thatis built upon a classic understanding oftravel that is predominantly Western-dominated, strongly male and middle orupper class.

Leisure travel prior to the late18th and early 19th centuries in Europewas principally the prerogative of aris-tocrats and other wealthy elites. Privi-leged young men participated in theembodiment of leisure travel, the GrandTour, which enhanced their cultural edu-cation, health and pleasure (Baranowskiand Furlough 2001), and furnished themwith a “socially acceptable form of es-cape” (Withey 1997:3). Rather than anecessary evil and the source of greatsuffering – a burden to be borne by pil-

grims, merchants and explorers – travelcame to be seen as an end in itself, a formof pure pleasure. Later on travel was nolonger an exclusively aristocratic preserve.As the 19th century progressed it was in-creasingly construed as a quintessentiallybourgeois experience that had its originsin the combined development of romanti-cism and industrialism. Romanticism ef-fectively marked a severance with the sov-ereignty of Reason and, instead, glorifiedunconstrained impulse, individual expres-sion and the creative spirit (Duncan andGregory 1999). At the heart of ‘romantic’travel lay a celebration of the wildness ofnature, cultural difference and the desireto be submerged in local colour. Travel ofthis type was considered to be most effec-tive if it was unhurried, unregimented andsolitary. Even the very indeterminacy ofwandering, which the ancient Odysseusfound an ever-present burden, became theultimate source of freedom the Romanticsvalued in travel (Leed 2001). Thus by the19th century, travel’s most characteristic fig-ure was the young male “fleeing the dullrepetitions and the stifling mundanity ofthe bourgeois” (Duncan and Gregory 1999:6). Parallels can be drawn if Rogers’ ex-periences are compared to the formal Grandtour-type excursion and later ‘romantic’travel. There exists the voluntariness ofRogers’ departure; the experiencedindeterminacies of his movement; thepleasure of travel free from strict neces-sity; and, perhaps most importantly, theautonomy provided, which nurtured a senseof independence from one context or set ofdefining associations.

Rogers’ voyage needs also to beconsidered against the backdrop of travelpractices in North America during the earlyand middle parts of the 20th century. WithinNorth America the initial wave of masstourism took place during the 1920s and1930s, as transportation costs dropped, tourcompanies expanded, leisure time in-creased, paid holidays became more com-mon, car ownership expanded, and motelchains made lodging more affordable

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(Shaw and Williams 1994). Baranowskiand Furlough’s examination of tourismand vacation policies at this time revealsan “emphasis on tourism and vacationsas a means toward social and nationalharmony, as well as their potential tomitigate conflict and promote the ‘de-mocratisation of leisure’ through ex-panded access to leisure practices con-noting social prestige” (2001: 1889:16).The advantages of tourism and vacationswere touted for workers’ health, hygieneand, ultimately, productivity upon returnto the workplace. The Second WorldWar furthered this enthusiasm for mov-ing outside one’s home, as millions ofNorth Americans had earlier left theboundaries of their community to assistin the War effort. After the War, popu-lar magazines and newspapers filledtheir pages with helpful advice aimedat assisting uninitiated travellers, high-lighting and debating the benefits oftravel for both the individual and thefamily unit. With nation, commerce andsentiment intersecting, “Holidays hadbecome almost a marker of citizenship,a right to pleasure” (Dubinsky 2001:325). Ultimately this (illusion of) free-dom supplied by the regime ofcommodified leisure was a preciousthing during the early and middle partof the 20th century as the “shades of themodern prison-house [were] closing in,when the passports and queues andguided tours and social security numberand customs regulations and currencycontrols [were] beginning gradually toconstrict life” (Fussell 2001:106). Butjust like the paint-by-numbers kits thatflourished during the rigid McCarthyera, one was expected to travel withinthe lines.

Rogers did not navigate entirelywithin the lines. The general furore andacceptability of travel during the 1950splayed on his thoughts about going else-where, but his voyage to Japan markeda step outside the boundaries of the well-worn, pedestrian journeys to such places

as the National parks or Niagara Falls.Rogers’ conservative, religious parentswere particularly concerned about and op-posed to his declaration to go to Japan, forJapan was an alien territory to them, a placepopulated by a people that had been ‘theenemy’ in the not-so-distant past. Rogers’decision did not fall in line with the Cana-dian identity-reinforcing travel practices ofthe time. It was instead a choice steepedin the romantic desires of exploration, ex-perience and ‘other’. Furthermore, it ispossible to glimpse in Rogers’ travel a re-jection of certain facets of modern life inCanada during the middle part of the 20th

century. Rogers was not yet netted into thedaily grind of employment by the time heleft for Japan, but he was well aware oflimitations and responsibilities afforded bysuch circumstances. His father was aUnited Church minister and, at one time, achaplain onboard a Canada naval ship dur-ing the Second World War; thus Rogers wasprivy to the social, economic and politicalobligations that were part and parcel of Ca-nadian church and military life. Dreamingof Japan – an ‘exotic’ land of ‘authentic’traditions – offered Rogers an escape fromthe expectations of his parents and peers atschool in Montreal. His parents expectedhim to pursue the routine, respectable andeconomically secure existence of either adoctor or lawyer. Yet he found organisedstudent life at McGill University tediousand bland when compared to the excitementof training in the dojo and the allure of par-ticipating in the sport of judo, somethingthat felt outside the rules and habits of hiseveryday life in Canada. He mentioned thathis attendance at McGill during this timewas “not what it should have been” becausehe was “trying to practise at dojos all overMontreal.”

Over and over again in our conver-sations Rogers would use such adjectivesas ‘unique’, ‘traditional’, ‘special’, ‘pure’,‘superior’, ‘mystical’, and ‘artistic’ to de-scribe the Japan that he imagined as a teen-ager living in Montreal. Compared toCanada, Japan was ‘authentic’. This is

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consistent with MacCanell’s belief that“for moderns, reality and authenticityare thought to be elsewhere: in otherhistorical periods and other cultures, inpurer, simpler lifestyles” (1976:3). Italso speaks to Chambers perspectivethat “to go elsewhere to find such ‘au-thenticity’” perpetuates that drive “toreturn to the beginning, no longer ourown, but that of the other who is nowrequested to carry the burden of repre-senting our desire” (1994:71). The ver-sion of Japan that Rogers constructed forhimself in Canada was a Japan that was‘natural’ or ‘traditional’, that existed forits own sake – a Japan that lay in oppo-sition to life in North America wherealmost everything appeared devised andstructured for profit, and under marketcontrol (Strain 2003). The importantpoint to note here is that the ‘authentic-ity’ Rogers assigned to Japan was notnecessarily ‘real’, but created by Rogersbased upon contingent circumstancesand ideas. In truth, it was the Japanesewho actively revised their own history,articulating and practising ‘authentic’traditions for self-serving reasons – andnot to quench the desire of Western trav-ellers in search of the harmonious, sim-ple life (Igarashi 2000; Lie 2001).Moreover, Japan could be described as‘modern’ by the time Rogers arrivedthere in 1960 (Minear 1980). To ana-lyse Rogers’ experiences entirely in re-lation to the simplistic authentic-inauthentic couplet is theoretically un-sound, but this fantasy image of Japanas ‘the land of tradition’ remained a con-sistent theme when Rogers spoke of hisearly reasons for travelling there.

Rogers pieced together an im-age and understanding of Japan and thesport of judo in Canada based on a vari-ety of sources: comic books, movies,books about judo, advertisements, andparticipating in judo in Montreal – allof which played upon his imaginationand fuelled his desire to travel to ‘ex-otic’ Japan. It should also be noted that

these sources often did not come directlyfrom Japan, but were mediated throughnon-Japanese individuals who had (some)knowledge of Japan and its customs, andin turn packaged this information in oneform or another for consumption outsideof Japan.

DR: When I was in Victoria – I think I was therewhen I was four-and-a-half, sometime after that– I used to read comic books, and on the backsof these comic books there would be advertise-ments, secret jujitsu or combat judo. Some-times in the comic books themselves the char-acters would have knowledge of this mysticalAsian fighting art. This really intrigued me, soat an early age I started thinking about themartial arts as something very spectacular,very mystical, and it was something that theJapanese had knowledge of. I think even thenI was determined to seek out and learn as muchas I could about it…I used to go to the library,whether it was the city public library or theschool library, and search for as many booksas I could on Japan and the martial arts. Andthen sometime in the early fifties there were afew publications starting to come out, whichyou could buy at the news stand. Some of themwere specific to judo – some were written bythe Japanese, some by Europeans, and somewere the result of Caucasians who had come incontact [with the martial arts] because of theWar. You just started to see this interest…Mostof my information was second hand; I had nofirsthand information…I remember one movieI saw before I went to Japan called Sayonara(1957) with Marlon Brando, and again therewas just an idea that almost everything Japa-nese had to be good, and I guess it was becauseI got so caught up in judo, this system seemedso perfect. I was having such a good time com-peting and practising. I just knew I had to goto Japan.

From Rogers’ commentary on his early in-terest in judo and Japan it is possible toglean the singular importance that the im-agination plays in the lives of people in the20th century. Writing elegantly on this point,Appadurai argues that there is a peculiarnew force to the imagination in social lifetoday.

More persons in more parts of the

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world consider a wider set of “possible”lives than they ever did before. One im-portant source of this change is the massmedia, which present a rich, ever-chang-ing store of possible lives, some ofwhich enter the lived imaginations ofordinary people more successfully thanothers…That is, fantasy is now socialpractice; it enters, in a host of ways, intothe fabrication of social lives for manypeople in many societies (1991:197-198).

* * *

Overall, my interest in Rogers’ travelto Japan is a departure from some of themore popular concerns of anthropolo-gists who study travel and tourism.

Up until the 1970s, anthropol-ogy largely ignored travel and tourism(Wilson 1993). The reason for the la-cuna in the analytical development oftravel was partly a function of leisuretravel being considered a side issue tothe more serious business of industrialproduction (Meethan 2001). Yet a fewscholars were successful in establishingleisure travel as a topic worthy of seri-ous investigation during the 1970s, dem-onstrating its social, economic and po-litical significance in contemporary life.For the most part, though, the discus-sion of leisure travel has continued tocircle around moral and definitionalconcerns.

Travel and tourism are fre-quently determined to be either ‘bad’or ‘good’ (Butcher 2003). Travel is ei-ther a fatuous interaction between theprivileged ‘first world’ and anobjectified class of ‘third world’ others;or it is reviewed positively because tour-ists are confronted with a radically dif-ferent culture that confounds and chal-lenges their Western epistemologies(Strain 2003). In the first case the ‘thirdworld’ performs a degraded form of theirnative culture for a moneyed audience,perpetuating economic dependence,

stunted industrial development and powerrelations smacking of colonialism. In thisperspective the traveller is condemned asa harbinger of globalisation, sweeping awaydiversity in his or her wake (Butcher 2003).Alternatively, the second ‘utopic’ modelargues that tourists’ dollars provide an eco-nomic impetus for preserving indigenoustraditions and staving off the encroachmentof homogenising forces (Strain 2003).

It cannot be ignored that the tour-ism industry is often a transmission belt ofpost-industrial ‘sending’ societies and de-veloping ‘receiving’ nations on the end(Kinnaird et al. 1994; Lanfant 1995a,1995b; Wilson 1993), but this type of un-equal exchange did not occur between Ja-pan and Canada. These two nations havenever been involved in an unequal, hierar-chical tourism dynamic, as both countrieshave progressed industrially, militarily andtechnologically over the past century (Lie2001; Minear 1980; Nitobe 1931). Thismakes a moral discussion based on the non-developed – developed binary, in this case,theoretically unsound.

Anthropologists interested in travelhave been equally concerned with who is a‘tourist’ and who is a ‘traveller’, and howtheir journeys differ. The preoccupationwith this distinction has early roots. Tour-ists were thought to be more socially di-verse than their elite predecessors on theGrand Tour, and were instead marked aspart of the modern mob or crowd. Euro-pean tourists stimulated class anxieties inthe wake of the French Revolution aboutthe mobility of the lower orders of society(Buzard 1993). The perceived inundationby tourists visiting continental capitals,viewing the Alps and touring the favoureddestinations of the elite Grand Tour,prompted ‘travellers’ to assert their culturalsuperiority. Elite travellers proposed thatthey possessed an ‘authentic’ (as opposedto passively received) knowledge aboutthese locations, and had an originality andself-sufficiency in judgement that touristslacked (Baranowski and Furlough 2001).Leaning on this early distinction between

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tourists and travellers, Boorstein arguedthat the traveller was working at some-thing, but the tourist was a mere pleas-ure-seeker: “The traveler was active; hewent strenuously in search of people, ofadventure, of experience. The tourist ispassive; he expects interesting things tohappen to him” (1961:85). ForBoorstein, tourism was diluted, con-trived and prefabricated, and it lay inopposition to the sophisticated pleasuressought by the well-prepared, intellectualman. Yet MacCanell (1976) later rea-soned against Boorstein’s strict di-chotomy, finding that many tourists alsoactively demanded and searched for au-thenticity, just as many travellers do.

