This paper is one of a series, written in Italian, called “Diary of an Insurrection”, a public dialogue with the reader with which the author reflects upon the global developments of Black Lives Matter. This is the fourth reflection and examines the concept of “original mixedness”, previously defined as the informal potential of the differentiation, common ground, and often negated, to all the differences established in act, the claimed identities. Building on Jean-Loup Amselle’s (1998) seminal critique of the tendency of ethnologists and colonial administrators to extract “pure” anthropological types where continuity of socio-cultural forms exists, my articulation proposes that it is the field of the original mixedness where it is necessary to ground a cultural policy that perseveres the objective to overcome racism rather than reifying it. Italian version available here.
Maybe it was inspired by a scene from the Black Panther, the first Marvel movie with black superheroes, released in 2018. Michael B. Jordan, as Killmonger, the anti-hero and enemy of T’Challa, the Wakanda leader, aka the Black Panther, steals an artefact belonging to the reign made of precious “vibranium” from the Museum of Great Britain. He has a brief but decisive conversation with a female curator, before she faints from the poisonous in her tea she sips while, with the aid of security, keeping this suspicious black visitor, carefully gazing at African objects, under control. «How do you think your ancestors got these – Killmonger reacts to the curator’s piqued answer who interpreted his “I am gonna take it off your hands for you” as a purchase offer, remembering that the objects are not on sale – Do you think they paid a fair price? Or did they take it like they took everything else?».
Or, more simply, the scene just evokes a real problem, long ignored yet strongly felt by whoever enters a museum of any capital, or important city, of a then empire, and distinctly perceives, inside the polished glasses of exhibit cases, a reopening of historic wounds, never healed. Wounds that extend from the surface of one’s own skin directly to the heart.
It is so that when, on Friday June 12th, Congolese Mwazulu Diyabanza, alongside few other militants, entered the Musée du Quai Branly, home to a large collection of African, Amerindian and Oceanic objects, some previously displayed at the famous Musée de l’Homme, and in a concerted and well-planned action, he is videoed removing a wooden funerary pole from its base, saying he would return it to the ancestors’ home; he verbally overpowers the employees who try to stop him, telling them he needs no permission to do what he is doing because, he thunders, «who gave you the authorisation to steal these objects, these expressions of African genius, stolen through genocides, massacres and violence to children?»; he lectures the astonished and curious visitors to the museum that they need to learn what respect means; and then the video clip ends with his arrest – the impression is that a quality jump here has been produced, live-streamed, in the excitement of the moment filmed with a phone; a powerful assertion for decolonising museums as a result of the global movement Black Lives Matter.
«Je suis venu récupérer mon bien, ce qui à eté vole et pillé dans toute l’Afrique entre 1880-1960», Diyabanza says, accusing all the French presidents of hypocrisy, starting with Jacques Chirac, who strongly advocated for the museum’s opening in 2006; his accomplices; the incapable and corrupt African heads of states, useless, unfit to stand up for themselves; and he warns that next it will be the turn of other museums around the world that make money on the suffering of his ancestors; he tells them he is coming; he is talking to you, London, Belgium, Switzerland, Germany; he is coming to you too. The policeman Diyabanza refers to as «are you Europe’s delegates?» asks him if the object is his. He replies: «Of course, it belongs directly and indirectly to me, it was made by my ancestors, it belongs morally and spiritually to me, and I have come to take it back home».
Macron took everyone by surprise when, in Burkina Faso, in November 2017, he said that he can no longer accept that a huge part of African heritage is housed in France. A commission he appointed had looked into the issue and after one year concluded that the collections kept in France, such as, the seventy-thousand sub-Saharan objects at the Quai Branly, should go back to their homelands if the countries from which they were taken ask for their return . The report was characterised as “very militant” by Emmanuel Kasarhérou, the museum’s director since late May 2020, of Melanesian descent. He explained that it would be difficult to follow the report’s directives, that not all of the objects were obtained through violence, some were legally acquired, others were donated, claiming the need to look at a complex and articulated period such as colonialism with an objective stance.