Consistent among most defini-tions of a ‘traveller’ appears to be anemphasis on the discomfort with thejourney. Cocker writes that “travellersthrive on the alien, the unexpected, eventhe uncomfortable and challenging”(1992:2); and Fussell (1980) remarksthat travel is to work and suffer. Foretymologically a traveller is one whoendures travail, a word that is derivedfrom the Latin word trepalium – a tor-ture instrument consisting of threestakes designed to rack the body(Robertson et al. 1994). According toRisse (1998), differentiating betweentravellers and tourists on the basis ofphysical toughness is one of the mostpopular means to solidify the boundarybetween the two groups; however, shesuggests that there are four other ways:how much a person knows about a coun-try visited, how much money the personhas, where the person is travelling, andwhen the person is travelling. Rissewanders into the definitional thicketwhen she declares that “travellers makeall the logistical decisions about theirtrip; tourists don’t. A traveller, thus, isthe active creator of thejourney…Tourists, as I use the termwithout negative implications, followsomeone else’s agenda” (1998: 48).Cohen (2001) expands the tourist-trav-

eller division, offering instead what he de-scribes as the five main modes of touristicexperiences: recreational, diversionary, ex-periential, experimental, and existential.They are ranked so that they span the spec-trum between the experience of the “tour-ist as the traveller in pursuit of ‘mere’pleasure in the strange and the novel, tothat of the modern pilgrim in quest of mean-ing at somebody else’s centre” (Cohen2001:34).

Pulling away from these directionsin the study of travel and tourism, I do notwant to examine Rogers’ narrative in aneffort to determine whether his travel ex-periences were ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ or to con-clude whether he was a ‘traveller’ or a‘tourist’. Personal histories of travel offera chance to explore the specific factors thatmotivate people to go abroad and their ex-periences once they arrive in a foreignplace. What is of interest to me in Rogers’story was his desire to travel to Japan, thatwas based on his construction of Japaneseculture in Canada, and the unique experi-ences that he had in Japan that were con-tingent upon his decision to stay and trainin this country between 1960 and 1965. Towork towards tidily determining whetherRogers was a tourist or a traveller wouldignore the complicated reality of his expe-riences and how they elide easy classifica-tion. To demonstrate this point, I outlinein the next section how Rogers’ travel ex-periences were, in many ways, heavilysteeped in a romantic, masculine travelrhetoric. But how, at the same time, histravels defy such a simple reading. He wasnot the steady, observing adventurer;oftentimes he was uncertain and lonely,especially during the first year he was there.

It could be argued that Rogers’travel to Japan was an escape from the quo-tidian, mundane routine of everyday life inCanada. It could also be said that his jour-ney was a quest for greatness in the area ofjudo, signalling a dash of the ‘heroic’.

DR: I had not done judo all across Canada be-fore I left, just in Montreal, and I had gone up

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to Toronto a few times…and I had won afew championships locally against some rea-sonably good fellows. I was determined togo to Japan to outstrip them all, to learnjudo. It wasn’t to go to the Olympics, it wasto become really, really good at judo. Oth-erwise I could have gone anywhere, I sup-pose. I suppose I wanted to leave home too.There was a certain bit of that, wanting toget out on my own.

As Rogers sailed away fromCanada he was leaving behind the com-forting, cosy environment of home. Inthe mid-20th century, middle and upperclass Canada, ‘home’ represented civil-ity and the social contract, not to men-tion compromise: home, for most, wasassociated with monogamy, propriety,respectability, ‘the law’, organised re-ligion, and cleanliness. Alternatively,the open road and the sea “all bespeaksomething ‘strange’, perhaps ‘wonder-ful’, not ‘settled’; liberty, movement,sometimes even lawlessness, in the wil-derness wild” (Williams 1998: xxi-xxii).The inclination to travel can be strong,for there is the pull of the unknown andthe push to extricate one’s self from thewell-trodden paths of domestic life.Despite the physical and existential dif-ficulties travel often entails, it deeplysatisfies the desire for detours anddisplacements in our new global circum-stances (Minh-ha 1994). The dialect oftravel – “the affirmative sense ofgroundlessness and the negative pleas-ure of displacement” (Ravi 2003: 2) –emerges as a desired space to inhabit.And the ‘time out’ of travelling worksto delay the otherwise irrevocable pas-sage of time; one can escape the presentand choose to bask in the unhurried andtraditional pleasures of the ‘other’.

There can even be an oedipalresonance to ‘the journey’. The momentof departure represents the son’s refusalto stay within the household and so hedefies paternal authority by embarkingon a rite of passage from adolescence toadulthood. “Travel might thus be seen,

in highly abstract terns, as a refutation ofthe father, and a denial of intimacy withthe mother” (Clark 1999: 19). Lévi-Strauss(1964) suggests that Western adolescentsfeel compelled to get clear, by one meansor another, of civilisation: some climbmountains, some go far below the groundand others escape horizontally to penetratesome foreign land. This outer journey ofphysical and spatial mobility can functionas a metaphor for the interior journey ofthe soul, mind or consciousness that is saidto mark the maturation process of the ado-lescent. Freud, speaking of his own desireto travel, writes:

My longing to travel was nodoubt also the expression of awish to escape from that pres-sure, like the force which drivesso many adolescent children torun away from home. I hadlong seen clearly that a greatpart of the pleasure of travellies in the fulfilment of theirearly wishes – that it is rooted,that is, in dissatisfaction withhome and family. When firstone catches sight of the sea,crosses the ocean and experi-ences as realities cities andlands which for so long hadbeen distant, unattainablethings of desire – one feels one-self like a hero who has per-formed deeds of improbablegreatness, (1973:247).

Intimately connected to this mas-culine, adolescent adventuring is the ideaof the ‘heroic life’. To talk of the ‘heroiclife’ is to risk sounding dated, as scholar-ship in the post-colonial era has long sus-tained strong counter-cultural traditionsfavouring an anti-heroic ethos. Recentscholarship leans more towards a valuationof the popular and the detritus of everydaymass and consumer cultures, than the idi-osyncratic and the exceptional. Yet strandsof the ‘heroic’ appear to be woven throughRogers’ story. If everyday life is principallyaligned with the taken for granted, com-

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mon sense pursuits of wealth, propertyand earthly love, then the heroic lifepoints to the opposite qualities: extraor-dinary deeds, virtuosity, courage, endur-ance, and the capacity to attain distinc-tion. The heroic life points to a life“fashioned by fate or will, in which theeveryday is viewed as something to betamed, resisted or denied, something tobe subjugated in the pursuit of a higherpurpose” (Featherstone 1995:55).Nietzsche went so far as to label as ‘gen-ius’ the qualities of energy, endurance,seriousness, and single-mindedness withwhich the individual may approach theproject of living a fulfilled, authenticlife; where one thinks and acts in a par-ticular direction, using everything he orshe experiences to that end. In this way,we can see how Rogers turned awayfrom ordinary life in Canada in his sin-gular effort to pursue excellence in thesport of judo, which ultimately led tosuccess at the international level, afford-ing him a degree of fame both in Japanand Canada.

If Rogers’ experiences are readas a compact overture they could beviewed as an unfolding of the poetictravel narrative: the departure, thecrossover, the wandering, the discovery,the return, and the transformation(Minh-ha 1994). In this tale, Rogersdeparts from the everyday sphere of careand maintenance, only to return the heroof his chosen quest – but such a closedreading as this would be incomplete andsimply incorrect. If the heroic travel-ler’s space is marked by a reduction ofeverything and everyone to raw mate-rial – “an existence of temporary pick-ups and friendships, of people droppedas soon as met, of indifferent, deep ego-ism of moving for moving’s sake”(Raban 1986:183) – then these are cir-cumstances that cannot be found inRogers’ story. I would not characteriseRogers as the categorising onlooker whosubordinates all interests in others to akind of primal narcissism: a fellow that

prizes ‘the journey’ above all other humanattachments (Clark 1999). If his originalreasons for travelling to Japan are glazedwith the romantic, his actual stay in Japanis marked by an acute sense of the day-to-day logistics of getting by and stories thatinvolve the friends he made during his staythere. During our stay in Tokyo, Rogersrecalled his first days in Tokyo, forty-threeyears earlier, as we stood in front of theKodokan, the official judo-training hall.This memory emphasises that he was any-thing but a swaggering adventurer.

DR: After I arrived at the Kodokan, my sec-ond day here, I was feeling a little bit lost. Ididn’t know where to go. All the surroundingswere strange, etc. I started out really timidlyby just going out across the street from theKodokan to the coffee shops…For a couple ofweeks I would be in there every day. They tookpity on me and a couple of the girls would comeover and sit down and try to cheer me up. Lateron one of the girls and her boyfriend took meto see a baseball game…They knew I had justcome over and I was only nineteen.

Admissions such as this suggest that in-stead of searching out the obvious momentsof arrogance and self-assured chauvinismin travel stories, post-colonial critiquesmight also address points of unravelling,conflict and uncertainty in the travellingsubject (Musgrove 1999). Here we seeRogers in his first days in Tokyo ratherlonely and even searching for some type ofstabilising routine through his repeat vis-its to the coffee shops. Travel can also haveits oddly passive aspects; it can be boringat times, requiring tolerance or repetition,as much as the ability to surmount enor-mous ordeals. Life elsewhere can be muchlike life at home, filled in with “insipiddetails” and “incidents of no significance”(Lévi-Strauss 1964:17). Most trials are ofthe minor variety and one slowly becomesaccustomed to a slightly different rhythmof life. Looking at a photograph of a futonin one his apartments, Rogers was re-minded of the familiar presence of cock-roaches in Japan.

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Fig.1

DR: This little picture here, it brings backmemories. That’s my futon on the floor. Ihad a little apartment that was four-and-a-half, five tatamis [Japanese mats] and I hada little gas burner in the corner for cook-ing, a Bunsen burner. And I shared this witha lot of cockroaches. You can’t find anapartment without them. Even some of thebest hotels, if you look hard enough (actu-ally, you don’t have to look very hard) youcan find the odd cockroach. We’d often find,sometimes, a little bit of a leg in our soup insome places, some places more than others,but we’d always consider it a little bit ofextra protein. It’s a funny thing, once you’reliving in Japan – I think this goes for anycountry – you kind of get used to the stand-ard and no big deal.

For the most part, when Rogersreflects upon his time in Japan, he tendsto relate stories about the relationshipshe formed while living in Tokyo and howmuch he enjoyed his time there. It isapparent that his time in Japan was notcomposed of a series of fleeting acci-dental encounters, in which the journey-ing ego removes all alternate ties. Ja-pan was a place where he came of age,developed important and lasting bondswith other individuals, and intenselypractised the sport he loved. Even hisattachments to his routines in Japan andhis friends there made his transitionback to life in Canada all the more dif-ficult. He was reminded of the difficul-ties of leaving Japan when he saw a pho-tograph of himself at the airport aboutto leave Japan.

Fig.2

DR: When I left Japan to come back to Canadathe judo team came to the airport to see me off.I had to give a little speech in Japanese. I thinkthey gave me a big bottle of sake to take homewith me. I was supposed to go back to Japan. Icouldn’t do it.

MR: How come?

DR: I was torn. It was very difficult. I hadsome opportunities [in Japan]. They weren’treally in areas that I thought of myself doinglong term. In the back of my mind I perhapshad the idea that I would like to get into flyingand I realised if I didn’t get back and start atthat I would have a difficult time getting em-ployment. As tough as it was, I made thatchoice. They phoned me a lot and wrote me,waited for me to come back. They were stilllooking at me as one of their big guns.

Rogers also spoke about the impor-tance of his relationships in Japan and howleaving Japan effected him while we wererelaxing at an inn in Morioka, Japan afterwe had spent the day visiting the dojo atFuji University.

MR: It was interesting when you said yougrew up in Japan to that fellow.

DR: Oh yeah; well, it’s true. I came at nineteen

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and, of course, I had always moved aroundin Canada. I had never lived in a place formore than six or seven years because of myDad’s – your grandpa’s – work. We keptmoving so it was difficult to get life-longfriends. I was nineteen when I came to Ja-pan, so I made a lot of friends while I washere and they were very formative years forme, so when I went back to Canada, off toVancouver where I had never lived before,it was difficult. I met people in Vancouverthrough judo, but all my real friends for thelast five years were Japanese, even thosethat weren’t Japanese, were living in Japan.I really felt out of place for quite a while,and then I missed the activity of judo be-cause I was used to doing a very high levelof judo and everything was geared towardsthat. Practices weren’t challenging and Imissed the high level of physical activity. Tohave to back off from that kind of physicalconditioning was kind of traumatic for me.It was hard to handle at times. I startedteaching eventually, but it wasn’t the same.Where you’re aware that you’re losing youredge, it’s kind of difficult. At a time when Icould have been getting stronger, that wasdifficult. I was always looking back to Ja-pan, and there I was at twenty-five ortwenty-six thinking of the ‘good old days’.But anyway, that worked its way out…It wassuch a big part of my life, plus it was a lot offun too. Training was good. Training washard, very enjoyable. It was its own reward,training and the fellas that I was with. Justto leave that cold turkey was difficult.

There exists a human tendencyto review the past through a rose-tintedlens, but I think it is accurate to say thatRogers felt that his stay in Japan was apositive experience for him. But he didhave difficulties when he was there. Thefirst year Rogers was in Japan was noteasy. He was injured for most of thatyear and he had to sell his return boatticket back to Canada in order to haveenough money to buy food and pay rent.Overall, living in Japan was not effort-less for Rogers: he was lonely at first,learning a new language, becoming ac-quainted with a different way of life,struggling with injuries, trying to estab-lish new social relationships, and at-

tempting to find ways to make money sohe could eat and put a roof over his head.Yet the majority of the time when he con-cludes a story about his time in Japan, hereferences how his stay was such a posi-tive experience for him: “We had a lot ofgood times together, that’s for sure”; “Goodtimes, really good times”; “I had a goodtime; it was really interesting”; “A greatexperience”; “ A lot of fun”; “Judo was sucha big part of my life, plus it was a lot of funtoo”; “It was a great time. I really enjoyedthe county.” He was able to travel to Ja-pan and enjoy the pure freedom of choice,and was made to feel welcomed by the ma-jority of the people he met while he stayedthere. The idea that he perceived his timein Japan to be, for the most part, a positiveexperience, can be reviewed against the factthat a great deal of the work on humanmovement in anthropology frames mobil-ity as a tumultuous and painful event.

* * *

After reviewing the current literature ontravel and human movement in anthropol-ogy – outside the self-described ‘smallercircles’ of tourism and leisure studies inanthropology (Kinnarid et al. 1994; Lanfant1995a; Meethan 2001; Wilson 1993) – Iwas struck by the degree to which the theo-retical work on mobility is analysed andpresented in principally negative terms. Asituation that led Featherstone to remark,“it is difficult to encounter positive imagesof mobility and migration, although theydoubtless exist” (1997:258). There is agreat deal of excellent ethnographic workon mobility, most of which focuses on mi-gration (Coutin 2003; Guarnizo 1997;Gungwu 1997; Kearney 1986), and refu-gee (Kismaric 1989; Malkki 1995, 1992;Pellizzi 1988) and diasporic experiences(Foner 2001; Stoller 2002; Sullivan 2001).These studies bring to our attention theharrowing experiences of those who areoften stunned and traumatised by eventsthat propelled or forced them from theirplace of residence. I would argue, though,

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that this type of work has had an impacton the theoretical developments in studyof human movement in anthropology. Ithas influenced anthropologists’ concep-tion of travel, reinforcing the belief thattravel is a generally unnatural and diso-rienting event (Barber 1997). To talkof human movement is to talk of the“crippling sorrow of homelessness”(Minh-ha 1994:12); the “agonies of iso-lation, loneliness, and alienation thatmost migrants [share]” (Gungwu 1997:6); “the road as a part of a complexeconomy of violence, power and blood”(Masquelier 2002:829); and to believethat the new arrival feels him- or her-self a ‘burden’, a ‘disturbance’ and an‘embarrassment’. Narratives of homeand displacement reflect a “globaldrama of violence and misery”(Robertson et al. 1994:2); “where theThird World grates against the first andbleeds” (Anzaldúa 2001:235). It haseven been suggested that the deviant hasbeen replaced by the immigrant: “In tra-ditional folklore, there were demons,witches, devils. Now we have visibledeviants: the foreigners” (Sarup 1996:12). This is a climate that has lead Saidto remark upon the fact that the phe-nomenon of untimely massive wander-ing remains “strangely compelling tothink about but terrible to experience”(1990: 237-8, emphasis mine). Even theleisure traveller on an extended trip suf-fers from a certain negative evaluation:estranged from her native soil the trav-eller is thought to lose her original senseof place and acquire other loyalties, sub-sequently putting her at odds with her‘home’ society upon return (Carey2003).

In pointing out many anthro-pologists’ attachment to the most dra-matic and upsetting modes of mobility,I do not mean to suggest that anthro-pologists and others should ignore thisfocus. To determine the negative effectsof (often compulsory) relocation on in-dividuals and groups – particularly those

who are poorly educated, maintain lower-incomes and have strong attachments totheir homes, land and livelihood – is deeplyimportant work (Scudder 2001). What Iam suggesting is that we aim to untanglethe specifics of all types of movement ex-periences – travel, exploration, migration,tourism, refugeeism, pastoralism, nomad-ism, pilgrimage, trade, exile, war, and soon – in an effort to establish a theoreticalbase of greater nuance from which to graspthe motivations and effects of movingaround in the world. For many, mobility isnot a violent disturbance, but simply a con-tour of everyday life. For example, deBruijn et al. argues that mobility in its ubiq-uity is fundamental to any understandingof African social life:

Another crucial element of thepresent approach is how tomove away from the interpre-tation of migration or mobilityas a ‘rupture’ in society, as theresult of a social system in dis-array. Many forms of mobilityare a part of life and making alivelihood. In some societies,not being mobile may be theanomaly…What we argue isthat sedentarity, i.e. remainingwithin set borders or culturalboundaries, might instead byperceived by some as an act ofescaping from social obliga-tions. Through travelling, con-nections are established, andcontinuity, experience and mo-dernity negotiated, (2001:2).

Echoing this perspective,Rasmussen (1998), who works among theKel Ewey Tuareg, a seminomadic societywho predominate in the Air Mountains ofnorth-eastern Niger, illustrates how homespaces are as important as travel spaces.She explains how these spaces cannot berigidly separated, and understanding one re-quires an examination of the other. Thecentral point being that travel should beviewed not solely through the recent mod-ernist, transnational lens of current up-

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heaval and crisis, but also the lens oflong-standing local notions about travel,strangers and distance. While the workdone by de Bruijin et al. (2001) andRasmussen (1998) differs markedlyfrom my own work on Rogers’ travelexperiences, these anthropologists dohighlight the importance of understand-ing travel from the position of the localactor(s) and how travel can be a normalpart of life.

Part of the reason for anthro-pologists’ viewing mobility negativelystems from the fact that the movementof people and their cultural baggage dis-rupts earlier definitions of culture, na-tion, home, and identity. These are defi-nitions that were founded on the presup-position of a radical difference betweenself and other, here and there, the Westand the ‘third world’ (Lavie andSwedenburg 1996). Travel has sincecomplicated anthropology’s most prizedconcept, ‘culture’, in that the early 20th

century image of this institution washighly localised, settled, holistic, andboundary-oriented (Appadurai 1990;Hannerz 1992). This image drew upona nostalgic construction of a community-based preindustrial collective wherethere was minimal reference to the leak-ages of people and culture (Geertz 1995;Gungwu 1997). All elements of socialand cultural life were thought to hangtogether, with groups possessing distinc-tive cultures that needed to be inter-preted in their own terms (Gupta andFerguson 1997a, 1997b). But individu-als have undoubtedly been more mobileand cultures less attached to particularterritories than static, categorising ap-proaches would suggest. The recenttechnological explosion, largely in thedomains of transportation and informa-tion, has encouraged “a new conditionof neighborliness – even with those mostdistant” (Appadurai 1990: 2), whichsubjects older conceptions of culture andidentity to strain and fatigue. This ne-cessitates anthropologists having to be-

come increasingly sensitive to disunities,fragmentation, contestation, pluralism, andthe processual nature of culture and sociallife (Wolf 1983).

Anthropologists have now, for themost part, accepted that it is an oversim-plification and a misreading of history toassume that people have only ever had onehome and one culture in a single location/nation (Settles 2001). Yet they continue tofret over peoples’ homelessness, their lackof attachment to particular territorial loca-tions, and to worry about their getting lostin an increasingly face-paced and disori-enting global space (Braudrillard 1989,1983; Jameson 1984). It is true that thisspace can be lonely and even violent. bellhooks (1995) is correct to remind us thatprivileged travel is not an idea that can beeasily evoked to talk about the Middle Pas-sage, The Trail of Tears, the landing ofChinese immigrants, or the forced reloca-tion of Japanese Americans; but this doesnot mean we should ignore the lives of thegrowing number of individuals, such asRogers, who are able to be comfortably ‘athome’ in more than one location (or in tran-sit itself!), practising a different or mixedcultural set. Having recognised this “mul-tiplication of secondary residences” (Butor2001: 79), the questions now become: howdo people make themselves comfortable or‘at home’ under such circumstances, andwhat, specifically, encourages individualsto live elsewhere? I believe part of theanswer to the first question regarding ‘com-fort’ connects to the idea that culture is pri-marily a thing of relationships rather thanterritory (Hannerz 1992). If one is able to(and desires to) engage in a particular con-stellation of social relations that meet andweave together at a particular locus, thenone is able to minimise the negative feel-ings frequently associated with isolationand alienation (Massey 2001). Rememberthat most of Rogers’ stories concern thefriends he made while he was in Japan, andrefer to his participation in activities (e.g.judo practice, teaching English and attend-ing the Japanese University) that would

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have encouraged his involvement in Japa-nese social life.

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The failure of state governments to rec-ognize indigenous peoples’1 rights toland and resources is a common prob-lem for indigenous peoples throughoutthe world.2 In most cases, even in stateswhere governments have legislated rec-ognition of indigenous rights, indigenouspeoples have yet to realize these rightsin any tangible way (United NationsSubcommision on the Promotion and

Fitting Indigenous Rights toLand & Resources into International

Human Rights Law:The Challenge of Advocating Within

a State-centred System

AbstractThe author questions whether it is effective to advocate for indigenous rights to land and resources ininternational human rights arena, given the state-centered structure of international law. The authorexamines why indigenous peoples have historically been excluded from the international legal arena;why the structure of international law causes challenges for the recognition of indigenous peoples’rights; why rights to land and resources are necessary components of indigenous peoples’ fundamen-tal human rights; and in what ways indigenous rights to land and resources have been recognized ininternational human rights doctrine over the past several decades.

Biographical StatementThe author is a graduate student in the Faculty of Law at the University of Victoria. She is currentlycompleting an LL.M. thesis that explores the possibility of advocating for indigenous rights withinmultilateral trade regimes.

AcknowledgementsI would like to gratefully thank Professor Catherine Morris and Professor John Borrows for theirhelpful comments and suggestions in reviewing earlier versions of this paper.

general article

Jennifer M. Sankey

Protection of Human Rights [UNSPPHR]2001). The lack of state response to theirdemands has caused indigenous peoples tolook beyond state borders to pursue theirclaims at the international level. Indeed,the international indigenous rights move-ment has gained significant momentumover the past several decades and the inter-national human rights arena can now beseen as a point of convergence where in-

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digenous peoples throughout the worldare uniting to act in a concerted fashionto bring their perspectives to the inter-national community (Corntassel andPrimeau 1995:360).

Some scholars maintain that theinternational indigenous rights move-ment has created a distinct space forindigenous peoples in global humanrights debates and is causing the emer-gence of an international legal frame-work that addresses human rights spe-cific to indigenous peoples (Anaya 2004;Barsh 1994). Others argue, however,that little advancement has been madein terms of practical recognition of theserights and that additional, and/or alter-native, avenues of advocacy need to beexplored (Alfred and Corntassel 2004).Thus, one is led to question what, if any,progress has been made by indigenouspeoples in the international human rightsarena, and whether it is effective to pur-sue claims for rights to land and re-sources within its domain. This paperattempts to answer these questions byexamining: 1) why indigenous peopleshave historically been excluded from theinternational legal arena; 2) why thestructure of international human rightslaw causes challenges for the recogni-tion of indigenous peoples’ rights; 3)why rights to land and resources arenecessary components of indigenouspeoples’ fundamental human rights; and4) how indigenous peoples’ rights toland and resources have come to be rec-ognized and protected in various inter-national human rights conventions anddeclarations over the past several dec-ades.

The Exclusion of Indigenous Peoplesfrom International Law

The classical state-centered structure ofinternational law has been a key obsta-cle for indigenous peoples seeking tohave their rights to land and resourcesrecognized at the international level.

International law emerged following the1648 Peace of Westphalia, which ended theThirty Years War in Europe and laid thefoundation for a new political order thatwas based on a system of sovereign states.Westphalian sovereignty holds that eachstate exercises supreme and exclusive ruleover its territorial jurisdiction and is freefrom interference by other states. Interna-tional law developed in accordance withthe Westphalian system and was heavilyinfluenced by Emmerich de Vattel’s trea-tise, The Law of Nations, or The Princi-ples of Natural Law (1758), which proposesthe idea of having a discrete body of lawconcerned exclusively with states (Anaya2004: 20). From Vattel’s work emergedpositivist notions of international law be-ing the product of state treaties and cus-tom, and thus international law became alegal system based solely on the consent ofstates (Meijknecht 2001: 4). From the nine-teenth century through to the latter half ofthe twentieth century, the prevailing posi-tivist international law doctrine held thatonly sovereign states could be subjects ofinternational law in the sense of enjoyingan international legal personality and be-ing capable of possessing internationalrights and duties, including rights to bringinternational claims. Underlying this posi-tivist notion of the state was the idea thathuman societies could be understood ac-cording to an individual-state dichotomy(Anaya 2004:20). This dichotomy, whichheavily influenced the development ofWestern liberal thought, acknowledged therights of the state on the one hand, and in-dividuals on the other, but did not accountfor the rights of intermediary groups, suchas indigenous peoples, that might exist inbetween (Anaya 2004:20).

Strongly rooted in a Western worldview, the state-centered international lawsystem developed to facilitate colonial pat-terns promoted by European states. WhenEuropean colonial powers settled in andgradually overtook indigenous peoples’lands, the colonial powers became recog-nized in international law as the sovereign

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authorities over these territories(Meijknecht 2001:17). Indigenous peo-ples were excluded from participatingin international law because they wereconsidered to have no international le-gal status or capacity (Meijknecht 2001:17). In many cases, Europeancolonialists viewed indigenous peoplesas “primitive” and therefore incapableof holding sovereign authority over theterritory they occupied. In some cases,treaties were entered into between thecolonial powers and indigenous peo-ples; however, over time, colonial viewsof indigenous peoples being “inferior”took root, causing serious abrogation ofthe rights of indigenous peoples recog-nized in the treaties (Corntassel andPrimeau 1995:355). In most cases,without conquest or consent, colonialpowers simply asserted sovereignty overindigenous peoples’ lands. Becauseinternational law only recognized thestate-individual dichotomy, indigenouspeoples, as collective entities existingwithin states, could not be accountedfor within its framework (Anaya 2004:20).

Since indigenous peoples havetraditionally not been recognized as sub-jects of international law, issues con-cerning recognition of their rights havebeen considered domestic matters of thestates in which they reside. The inter-national law principle of non-interven-tion, which serves to strike a balancebetween state sovereignty and the powerof the international community, recog-nizes that states are protected, to a cer-tain extent, from intervention into theiraffairs by other entities (Meijknecht2001:4).3 Thus, states are entrusted toprotect the human rights of theirpopulations, including the rights of in-digenous peoples that reside withintheir borders. This places indigenouspeoples in a particularly disadvantagedposition because states are typically themain violators of indigenous rights, es-pecially with respect to expropriation

of land and resources in indigenous tradi-tional territories (Meijknecht 2001:17).With no effective international legal per-sonality, indigenous peoples have, histori-cally, had no forum to turn to, to bringclaims against states for violations of theirrights.

Fitting Indigenous Peoples’ Rights toLand and Resources into International

Human Rights Law

In recent years the international commu-nity has begun to recognize the legal sig-nificance of indigenous peoples’ rights;however, because international law hasdeveloped to the exclusion of non-state ac-tors such as indigenous peoples, it is noteasy to fit those rights into its framework.Because international law is grounded inthe concepts of liberal individualism andWestphalian sovereignty, it is generallyadverse to the recognition of collectiverights that appear to interfere with the ter-ritorial sovereignty of the nation-state.

A. COLLECTIVE RIGHTSThe liberal individualist framework of in-ternational human rights law has been a keychallenge for indigenous peoples becausetheir claims for rights to land, resources,and self-determination, among others, arecollective in nature. Indigenous peoplesclaim that respect for their human dignityentails recognition of their collective rightsto exist as distinct groups of peoples withtheir own cultural identities (Williams1990: 686). Debates about the recognitionof indigenous peoples’ collective rights ininternational law were heightened duringthe United Nations (UN) Working Groupon Indigenous Populations’ (WGIP) discus-sion concerning the drafting of the DraftDeclaration on the Rights of IndigenousPeoples (DDRIP)4. Many states voiced re-luctance to recognize indigenous peoples’collective rights, with states such as Japanand France arguing that collective rightshave never existed in international law

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(Thornberry 2002:378-9).As mentioned above, traditional

liberal-democratic thought developedaccording to an individual-state di-chotomy. Liberal rights theory recog-nizes that individuals have certain inal-ienable rights and that governments de-rive their just power from the consentof the governed individuals (Van Dyke1995:32). The clear thrust of most in-ternational human rights doctrine, there-fore, is in accordance with a liberal in-dividualistic paradigm, requiring statesto promote human rights without distinc-tion as to race, sex, language, or reli-gion. Traditional liberalism views col-lective and individual rights as beingantagonistic, and thus has tended to viewcollective rights as dangerous and op-pressive (Johnston 1995:179). Up untilrecently, international human rights lawhas generally protected individual rightsand precluded the granting of legal sta-tus and rights to groups as collectiveentities whenever they are identified bycharacteristics such as race, language orreligion (Van Dyke 1995:33). Johnstonindicates that traditional liberal rightstheorists have simply assumed that“group interests can be accommodatedwithin the framework of either indi-vidual or social rights” and have arguedthat group rights are “translatable intoeither individual or social rights”, thusdenying “the existence of any genuinegroup rights” (1995:185). According toScott, however, to deny the existence ofindigenous peoples’ collective rights isto deny the social, historical and politi-cal fact of their existence (1996:2). Hesays that “in the end, it amounts to aform not just of non-recognition, but,more seriously, misrecognition”(1996:2).

B. TERRITORIAL SOVEREIGNTYIn addition to the individual-collectiverights debate, the concept of territorialsovereignty has been a key obstacle forindigenous peoples advocating for their

rights in the international arena. Accord-ing to Patrick Thornberry, the “iron cageof sovereignty-based international law”imprisoned the legal imagination through-out the nineteenth and twentieth centuries(2002:89). In other words, states’ obses-sion with protecting and maintaining theirterritorial and sovereign authority pre-empted the emergence of any meaningfuldialogue exploring how indigenous peo-ples’ collective rights to self-determination,land and resources could be incorporatedwithin liberal democratic states and theinternational law framework. Territorialsovereignty is defined as “the establishmentof exclusive competence to take legal andfactual measures within that territory andprohibit foreign governments from exercis-ing authority in that territory without con-sent” (Malanczuk 1997:75). As discussedabove, international law emerged as a “lawof nations” with primacy being placed onthe sovereign state. For this reason, con-trol of a territory has come to be the es-sence of the modern-day state and statesare highly protective of the geographicalboundaries of their territories (Malanczuk1997:75). Claims by indigenous peoplesare often viewed as direct threats to statesovereignty and thus, states have tradition-ally rejected recognition of indigenous peo-ples as distinct peoples with the right tocollectively hold land and resources. Onecan see how this has played out in the in-ternational human rights arena in that for along time, the international legal commu-nity either refused to refer to indigenouspeople as a “peoples” in international doc-trine, or insisted on limiting the meaningof the term.5 The fear was that if indig-enous people were considered “peoples,”they would be able to rely on the right ofself-determination found in the UN Char-ter and would be able to secede from thestate.

Like the issue of collective rights,the debate concerning the use of the term“peoples” was a key issue in the discus-sions surrounding the adoption of theDDRIP by the WGIP, and while indigenous

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peoples have been successful in havingthe term “peoples” incorporated into theDDRIP, it was not without much resist-ance from various states (Scott 1996;Barsh 1996). What is interesting tonote, however, is that many indigenouspeoples have clearly indicated that theydo not wish to secede from the territo-ries of states in which they reside. Manyindigenous peoples do not want to se-cede, but rather, wish to “wield greatercontrol over matters such as natural re-sources, environmental preservation oftheir homelands, education, use of lan-guage, and bureaucratic administration. . . in order to ensure their groups’ cul-tural preservation and integrity”(Corntassel and Primeau 1995:344).

Indigenous Rights to Land andResources as Fundamental Human

Rights

Given the clear thrust of internationalhuman rights law is in accordance witha liberal individualist paradigm, onemight ask, why are indigenous peoplesso intent on having collective rights rec-ognized within its domain? The re-sponse by many indigenous peoples isthat recognition of their collective rightsis necessary to sustain their fundamen-tal human right to survive as distinctpeoples (UNSPPHR 2001). Indigenouspeoples indicate that it is difficult toseparate the concept of their relation-ship with their lands, territories and re-sources from that of their cultural dif-ferences and values because their rela-tionship with the land, and all livingthings, is at the core of their societies(UNSPPHR 2001:7). Anaya andWilliams state that indigenous peoples’right to “cultural integrity necessarilyincludes the obligation to protect tradi-tional lands because of the inextricablelink between land and culture” (Anayaand Williams 2001:53). In other words,rights to lands and resources are “pre-

requisites for the physical and cultural sur-vival of indigenous communities” (Anayaand Williams 2001:53).

Indigenous peoples’ relationshipswith their lands and resources vary fromculture to culture; however, there are cer-tain aspects that tend to converge. Landuse patterns, for example, frequently pro-vide, or provided, subsistence, and are/werelinked to familial and social relations, reli-gious practices, and the very existence ofindigenous communities as discrete socialand cultural phenomena (Anaya andWilliams 2001:49). Language, as a formof knowledge, is often intimately linked tothe territories of indigenous peoples. Fur-thermore, as was keenly observed by Spe-cial Rapporteur Cobo in the UN Study ofthe Problem of Discrimination against In-digenous Populations, spirituality is a cen-tral aspect of indigenous peoples’ relation-ship with land (UN Sub-commission on thePrevention of Discrimination and Protec-tion of Minorities 1986:196).

One can argue, then, that for indig-enous peoples, property rights are inextri-cably linked to their fundamental humanrights. However, as Henderson explains,“to speak of modern legal notions of ‘own-ership’ and ‘property’ rights in the contextof Aboriginal languages or worldview isdifficult, if not impossible,” because indig-enous peoples’ “visions of land and enti-tlements were [and are] unlike the Euro-pean notion of ‘property’” (1995: 217).6 Hestates that “the Aboriginal vision of prop-erty was [and is] ecological space that cre-ates our consciousness, not an ideologicalconstruct or fungible resource” (Henderson1995:217). Indigenous peoples’ under-standing of property ownership often dif-fers from the dominant Western conception;however, it is no less deserving of respectand recognition. Thus, when consideringindigenous peoples’ claims to land and re-sources it is necessary, as Scott has es-poused, to “decolonize the internationalimagination” (1996:3) so that appropriatemechanisms for recognition and protectioncan be adopted which have practical sig-

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nificance for indigenous peoples on theground. This may require recognizingforms of land and resource tenure dis-tinct to indigenous peoples, and adopt-ing unique legal remedies that accordwith these forms of tenure.

Recognition of Indigenous Rights toLand and Resources in International

Human Rights Law

Despite the obstacles indigenous peo-ples have faced, and continue to face, inadvocating for their rights under the lib-eral, state-centered framework of inter-national law, indigenous peoples have,over the past several decades, succeededin capturing the attention of the inter-national community. Since the early1970s, two UN working groups havebeen established to address indigenousissues7, the UN General Assembly hasannounced the International Decade ofthe World’s Indigenous Peoples8, and thePermanent Forum on Indigenous Issues9

has been established to act as an advi-sory board to the UN Economic and So-cial Council. Furthermore, according toAnaya, “indigenous peoples have ceasedto be the mere objects of the discussionof their rights and have become real par-ticipants in an extensive multi-lateraldialogue that has also engaged states,nongovernmental organizations (NGOs),and independent experts . . .” (2004:56).

Much of the focus at the inter-national level has been on developingthe DDRIP, which sets out a frameworkof human rights specific to indigenouspeoples. However, indigenous peopleshave also sought to use existing univer-sal human rights doctrine to advocate fortheir rights. Article 27 of the Interna-tional Covenant On Civil And PoliticalRights (ICCPR)10, for example, has be-come an important convention in theemerging body of international law thatrecognizes indigenous rights to land andresources. It states as follows:

In those States in which ethnic, religiousor linguistic minorities exist, persons be-longing to such minorities shall not be de-nied the right, in community with the othermembers of their group, to enjoy their ownculture, to profess and practise their ownreligion, or to use their own language.

Article 27 has been relied on in severalcases concerning indigenous peoples’ rightsto land and resources. For example, in1984, Chief Ominayak, of the LubiconLake Band of Cree, initiated a claim againstCanada using the Optional Protocol11 to theICCPR.12 The Option Protocol allows in-dividuals of member states to present theircase to the UN Human Rights Committee(HRC) for consideration if the individualbelieves his/her rights under the ICCPR arebeing violated. Chief Ominayak claimedthat the Lubicon Cree’s right to self-deter-mination according to Article 1 of theICCPR was being violated on the basis thatthe Alberta government was allowing re-source development to take place in theirtraditional territory without the Lubicon’sconsent. The HRC found that it could notadjudicate a claim for self-determinationbrought on behalf of the Lubicon Cree be-cause the Optional Protocol only permitsclaims made by individuals and a claim forself-determination is inherently a collec-tive claim. The Committee found, how-ever, that the facts submitted gave rise toan individual claim under Article 27, andconcluded that the Canadian governmentviolated Chief Ominayak and other indi-vidual Lubicon Lake Band members’ rightsin its historical dealings with the Band,particularly by allowing the Alberta gov-ernment to expropriate the Band’s tradi-tional lands for the benefit of private cor-porate interests. Since then, other indig-enous groups from Finland, Sweden andTahiti have initiated claims alleging viola-tions of Article 27 and have had variedsuccess.13

The International Convention On

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The Elimination Of All Forms Of Ra-cial Discrimination (CERD)14 is anotherexample of a convention which does notrefer to indigenous peoples specifically,but can be interpreted to apply to indig-enous peoples. In 1997, the UN Com-mittee on the CERD published a rec-ommendation affirming that discrimina-tion against indigenous peoples fallswithin the scope of the CERD, and stat-ing that “in many regions of the worldindigenous peoples have been, and arestill being, discriminated against anddeprived of their human rights and fun-damental freedoms, and in particularthat they have lost their land and re-sources to colonists, commercial com-panies and State enterprises” (The Com-mittee on the Elimination of Racial Dis-crimination [CERD Committee] 1997).The CERD Committee urged state par-ties to recognize and protect the rightsof indigenous peoples to own, develop,control, and use their communal lands,territories and resources, in an effort tocombat racial discrimination, as is theirobligation under the CERD (CERDCommittee 1997).

In terms of doctrine strictly per-taining to indigenous peoples, the In-ternational Labour Organization Con-vention No. 169 Concerning IndigenousAnd Tribal Peoples (ILO Convention169) 15 is currently the only internationalconvention which fits this description.It was drafted in 1989 to supercede the1957 ILO Convention No. 10716, whichis now regarded as anachronistic due toits assimilationist and integrationistapproach. The provisions contained inILO Convention 169 establish a basicframework for the protection and rec-ognition of indigenous peoples’ rightsunder international law, including sub-stantial provisions regarding the rightsto land and resources (Articles 13-19).It must be noted, however, that whileILO Convention 169 provides substan-tial recognition of indigenous rights,only 17 countries have signed on to this

convention.17

The only other document strictly ad-dressing indigenous peoples is the DDRIP.If adopted, it will represent the most com-prehensive statement on the rights of in-digenous peoples in international law. Thecurrent DDRIP, which has been adopted bythe human rights experts of the WGIP andthe Sub-Commission on the Promotion andProtection of Human Rights, goes beyondILO Convention 169 in a number of areasincluding recognition of the right to self-determination (Article 3) and rights to ownand control land and resources (Article 21,25-30). Furthermore, as mentioned above,the DDRIP recognizes the collective rightsof indigenous peoples to a much higherdegree than any other international humanrights doctrine, and refers to indigenouspeoples as being “peoples.” ProfessorVenne argues that because indigenous peo-ples actively participated in the drafting ofthe DDRIP, they are moving closer to be-ing recognized as subjects of internationallaw (1998:128). The DDRIP, however, hasbeen the subject of vigorous debate anddisagreement and the lack of consensusamong states suggests that that it cannotbe established with certainty what the prac-tical consequences and implication of theDDRIP will be for the legal status of indig-enous peoples (Meicknecht 2001:152).Furthermore, the DDRIP is a declaration,not a convention, meaning that even afterit has been adopted by the UN GeneralAssembly, it will not impose legally bind-ing obligations on states.

In addition to the UN, Indigenouspeoples have focused their advocacy at re-gional international human rights bodiessuch as the Organization of American States(OAS) Inter-American Human Rights Sys-tem (Inter-American System), comprised ofthe Inter-American Commission on HumanRights (Commission) and the Inter-Ameri-can Court on Human Rights (Court). TheInter-American System is of particular im-portance because it has jurisdiction to hearcomplaints alleged by individuals or groupsagainst OAS member States that have vio-

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lated, or are violating, human rights. Inrecent years it has come to play a promi-nent role in addressing indigenous peo-ples of the Americas’ rights to land andresources. Like the UN, the OAS hasembarked on a process of drafting a dec-laration specifically concerning therights of indigenous peoples.18 Notwith-standing, indigenous peoples have beenusing the regular complaint process toadvocate for their rights to land and re-sources using the American Conventionon Human Rights19 (American Conven-tion) and the American Declaration ofthe Rights and Duties of Man20 (Ameri-can Declaration). Complaints allegingviolations of the American Conventionmay only be made against state partiesthat have signed on to it; however, com-plaints of violations of the AmericanDeclaration are more universal. TheCourt has declared that the rights af-firmed in the American Declaration are,at minimum, the human rights that OASmember states are bound to uphold;thus, they apply to all OAS states underthe OAS Charter. Where the state is aparty to the American Convention, andhas accepted the jurisdiction of theCourt, a case may be referred to theCourt by either the Commission or aconcerned state and the decision deliv-ered by the Court is binding on thatstate. If, however, a state has not ac-cepted the Court’s jurisdiction, the proc-ess ends when the Commission pub-lishes its report and recommendations.

Since the late-1990s four peti-tions have been filed with the Inter-American Commission by indigenouspeoples from Canada, the United States,Nicaragua and Belize, alleging viola-tions of their rights to land and resourcesas a result of states’ expropriation ofland for the purpose of resource devel-opment in indigenous traditional terri-tories (Anaya and Williams 2001).21

The outcome of the Mayagna (Sumo)Awas Tingi Community vs. Nicaragua(Awas Tingi Case) is highly significant.

Basically, the Inter-American Commissionchose to bring the complaint made by theAwas Tingi against the government of Nica-ragua to the Inter-American Court on theAwas Tingi’s behalf. Relying on Article21 (the right to private property) and Arti-cle 25 (the right to judicial protection) ofthe American Convention, the Inter-Ameri-can Court found that the Awas Tingi hadcollective rights, as a matter of internationallaw, to the lands and natural resources thatthey traditionally used and occupied (Anayaand Grossman 2002). In other words, theCourt accepted that the right to propertypursuant to Article 21 includes communalproperty. The Court found that the Nicara-guan government violated the human rightsof the Awas Tingi by failing to establishlegislative or administrative measures todelimit, demarcate, and title the lands ofthe Awas Tingi; by failing to provide judi-cial remedies to protect and enforce thoseproperty rights; and by authorizing accessto Awas Tingi lands and resources withoutconsultation or consent (Anaya andGrossman 2002). The case sets an inter-national legal precedent as the first deci-sion of an international court with bindingauthority to directly address the propertyrights of indigenous peoples.

Finally, any discussion concerningthe sources of international law must ad-dress the possibility of emerging custom-ary international law (CIL). Anaya arguesthat the international legal framework thatis emerging concerning indigenous peoples’rights is significant to the extent that it canbe understood as giving rise to new CIL(2004: 61). According to Anaya, norms ofCIL arise when a “preponderance of statesand other authoritative actors converge ona common understanding of the norms’ con-tents and generally expect future conform-ity with those norms” (Anaya 2004:61).CIL is “generally observed to include twokey elements: a ‘material’ element in cer-tain past uniformities in behavior, and a‘psychological element’, or opinio juris, incertain subjectivities of ‘oughtness’ attend-ing such uniformities in behavior” (Anaya

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2004:61). Anaya asserts that “there hasbeen a discernable movement toward aconvergence of reformed normative un-derstanding and expectation on the sub-ject of indigenous peoples,” which isconstitutive of CIL (2004:62). As sup-port for his argument, he states that overthe past several decades, the demandsof indigenous peoples have been con-tinuously addressed within the UN andother international venues of authorita-tive normative discourse, such as theOAS (Anaya 2004:61). Furthermore, heargues that the wide-ranging discussionpromoted through the internationalarena has involved “states, non-govern-mental organizations, independent ex-perts, and indigenous peoples them-selves” such that it “is now evident thatstates and other relevant actors havereached a certain new common groundabout minimum standards that shouldgovern behavior towards indigenouspeoples” (Anaya 2004:61). While CILis a highly debated concept in the fieldof international law, it is an establisheddoctrine accepted by states and interna-tional tribunals and thus, should not beignored as a source of international lawconcerning indigenous peoples’ rights.

Conclusion

The last several decades have given wayto a more inclusive understanding of theparticipants of international law suchthat one can now see a range of partici-pants including international organiza-tions, transnational corporations, minor-ity groups and indigenous peoples(Thornberry 2002:90). Clearly, indig-enous peoples are now a distinct con-cern within the international humanrights community; however, whether ornot indigenous peoples have an “inter-national legal personality” as defined ininternational law by the principles of in-ternational capacity, subjectivity and jusstandi (standing), is still highly debatedamong international law scholars (Barsh

1994; Meijknecht 2001). Some argue thatwhile changes have occurred which grantnon-state actors’ access to international fo-rums, international law is still predomi-nantly made and implemented by states andthus, indigenous peoples cannot yet be con-sidered subjects of international law in anymeaningful sense of the term (Melanczuk1997:107). The question to ask, then, iswhether it is effective to advocate for in-digenous peoples rights to land and re-sources within the international humanrights arena?

Anaya argues that although inter-national law has historically been “grudg-ing and imperfect, falling short of indig-enous peoples’ aspirations,” it has movedaway from its exclusively state-centeredorientation and is continuing to develop tosupport indigenous peoples’ demands(Anaya 2004:4). He sees that the advocacyand lobbying of indigenous peoples in theinternational arena over the past severaldecades has resulted in the emergence ofinternational norms and a consensus amongauthoritative international actors that is lay-ing the foundation for the emergence of CILconcerning the rights of indigenous peoples.Furthermore, Anaya and Williams arguethat the developments regarding recogni-tion of indigenous rights to land and re-sources in the Inter-American System aresome of the most important developmentsin international law today (2001:86). In-deed, the Awas Tingi Case was successfulin establishing a legally binding decisionpreventing the Nicaraguan governmentfrom expropriating lands in Awas Tingi ter-ritory. It must be noted, however, that thereare uncertainties with respect to the enforce-ment of the Awas Tingi Case and others tocome. It appears that shaming by the inter-national community is, at present, the onlyavailable enforcement mechanism.

Alfred and Corntassel take a muchmore critical approach. Calling the last tenyears “A Decade of Rhetoric for IndigenousPeoples,” they argue that the delay sur-rounding the adoption of the DDRIP is in-dicative of states’ refusals to seriously con-

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sider indigenous peoples’ rights, and theoverall inability of the UN to affect prac-tical change in the lives of indigenouspeoples (2004). They argue that the lackof progress within the UN system dem-onstrates a need for indigenous peoples“to head in a different direction andbegin the process of rearticulating In-digenous rights within global forums”(Alfred and Corntassel 2004:5). Theypoint to organizations such as the Un-represented Nations and Peoples Or-ganizations (UNPO), an organizationcomprised of 52 nations (not state gov-ernments), and argue that this institu-tion will allow indigenous peoples toadvocate for their rights outside thestate-centric system of the UN (Alfredand Corntassel 2004:5). They also ar-gue that indigenous peoples must buildunity among themselves byreinvigorating the process of treaty-mak-ing among indigenous nations (Alfredand Corntassel 2004:5).

In answering the question posedabove, is it effective to advocate for in-digenous peoples’ rights to land and re-sources within the international humanrights arena, it is important to recognizethat while there has been some successas a result of the international indig-enous rights movement, there are defi-nite limitations due to the state-centeredstructure of international law. Advocat-ing for recognition of indigenous rightsin the international human rights arenais an important starting point to the ex-tent it opens up a dialogue in which in-digenous peoples themselves can ex-plain how their relationships to land andresources are intimately linked to theirability to survive as distinct cultures.Recognition alone, however, will notguarantee that states will grant greateraccess and control over land and re-sources to indigenous peoples. The prin-ciple of non-intervention and the con-comitant lack of enforcement of inter-national law at the state level have seri-ous ramifications for the efficacy of in-

ternational human rights law. Furthermore,shaming is only effective for those statesthat have a voluntary allegiance to the in-ternational community; countries such asthe United States, for example, reject theauthority of any body outside the sovereignstate and generally refuse to sign on to in-ternational human rights doctrine. Thechallenge, then, is to find ways of advocat-ing for indigenous rights at the local, na-tional and international levels that, eitherthrough threat or gain, place incentives onstate governments to recognize indigenousrights. In some cases, where states haverecognized the rights of indigenous peopleswithin their own domestic legislation, itmay be more effective to direct advocacyat the national level, as national courts de-cisions will be binding on state govern-ments.22 In other instances, the interna-tional human rights arena may prove to bean effective tool to motivate state govern-ments to act, as it was for the Awas Tingiin their struggle against the government ofNicaragua. As a final point, it is worthnoting that if the problems of non-recogni-tion of indigenous rights are, in many ways,a result of the Westphalian notions of statesovereignty, then perhaps new possibilitieswill emerge as globalization erodes the tra-ditional sovereignty of nation states and thearbitrariness of state boundaries becomesapparent. Indeed, the challenge for indig-enous rights advocates in the future will beto locate new sites of resistance within in-stitutions of global governance, which areemerging as a result of globalization.23

Endnotes

1 For the purposes of this paper, the authorconsiders all peoples who fall within thefollowing definition provided by ProfessorJames Anaya to be indigenous peoples: “...the term indigenous refers broadly to theliving descendants of preinvasion inhabit-ants of lands now dominated by others.Indigenous peoples, nations, or communi-ties are culturally distinctive groups thatfind themselves engulfed by settler socie-

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ties born of forces of empire and con-quest” (2004: 3).

2 Indigenous rights to land and resourcesinclude ownership, use and/or occu-pancy of land and resources of a par-ticular territory inhabited by indigenouspeoples now, or in the past; they are typi-cally identified by indigenous peoplesas being inextricably linked to theircultural distinctiveness.

3 See Article 2(7) of the Charter of theUnited Nations June 26, 1945, 59 Stat.1031, T.S. 993, 3 Bevans 1153 enteredinto force Oct. 24, 1945.

4 Draft United Nations Declaration onthe Rights of Indigenous Peoples, U.N.Doc. E/CN.4/Sub.2/1994 (1994).

5 See Article 1(3) of the Convention No.169 Concerning Indigenous and TribalPeoples in Independent Countries, June27, 1989, International Labour Confer-ence (entered into force Sept. 5, 1991).

6 Professor Henderson refers to Cana-dian indigenous peoples as Aboriginal,as that is the term most commonly usedin Canada.

7 The WGIP was established in 1982 todraft the DDRIP, which it adopted in1994, and submitted to the Commissionon Human Rights (CHR). In 1995, theCHR established another working groupto consider the DDRIP; these discus-sions are still ongoing.

8 The UN General Assembly launchedthe International Decade of the World’sIndigenous Peoples (1995 – 2004) toincrease United Nations’ Commitmentto promoting and protecting the rightsof indigenous peoples.

9 The Permanent Forum on IndigenousIssues was established in 2000.

10 International Covenant on Civil and Po-litical Rights, December 16, 1966, G.A.Res. 2200(XXI), 999 U.N.T.S. 171 (enteredinto force Mar. 23, 1976)

11 Optional Protocol to the InternationalCovenant on Civil and Political Rightsadopted and opened for signature, ratifica-tion and accession by General Assemblyresolution 2200A (XXI) of 16 December1966 entry into force 23 March 1976.

12 Lubicon Lake Band v. Canada, Commu-nication No. 167/184, UN Doc. A 45/40(1990).

13 See Lansman et al. v. Finland, Commu-nication No. 511/1992, U.N. Hum. Rts.Comm. CCPR/C/52/D/511/1992 (1994);J.E. Landsmann v. Findland, Communica-tion No. 671.1995, CCPR/C/58/D/671/1995; Kitok v. Sweden, Communication No.197/1985, U.N. Hum. Rts. Comm., A/43/40, annex VII.G (1988); Hopu and Bessertv. France, Communication No. 549.1993CCPR/C/60/D/549/1993

14 International Convention on the Elimi-nation of All Forms of Racial Discrimina-tion , December 21 1965, entry G.A. Reso-lution 2106 (XX) (entry into force 4 Janu-ary 1969).

15 Convention No. 169 Concerning Indig-enous and Tribal Peoples in IndependentCountries, June 27, 1989, InternationalLabour Conference (entered into force Sept.5, 1991).

16 Convention (No. 107) Concerning theProtection and Integration of Indigenousand Other Tribal and Semi-TribalPopulations in Independent Countries, June26, 1957, International Labour Conference,328 U.N.T.S. 247 (entered into force June2, 1959.

17 Canada is not a party to ILO Convention169.

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18 See the Proposed American Declara-tion on the Rights of Indigenous Peo-ples approved by the Inter-AmericanCommission on Human Rights on Feb-ruary 26,1997, at its 1333rd session,95th regular session.

19 American Convention on the HumanRights, adopted Nov. 22, 1969, O.A.S.Treaty Series No. 36, 1144 U.N.T.S. 123(Entered into force July 18, 1978).

20 American Declaration of the Rightsand Duties of Man, adopted 1948, NinthInternational Conference on AmericanStates, Art. XXIII, O.A.S. Res. XXX .Canada has not signed on to this Con-vention.

21 See Mary and Carrie Dann againstUnited States, Case No. 11.140, Inter-Am C.H.R. 99 (1999); Maya Commu-nities and their Members against Belize,Case No. 12.053, Inter-Am C.H.R. 78(2000); The Case of the Mayagna(Sumo) Awas Tingi Community vs.Nicaragua 11.577 February 1, 2000; andthe Carrier Sekani against Canada, CaseNo. 12.1279, Inter-Am C.H.R. (2000).

22 See the Supreme Court of Canada de-cisions in Haida Nation v. British Co-lumbia (Minster of Forests) 2004 SCC73 and Taku River Tlingit First Nationv. British Columbia 2004 SCC 74 wherethe Court ruled that the governmentshave a duty to consult and accommodateAboriginal peoples prior to making de-cisions that might adversely affect theiras yet unproven Aboriginal rights andtitle claims.

23 See the intervention by Canadian in-digenous organizations, the InteriorAlliance and the International Networkon Trade and Economies, at the WTOin the Canada-United States SoftwoodLumber Dispute. The indigenous or-ganizations argued that Canada is sub-sidizing its lumber because it has not

settled land claims with the indigenous peo-ples from whose territory the lumber isobtained.

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Alfred, Gerald T. and Jeff Corntassel2004 “A Decade of Rhetoric for Indigenous

Peoples”. Online. Internet. Accessed 25Sept. Available <http://www.oneworld.ca/article.view 76589/1>.

Anaya, S. J. and Claudio Grossman2002 “The Case of the Awas Tingi v. Nicara-

gua: A New Step in the InternationalLaw of Indigenous People.” ArizonaJournal of International and Compara-tive Law 19: 1-15.

Anaya, S. J. and Robert A. Williams2001 “The Protection of Indigenous Peoples’

Rights over Land and Natural Re-sources Under the Inter-American Hu-man Rights System.” Harvard HumanRights Journal 14: 33-86.

Anaya, S. J.2004 Indigenous Peoples in International

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Barsh, Russel L.1996 “Indigenous Peoples and the UN Com-

mission on Human Rights: A Case ofthe Immovable Object and theIrresistable Force.” Human RightsQuarterly 18(4): 782-813.

1994 “Indigenous Peoples in the 1990s:From Object to Subject of InternationalLaw?” Harvard Human Rights Journal7: 33-86.

Corntassel, Jeff J. and Tomas H. Primeau1995 “Indigenous “Sovereignty” and Inter-

national Law: Revised Strategies forPursuing “Self-Determination.” Hu-man Rights Quarterly 17(2): 343-365.

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and Decolonization of the Interna-tional Imagination: A Plea.” Hu-man Rights Quarterly 18(4): 814-820.

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Primate Paradigms: In the Field withRingtailed Lemurs

OverviewThis is a small sample of field notes taken while I was conducting research for my Master’s thesis atBéza Mahafaly Special Reserve in southwestern Madagascar, from July to September, 2004.

The reserve is one square kilometre of protected riverine and xerophytic forest. The forest, protected aswell as the unprotected, is inhabited by four species of primate: Verreaux’s sifaka (Propithecus verreauxi),sportive lemur (Lepilemur leucopus), mouse lemur (Microcebus murinus), and, the focus of my study,the ringtailed lemur (Lemur catta). The protected forest is surrounded by a barbed wire fence thatserves to eliminate, or at least greatly diminish, access to its lush flora by grazing livestock, such asgoats and cattle. (It is important to note that this barrier does not limit the movements of any of theprimate groups or any other animals within the reserve.) The unprotected forest is significantly lessdense and has areas of barren dirt due to livestock grazing and removal of trees and brush for buildingmaterial and fuel.

field notes

Andrea Gemmill

Myself, a Canadian assistant and twolocal Malagasy assistants collected be-havioural and ecological data on adultfemale ringtailed lemurs for a period ofthree months. We focused on two so-cial groups: one within the reserve andone south of the reserve, which alsoranged into our camp area. With thisinformation I hope to uncover possibledietary and within group behaviouraldifferences that could potentially be re-lated to the very different environmentsinhabited by these two groups. Primatesworldwide are being faced with en-croaching and expanding humanpopulations. Alongside the work by lo-cal, national and international research-ers to develop new options for agricul-tural and pastoralist practices in this

region of Madagascar, studies such as thiswill serve to conserve and expand protectednatural habitats, such as Béza Mahafaly,and in turn their associated flora and fauna.

Field Notes

Day 1 – Campement; Béza Mahafaly Spe-cial Reserve, Madagascar

Set up the tent today. I’ve never lived in atent for three months – this will be an in-teresting experience on so many levels.On that note, red beans and rice for lunchwas actually pretty good.

Day 7 – Campement; Béza Mahafaly Spe-cial Reserve, Madagascar

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After observing the two ringtailed le-mur study groups for a week now, weare getting a basic idea as to their fa-vourite sleeping trees. That has madelocating our subjects first thing in themorning a bit easier. This morning thereserve group, Green group, was foundin their usual large kily1 tree at the in-tersection of green trail and blue trail.We’ve been fortunate so far with thisgroup as they have not ventured so highamongst the foliage making individualidentification impossible. Some of thesetrees are close to 30 metres tall and thereserve forest can be extremely dense,so I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed.

Day 9 – Campement; Béza MahafalySpecial Reserve, Madagascar

The non-reserve group, Black group, hasbeen much more difficult to track in themornings than has Green group. Theirhome range south of the reserve extendsfrom the Sakamena River (completelyparched since this is the cool/dry sea-son) all of the way west into our camp –an area I estimate to be approximately2km². To us human observers they don’tappear to follow any discernable rang-ing or sleeping pattern. We have locatedthem in various different sleeping treesso far (Fig. 1). Their only obvious, con-sistent group movement is into the hu-man camp area at least once a day. Allgroup members have been recordedfeeding on buds, leaves and fruit in ahandful of mature trees around the tents.They tend to linger for only about anhour, returning east into the non-reserveforest upon the arrival of another non-reserve ringtail group into the camp.Black group doesn’t appear to be rankedvery highly compared to the other groupsthey have encountered in camp. Wehave not witnessed any overly agonisticinteractions between the groups in camp(actions such as lunging, chasing or hit-ting). Vocalizations between groupsseem to serve as the cue for the lower

ranking group to move along. Spendingtime in close contact with humans has be-come common place with many of theseprimates. I’m anxious to determine if ithas an effect on their diet and behaviour.

Fig. 1 – A subadult female from Black group

Day 18 – Campement; Béza Mahafaly Spe-cial Reserve, Madagascar

There was a full moon tonight. We took anighttime hike through the reserve withoutheadlamps. Nights like this make me cog-nizant of just how removed I am from myeveryday, city-person, ‘First World’ life. Iread a book alone at 10:00pm in the dryriverbed and was passed by numerouscharettes, zébus2 (Fig. 2) and people fromneighbouring villages heading to the morn-ing market in town. They embark on thisbumpy, dirt road, enduring a ten hour trek(in each direction) once a week to sell crops,livestock and sometimes woven baskets andmats.

Fig. 2 – Myself and some friends in theircharette

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Okay, so Green group has become completelynoncompliant. All four of us searched forany sign of them in their usual sleeping treesand favourite feeding spots near and on theground (ringtails are the most terrestrial ofany lemur species – what we’ve seen defi-nitely supports the findings of previous stud-ies that they spend about one third of theiractive hours on the ground). We could notfind them anywhere. I realize that this is anexpected occurrence when conductingprimatological research, but it was frustrat-ing nonetheless. After two hours of literallyscouring high and low, a faint ‘meow’ – acontact call – was detected. I plodded offthe trails towards the eastern boundary of thereserve, the embankment of the SakamenaRiver, and peered over the edge. There satGreen group, gorging on thistle leaves thathad grown in the dry riverbed (Fig. 3) – an-other addition to the list of species of plantson which they feed. Even though it is thedry season, Green group appears to have de-cent selection of temporally available flow-ers, buds, fruit (Fig. 4) and leaves. Though Ihave yet to observe any of the individualsdrinking water. I’m sure they get what theyneed from the plants, and conserve or storetheir energy and water by not ranging greatdistances each day. Their regular noon timesnooze has also gradually been lengthening.What started as a two-hour rest time fourweeks ago has now become a four-hour fullout sleep. The adult females are all gestat-ing, so I’m sure that combined with the lackof water resources has contributed to the lesscostly, low energy behaviour.

Fig. 3 – Collecting observations in the river-bed

Day 25 – Campement; Béza MahafalySpecial Reserve

We had a little bit of rain last night,which coaxes out the radiated tortoises.Green group was unamused, or perhapsconfused, by the presence of one of thesereptiles, even though the tortoise posesabsolutely no threat to the ringtails, oranything other than ground level foliagefor that matter. Nonetheless, it was agreat opportunity to hear their groundpredator alarm call. This differs some-what in pitch and cadence from theiraerial predator alarm call, which we wit-nessed the other day when a hawk wascircling and grazing the tops of the trees.When the ringtails saw the immenseraptor (it looked huge to me, an adulthuman – I cannot begin to imagine howit appeared to domestic cat-size animalsthat were more than twice as close toit), their vocalizations were ear splitting.I was nervous for them – it’s amazingthe individual ringtail ‘personalities’I’ve come to enjoy. I was also angry withthis hawk for coming so close to and dis-turbing MY lemurs. Maybe I have be-come slightly territorial myself.

Day 27 – Campement; Béza MahafalySpecial Reserve

Day off today so I brought my video cam-era into the reserve. There was a greatdeal of ground predator alarm callingtaking place. I looked around. Nosnakes that I could see (the true groundpredator the ringtails need to be cautiousof). Not even any tortoises. I realizedthat the adult females who were vocal-izing seemed to be directing their con-cern towards the base of a particular tree.I walked cautiously in that direction, andfollowed their gaze towards my ratherlarge and imposing camera bag.

Day 33 – Campement; Béza Mahafaly

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Fig. 4 – Adult female from Green groupfeeding on fruit

Day 40 – Campement; Béza Mahafaly

Black group has been spending an in-creasing amount of time in camp. Theyno longer come in once a day for aboutan hour. The group now sleeps veryclose to the edge of camp and passesmost, if not all, of their day in camp.Unlike Green group, their early after-noon siestas are still about two hours inlength. All of the adult females in Blackgroup are also gestating, so I believe thattheir higher activity levels are due totheir constant access to water resources.The researchers and the Malagasy peo-ple who live at the camp get their waterfrom a well by the main building. Wa-ter gets spilt on the cement that sur-rounds the source. Ringtails have beenobserved lapping up the tiny puddlesthat collect on the cement. There arealso buckets of water everywhere – byour tents for washing, by the cookingstove for rinsing, washing and fire ex-tinguishing and by the Malagasy homesfor the same purposes. The ringtailstake advantage of these buckets and areundeterable from their drinking until thehuman pail-owner is only a few stepsaway. How does this unnatural, con-stant availability of water affect thehealth of the lemurs? Does it affect theirbehaviour? How about their social or-ganization? Just as importantly, I won-der how being in such close proximityto humans, their foods, waste and ail-ments, could potentially affect all of

those same factors. This provides a text-book example of human encroachment onthe natural habitat of primates. Thenonreserve forest in gradually disappear-ing, and the ringtails are in turn foragingthrough scrap piles in an area of humanhabitation. The water is undeniably a ma-jor draw.

Along that same vein, but on amuch lighter note, I have witnessed vari-ous pail-drinking techniques, such as scoop-ing (Fig. 5) and dunking (Fig. 6). I wonderif they will be passed on and taught to fu-ture generations of ringtailed lemurs.

Fig. 5 – An adult male using the ‘cupping’technique

Fig. 6 – An adult female using the ‘dunk-ing’ techniqueDay 45 – Campement; Béza

45 days of rice and beans. 45 more to go.The red beans have all been eaten. Hopewe can make it to the next market day. Willit be the big, flat white beans or the tinywhite beans for lunch tomorrow? Mmm.

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Endnotes

1 Kily is the Malagasy name for Tama-rind trees (Tamarindus indica) found inthe region.

2 Charettes are hand-made, wooden cartsused for transportation of people and goods.They are very common in the remote, ru-ral, financially poor area of southwesternMadagascar. Zébus are cattle used to pullcharettes. They are also used for meat,milk, and gifts and as signifiers of wealth.

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A Review of No Aging in India:Alzheimer’s, the Bad Family, and other

Modern Things

Cohen, Lawrence. No Aging in India: Alzheimer’s, the Bad Family, and Other Modern Things. Berkeley:University of California Press. 1998. xxv +367 pp.

reviews

Goran Dokiæææææ

On the cover of the paperback editionof No Aging in India (Cohen 1998) is aprint of a Ghar Kali satire with an In-dian man carrying a young woman onhis shoulders while at the same timepulling a rope tied around the neck ofanother elderly woman. The print asksfor an explanation: how and why do peo-ple take such positions? This questionechoes the inquiry Cohen has set to in-vestigate in his ethnography: “… howpeople comprehend the body and itsbehaviour in time… [and] howgenerational and other sorts of differencecome to matter” (p. xv).

Cohen started his initial train-ing in the comparative study of religion.He then continued in medicine, and wasfinally “caught” (p. xxii) by new waysof thinking about health and the rootsof suffering through anthropology at theUniversity of California at Berkeley. Theeffects of these diverse experiencesclearly influenced his analytical choicesin the making of this ethnography. Al-though his discussions are rooted in the

frameworks of biology, culture, andeconomy, Cohen is clear in his attempts toresist the traditional dualistic theorizing byproviding “…a sort of thick analysis… con-tinually adding different sites and methodsof inquiry to [the] project until these juxta-positions ceased to produce interesting chal-lenges to the main arguments” (p. xv). Theresult is a book with a web of detail centeredon the discourses of old body as “a victimof Alzheimer’s” (p. 33) and “an embodi-ment of the bad family of middle class mo-dernity” (p. 87).

Cohen never falls short of data insupport of his arguments. Using researchmaterial gathered in a period of over a dec-ade, he blends an overwhelming amount ofinformation collected from various sources;such as seminars in Europe, North America,and India, interviews with families in sev-eral Indian cities, the sensationalism of tab-loids, popular Hindi films, as well as therhetoric of journalism and the language ofmedical professionals. This broad range ofsources and sites made possible an ethnog-raphy that is “not quite about India”, or as

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he further cautions, “nor is it quite acomparison, for… there is no placecalled the West out there with whichIndia can be compared” (p. 8).

Although the social drama ofCohen’s fieldwork began during the1988 Zagreb convention (p. 19), themost absorbing experience of ambigu-ity and suffering captured in the proc-esses of growing old comes from theIndian city of Varanasi. To explore theconnections between representations oflived experience and the decay of theold body, Cohen wisely chooses to col-lect some of his most detailed accountsfrom the families living in the city thatis characterized in traditional structur-alist ethnographies as the model of In-dian spiritual and material contradic-tions. He shuffles the images of the so-cial scenes in four differentneighborhoods, from the cosmopolitanBengali, through Hindu and Muslimmiddle class colonies, to Nagwa slumsand the lowest caste of “untouchablejati” (p. 42). His juxtapositions reveala variety of meanings and relationshipsbetween the individuals at different lay-ers of social existence within Varanasineighborhoods. In his reflections on thesacredness of the Ganga River, he talksof the old person as the iconic figure ofVaranasi that motivates a rethinking ofsenility. These meditations invoke theimages of widow renunciates (kasivasis)and holy men (sadhus), and add a di-mension of contested gender meaningsto his analysis. The former are capturedin local narratives as both coming outof devotion (bhakti) and ousted by theirbad families, and the latter as complet-ing the four-stage life cycle of search-ing for salvation (moksha) through“learning to forget” (p. 40). The recur-ring narrative of the ‘bad family’ be-comes one of the central themes explain-ing the appearance of the senile old bodyas a result of the “… inevitable declineof the universal joint family,” (p. 17)driven by ‘Western’ ideas of moderni-

zation and development.Cohen cannot help but try to bal-

ance the irony of the transformation of in-tentional forgetfulness if not against theWestern links of incurable memory loss andthe pathology of the Alzheimer’s, then withthe classic Ayurvedic rejuvenation therapy(rasayana) that seeks, as he suggests,“avoidance of old age altogether throughlongevity” (p. 93). However, he does notexplain rasayana therapy as an inversionthat can cure old age. In fact, although cit-ing the popular labeling of rasayana as “In-dian geriatrics”, Cohen recognizes theshifts in the tradition caused by the impactof biomedical categories and the availabil-ity of modified rasayana drugs that are in-creasingly targeted at younger users be-cause their effects are becoming too potentfor the elderly (p. 111).

The temporal dimension of old ageand the shifting meanings attached to theprocess of growing old are a binding threadthroughout the ethnography. Cohen reflectson his childhood experiences of senility as“…loosing your marbles, in old people whoweren’t getting enough blood to theirbrains”, and college lectures about “…se-nility [as] a cognitive defense against themindlessness of institutionalized old age”(p. 5). He was able to trace the rewritingof the standard narrative of Alzheimer’sinto a distinct disease category, which wasseparated from the “normal” anatomy ofsenile dementia (p. 79). He further arguesthis shift to be one of the crucial momentsresponsible for the organic changes in thebrain to be included as a part of the classicnarrative of the modern Alzheimer’s move-ment. As well, this allowed for the subse-quent rebirth of the disease in popular tab-loids as the “fourth leading killer” (p. 60).Following the logic of tabloids, it appearsthat the true sufferer is not the initial vic-tim, but what Cohen phrases as “the bodyof the caretaker” (p. 51). In this way, in-stead of just providing a critique ofmedicalization, Cohen engages a largerdebate to include the relationships of mul-tiple agents involved in the processes of

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aging with shifts in social dynamics al-lowing for the exchange of constructedsymptoms.

Although Cohen states early inthe book how his intentions are not tocompare (p. 7), he does fall into the trapof trying to locate the frame of refer-ence about aging and dementia in Indiathat would fit his medical categories.However, he quickly comes to realizethe reliance on formal assessments andregional demographic data can easilybecome misleading. By shifting his fo-cus from a “… hoped-for sample” (p.36) to “… asking about old age” (p. 37),other questions become more relevant.This allows for the recognition of oneof the central themes in his ethnogra-phy: the paradox of no aging in India.Cohen argues that the task of Indiangerontology is to re-create the old agethat was once erased as its object andappropriated by narratives about thedecline in the joint family that are con-structed only from experiences of theelite and urban middle class men (p. 89).From this it follows that the processesof aging in India are not conditioned byonly biological decay of the body, butwith the changes in the structure of thefamily and social support, which is in-fluenced by modernization and West-ernization. In his review of the academiccritiques on the gerontological mythsabout the change in the treatment“before“and “since” modernization,Cohen draws attention to the calls for“indigenous’ gerontology that wouldcounter the “Bad Family” as a creationof international gerontology (p. 103).However, he continues that narrativesof the Fall keep repeating themselvesand should not be that easily dismissed.Indian narratives about what it meansto grow old are less concerned withmemory loss as a marker of normal ver-sus abnormal aging than with the senseof family experience. In contrast tomemory loss as the key symptom con-

nected with Alzheimer’s, Cohen brings for-ward a number of narratives that reflect thevarieties of experiences that are completelyignored when the body is reduced only toorganic processes in the brain. Perhaps theclosest term to the English “senility” is“going sixtyish” (sathiyana). Cohenpresents this as an intergenerational con-cept in aging, where the authority of the“hot brained” sixty-year-old may be chal-lenged as result of the shifts in the powerdynamics within family (p. 157). Othernarratives concerned with aging shift intheir focus across different classes. In in-terviews with middle-class residents ofVaranasi, Cohen finds how people oftenspeak of balancing their tension (kamzori),which is in turn quite different from worry(cinta) (p. 194). Weakness is also centralto the experience in Nagwa, however, ratherthan attributing its origins to the Westerninfluences on the demise of Indian family,the burden is credited to the existing casteorder. Furthermore, Cohen notes a differ-ence where weakness is “quantified”through the distributed pieces of food(chapati) shared among the residents (p.230). In contrast to the medical treatment,the embodiment of old age in theseneighborhoods is dependent on the familyand it requires care (seva). By juxtaposingthe experiences of individuals from differ-ent social setting and across generationalspans, Cohen is able to uncover the shift-ing meanings of the old body and its rela-tionship to the creation of social and cul-tural practices that form the basis of theprocess of growing old.

The selection of themes in this re-view includes only a small part of dataCohen brings forward in his ethnography.His critical engagement with issues of theaging body and its relationship to the so-cial and cultural experience of what is of-ten captured in terms “Western” or “In-dian”, provides a departure from the com-mon perceptions of aging as a universal lifestage. The central themes of medicalizationand the Bad Family provide the core ofCohen’s arguments and the basis for most

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of his reflections, but the importance ofother detail cannot be overstated in anethnography that draws on such a broadscope of collected data and reflects onone of the most challenging issues in ger-ontology and medical anthropology.Cohen’s attention to detail, juxtapositionsof themes, and use of theories has thepotential to inspire a new wave of re-search interests in anthropology and ger-ontology. His use of language mirrors thediversity of issues and theoretical ap-

proaches, as well as the broad extent of theaudience he may reach and inspire to thinkbroadly. This book can be considered oneof the great pieces of anthropological schol-arship, as well as a detailed account on theculture areas in both India and NorthAmerica. Although the overwhelmingamount of detail may appear to dilute someof the themes and make them seem lesssignificant than others, a careful reader canalways discover a new layer in Cohen’sanalysis that motivates a rethinking of themore traditional hierarchies of causes.

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Visual Anthropology:A review of Working Images

Pink, Sarah, Laszlo Kurti, and Ana Isabel Alfonso. Working Images: Visual Research and Representationin Ethnography. London and New York: Routledge. 2004. 224 p.

Biographcal StatementCynthia Korpan is a M.A. Candidate in Anthropology at the University of Victoria. Her interests lie invisual studies, performance culture, media, and the arts. She is currently working on “The InkameepDay School Project” taking a visual and textual analysis approach to plays produced by children inthe 1930s.

Acknowledgements:I would like to thank my supervisor Dr. Andrea Walsh for her valuable support and encouragement.

reviews

Cynthia Korpan

Sarah Pink et al.’s most recent editedbook addressing visual research is com-prised of a compilation of papers thatwere given at the Working Images Con-ference, held in Lisbon, Portugal in2001. This conference was organized bythe editors of this volume and the Euro-pean Association of Social Anthropolo-gists. The conference and this subse-quent book are centered on the use ofthe visual in ethnography and would beof interest to researchers in visual an-thropology and sociology. As FeliciaHughes-Freeland correctly points out inthe epilogue, the publication brings to-gether a “wide range of arguments and

approaches” (204) to visual research andrepresentation. The case studies and field-work experiences represented in this bookexplore through an interdisciplinary lenshow various visual media are involved inthe process of knowledge creation. Whatthe contributors stress are the “processesof research and representation” (3), withthe obvious inclusion of the now commonrecognition of the importance of reflexiv-ity. The book has been divided into twosections: the first is about visual researchmethods in ethnography and the secondconcerns visual ethnographic representa-tion. Each chapter provides visual exam-ples of the various types of representations

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with which the various authors are work-ing: archival photos, illustrations, pho-tographs, or snapshots of multimediapages.

The methods section coversvideo, photography, and drawing withthe first chapter by Cristina Grasseniexploring video both as a means of film-ing and as used by a community of cat-tle breeders. The crux of Grasseni’s in-quiry is in examining the ways we see,arguing for the study of “vision as askilled sense” (27), and the need for an-thropology of vision. The cattle breed-ers who are the focus of her study usevisual documentation of cattle in theirwork; as a result, the training of theirvision becomes an important element inthe process of successful breeding. Thisis a reliance on the skilled eye: whatcould be termed tacit sight, or profes-sional vision. The author, just like thesubjects of her ethnographic work, hadto learn how to see cattle.

In the next chapter, GemmaOrobitg Canal, looks at various waysthat images can be used in ethnographicdata production specifically focusing onthe authors work in the Pume village ofRicieto. Orobitg’s experimentation withvisual documentation happened bychance when local documentarians ex-pressed interest in a film about Ven-ezuela. This led Orobitg to take photo-graphs in Ricieto upon her first visitthere, which subsequently led her to re-alize the potential of images for her workin several ways. Firstly, as a memorytool, similar to a notebook; secondly asa communication device between her-self and the people with whom she wasworking; and thirdly, so as to reconstructthe focus of her work, the imaginarysphere. This imaginary sphere refers tothe dream world which has become thereal place of existence for the Pume: aplace where the ill are cured, mythicalbeings are communicated with, and so-cial conflicts are resolved. Orobitg de-cided to use black and white film for

the waking documentation and colour filmto represent the world of dreams.

Chapter 4 by Lazlo Kurti investi-gates the relationship between postcardsand what they represent to a communitynear Budapest. Kurti continues the over-riding theme in all of the chapters: the re-lationship between images and texts, andhow they can work closely together to pro-vide different types of knowledge. Kurti’swork began as an archival photo project forthe community, whereby he describes hisapproach to this archive and his methodsof categorizing and analyzing. Through thisinvestigation into the design and the fea-tured iconography, Kurti is able to identifythe changing political face of this commu-nity, evident in the public images producedfor these postcards. This highlights theoverly constructed nature of postcards sincethey are part of a larger process of dissemi-nation of information.

The next chapter moves into therealm of drawing and how this mode ofexpression has been little used or analyzedas a viable means of anthropological in-quiry. The author, Ana Isabel Afonso, la-bels this medium “graphic anthropology”(87). Afonso discusses how gaps of infor-mation were filled in with regards to herethnographic work in Portugal, through theproduction of illustrations about historicalinformation that was provided by local in-formants. This began a process and seriesof drawings, whereby the drawings becamea mnemonic device: once a certain activitywas revealed through the illustrations, theinformant’s memories would be recovered,and this would lead to more drawings. Byemploying this method in her research,which the author refers to as “a continuouscrossover between words and images” (89),Afonso was able to provide a much moredetailed account of social change in regardsto her work, even opening up new areas ofinquiry.

In Chapter 6, Iain R. Edgar exploresthe experiential research method of imagework in ethnographic fieldwork. The au-thor explores three types of image work

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which he explains as: the first is intro-ductory image work, whereby the par-ticipants are simply asked to imaginesomething; the second is memory im-age work where they are asked to spe-cifically recall earlier events from theirlives; the third, spontaneous imagework, uses a Jungian active imaginationtechnique. To analyze any of the workfrom these three types, the author sug-gests four stages: the first is the partici-pant’s description; the second is theirexplanation of symbols they used; thethird is the analysis of the models theyused; and lastly their work is comparedto other participants. Image work out-puts can include art, drama, dance, ormask making. The author gives exam-ples of each type from his own work,ending with a weighted discussion aboutthe ethical aspects of this work, offer-ing ethical and safe guidelines for prac-titioners.

The second part of the book fo-cuses on representation, beginning withPaul Henley looking at observationalcinema as a valuable tool in generatingknowledge during fieldwork, and sub-sequently how this knowledge can berepresented through this same medium.Via an extensive exploration of the his-tory of observational cinema Henleysituates his own understanding of thismethod.

The chapter “Revealing the Hid-den” is about a Spanish ethnographicfilm making unit that considers them-selves to be interdisciplinary, demo-cratic, and collaborative, viewing thefilms produced as instruments of socialtransformation. The films arise from thesubjects themselves who identify socialissues that need to be addressed. Thesesame subjects become full research andfilm making collaborators, all workingtogether to make their story public. Theauthors discuss their methodologies andprocess, highlighting the collaborativestance and the subject’s involvement.

In the “Drawing the Lines”

chapter, the author looks at ekphrasis,which means description in Greek and is“conceived as an important tool in the studyof the aesthetic impact of a description inthe reader’s/spectator’s mind” (148). Theauthor combines anthropological fieldworkwith illustration, which creates activitiesthat help explain his work as well as createa space of discussion with the people he isworking with: producing images forintercultural communication. Examples ofwhere this approach has been successfuland not successful are provided by the au-thor.

Chapter 10 entitled “In the Net” isa collaboratively written chapter betweenthe documentary photographer, Olivia daSilva and visual anthropologist, Sarah Pink.They take a look at da Silva’s project called“In the Net” which was approached by thephotographer with ethnographic researchand anthropological concepts in mind. Thephotographer used long-term participant ob-servation and visual ethnographic methodsto compare the culture and identity of twofishing villages: one in England and theother in Portugal. Pink’s interest was tolearn of innovations in documentary pho-tography and how this may inform newways of “representing ethnography photo-graphically” (160).

In the next chapter Sarah Pink takesa look at hypermedia and how it offers away to integrate the visual and textual inanthropological arguments in a manner thatshowcases the best of both modes of repre-sentation. To illustrate how this may work,Pink draws on her own work on thegendered home. Importantly, Pink identi-fies how each component of a hypermediaproject needs to be analyzed and scrutinizedto ensure that their stitching together isstrong. She then utilizes montage style tolayer all of the components together so thatthe reader/viewer can access the informa-tion they want. In the epilogue, Hughes-Freeland notes how this medium providesa new experience of writing where picturesare not simply illustrative of the words. Thisnew relationship requires new ways of

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thinking about the medium.The next chapter is about

Roderick Coover’s ethnographic work issituated amongst the vineyards of Franceand centered upon the intersection of ac-tions, events and the use of objects. Toproduce a documentary, Coover com-bines a melange of participant observa-tion, interviews, archival research, photostudies, video recordings, and digitalprograms. By the utilization of thismethod, Coover points out that “Thereader-viewer can examine the ethno-graphic process, image-making choicesand intellectual arguments at the sametime” (200).

The epilogue is provided by theexperienced words of Felicia Huges-Freeland, who challenges anthropolo-gists to “explore his (DavidMacDougall’s) challenge to start fromthe (visual) image and to think abouthow we might develop image-led learn-ing” (210). As well the author cites in-stitutions of resistance as providing an-other challenge to the future of visualresearch. This resistance is against tech-nology and other forms of knowledgeproduction, when compared to “thepower of the word” (216).

As I embark in my own gradu-ate work as a visual researcher, what thisbook provided for me were ample ex-amples of the complexity of visual cul-ture, which fittingly explains the vast-ness of approaches to the subject. Ofpractical use are the nuggets of experi-ential wisdom from researchers, such as:Grasseni utilizing the video camera likea video diary and the resulting film as acommodity, exchanging edits for food,time, and access; Orobitg’s explanationof the attributes of photo-elicitation inher work, the effect of how she framedher shots, and the insight that drawings

provided into the Pume world view; Kurti’sarchival methodologies which providedinformation about what was outside theframe; Afonso’s recognition of the plastic-ity of drawing and the wealth of informa-tion this simple tool can provide; Edgar’sethical concerns regarding visual work;Henley’s suggestions for ways to approachan updated observational cinema; Baena etal.’s collaborative experience and their in-terest in applied visual anthropology;Ramos’ lessons about intercultural inter-pretation; Pink’s expansion of how to thinkabout photography’s contribution to anthro-pology; and Pink’s and Coover’s experi-ments with hypermedia and the interplayof text and images. This new area of visualrepresentation provokes challenges withinthe discipline, while at the same time pro-viding an exciting new medium in whichto express anthropological theories and re-search. I think that the articles within thisvolume touch on many of the aspects ofconcern that surface when working withinteractive multimedia, such asintercultural interpretation, ethics, collabo-ration, and representation.

I highly recommend this book foranyone interested in visual research, espe-cially if interested in a wide range of ap-proaches and in the capabilities of the worldof visual methods and documentation.

References Cited:

Pink, Sarah, Lasazlo Kurti and Ana Isabel Afonso,eds.

2004 Working Images: Visual Research andRepresentation in Ethnography. Lon-don and New York: Routledge.

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ANTHROPOLOGY GRADUATE FACULTY AND THEIR CURRENTAREAS OF INTEREST:

CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY, transnational labour migration, sex labour,identity, ethnicity, postsocialism, former Soviet Union, Moldova

ETHNOLOGY, social organization, ethnohistory, quantitative methods, PacificNorthwest

BIOLOGICAL ANTHROPOLOGY, primate behavior, ecology, primatedemography and life history hormones and behavior, Madagascar

PALAEOANTHROPOLOGY, Stone Age Archaeology, Zooarchaeology, Sub-Saharan Africa

ARCHAEOLOGY, Northwest coast, archaeological methods and theory,spatial analysis

ETHNOLOGY, anthropology of power, rural societies, political economy, elites,feminism, theory, Latin America, Caribbean, Brazil

CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY, medical anthropology, gender, technology andthe body, ultrasound imaging, children, Philippines, Canada.

PALEOLITHIC ARCHAEOLOGY, taphonomy; lithic technology, evolution ofhuman cognition, origins of language, art, symboling, Western Europe, NearEast

BIOLOGICAL ANTHROPOLOGY, demography, pastoralists, nutrition, growthand development in Africa

APPLIED ANTHROPOLOGY, medical anthropology, Aging & Society,Indigenous peoples in Global Perspective, communal societies, refugees,Native Peoples, Canada, Europe, Australia

VISUAL ANTHROPOLOGY, visual culture & theory, visual research methods,art, photography, film & new media, 20th Century + Contemporary First NationsVisual Culture, Canada

ETHNOLOGY, medical, development and applied anthropology, genderstudies, Bangladesh, India

Hülya Demirdirek(Ph.D. University of Oslo)

Leland H. Donald(Ph.D. Oregon)

Lisa Gould(Ph.D. Washington U. St. L.)

Yin Lam(Ph.D. SUNY at Stony Brook)

Quentin Mackie(Ph.D. Southampton)

Margo L. Matwychuk(Ph.D. CUNY)

Lisa M. Mitchell(Ph.D. Case Western Reserve U)

April S. Nowell(Ph.D. Pennsylvania)

Eric A. Roth(Ph.D. Toronto)

Peter H. Stephenson(Ph.D. Toronto)

Andrea N. Walsh (Ph.D. York)

Margot Wilson(Ph.D. Southern Methodist)

For information on the Master of Arts program in Anthropologyat the University of Victoria, as well as a listing of currentgraduate students, please visit the departmental website: http://web.uvic.ca/anth/

CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY, medical anthropology, Melanesia gender,sexuality, reproduction (Pacific & Asian Studies)

ECONOMIC ANTHROPOLOGY, ethnography and world systems, socialstructure, Fuji, Polynesia, Tonga (Pacific & Asian Studies)

ETHNOBOTANY, ethnoecology, British Columbia (Environmental Studies)

ORAL HISTORY, life history, ethnomusicology, history of anthropology,British Columbia (Environmental Studies and History)

ARCHAEOLOGIST, Classical Greece, the Bronze Age Aegean, and Iron AgeAnatolia (Greek and Roman Studies)

ARCHAEOLOGIST, Medieval Islamic Art and Archaeology(History in Art)

ARCHAEOLOGIST, Ancient technology, Near Eastern archaeologymaritime archaeology, underwater archaeology (Greek and Roman Studies)

SOCIAL STRUCTURE, ethnomusicology, political and legal anthropology,hunting trapping economics, Sub arctic (Professor, Limited Term)

ETHNOLOGY, symbolic anthropology; anthropology of religion and politicalanthropology (Senior Instructor)

BIOLOGICAL ANTHROPOLOGY, population health molecular epidemiology,forensic anthropology (Anthropology Adjunct, Research Associate, Centreon Aging)

CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY, linguistic anthropology, feminist anthropologydevelopment, Southeast Asia, North Pacific Coast First Nations (AdjunctAssistant Professor)

ETHNOLOGY, Ethnography, cultural anthropology, American Indian Studies,cultural history, tribal cataloguing, historical collections, art. (Director,Indigenous Studies Program)

ARCHAEOLOGY, faunal analysis; seasonality studies; comparative skeletalcollections; taphonomy (Senior Lab Instructor)

OTHER ANTHROPOLOGY FACULTY

ANTHROPOLOGISTS/ARCHAEOLOGISTS IN OTHER DEPARTMENTS

Lesley Butt(Ph.D. McGill)

R. Christopher Morgan(Ph.D. Australian Nat’l U)

Nancy J. Turner(Ph.D. U British Columbia)

Wendy Wickwire(Ph.D. Wesleyan)

R. Brendan Burke(Ph.D. UCLA)

Marcus Milwright(Ph.D. Oxford)

John P. Oleson(Ph.D. Harvard)

Michael I. Asch(Ph.D. Columbia)

Heather Botting(Ph.D. Alberta)

Moyra Brackley(Ph.D. Toronto)

Marjorie Mitchell(Ph.D. UBC)

Michael P. Tsosie(M.A. U of California)

Rebecca (Becky) Wigen(M.A. Victoria)

FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIESUNIVERSITY OF VICTORIA

P.O. BOX 3050 STN CSCVICTORIA, BRITISH COLUMBIA

V8W 3P5 CANADA

Graduate Secretary: anthmain@uvic.ca; Ph: (250) 721-7046Graduate Advisor: anthgs@uvic.ca