It is thus that Diyabanza’s action comes during a moment of stasis. The twenty-six treasures that the French president, in November 2018, after having received the report, declared would be given back to Benin, still remain in Paris. They are waiting for a museum to be built in the African state to host them. The reason why many oppose the notion of repatriation, among them the new Quai Branly director, because they feel the objects would be given back, only to rot. But who loves the ancestors most? The one who asks for a ticket for their genius, as Diyabanza calls it, to be seen, even in a decontextualised manner? Or the one who, like the Congolese militant, places the ethical question first that these objects belong to Africa and it should be Africans who manage their heritage? And the management needn’t include putting them in a museum. Instead, this is primarily about the gesture that the ancestors be returned to their communities and there they be treated as the communities see fit.
In this context, the silence through which the professional French associations of anthropologists have received Diyabanza’s irruption is dumbfounding. Yet this action precisely calls to question the founding fathers of French anthropology. It is enough to say that most of the Quai Branly’s objects come from the Musée de l’Homme, for which Paul Rivet was first director, followed by the great André Leroi-Gourhan and, from ’49 to ’50, a certain Claude Lévi-Strauss. The museum has always been at the centre of the national anthropological debate. The silence is disturbing in that it reveals a tendency for departments of anthropology to carry on with business as usual, to pretend the problem simply doesn’t exist. But the problem is not even a new one. Yanomami shaman, Davi Kopenawa, 2019 Right Livelihood Award winner, tells of how he also became upset with those in his party on his first visit to the Musée de l’Homme in Paris when saw the remains of ancient people, including children, and their objects, caged in glass boxes. According to him, that also looked like an insult to those ancestors, because their spirit was kept as a prisoner in those glass boxes, impeding it to be set free in the air, to go back to the world of above, in the sky. Yanomami traditionally burn their dead and the objects belonging to them to allow for that (see Kopenawa & Albert 2013: 345-348). There were no phones to capture Kopenawa’s rage and this was neither planned nor at the centre of a political action, but does that matter? Is it not the same lack of respect for the ancestors that these western museums exhibit just as Diyabanza reprimanded them for?
The same silence that we see in Paris is present in Oxford, where anthropology departments or professional British anthropological associations utter not a word of support for the removal of Cecil Rhodes’ statue and decolonisation of the university’s space (see NB at the end of the article). There have been fourteen Oxford academics who countered vice-chancellor’s statement that Nelson Mandela would be against the statue’s removal, deeming inappropriate to ventriloquise the South African leader dead in 2013 . But none of those fourteen academics was an anthropologist, although some anthropologists, such as Nayanika Mathur, individually and courageously support the protest on the ground. This also impacts a geographical zone, Rhodesia, and institutions such as Rhodes Institute and Rhodes Scholarship that are key to the development of national anthropology (see Shilliam 2019). It could be said that, without Cecil Rhodes, much of British anthropology, its greats such as social anthropology professor at Cape Town Alfred Radcliffe-Brown, and the school of Max Gluckman, born in Johannesburg, would have not existed, so the silence seems embarrassing, to say the least, as it seems to have been decided not to deal with the topic at an institutional level.
How can we interpret this muting of anthropology except as an admission of complicity? To be right to the point: how many conferences have been organised on racism in Oxford’s Oriel College, where the statue of Cecil Rhodes is displayed, or where racism was debated? How many conferences have been organised at the Quai Branly in which anti-colonialism was debated? And before then, and still today, at the Musée de l’Homme? I attended a conference at the British Museum on climate change taking place inside an auditorium called “British Petroleum Lecture Theatre” . How credible can a conference like this be? How many have denounced racism in these conferences funded by institutes named after racists, slave-owners, and imperialists who said, like Rhodes, that he preferred “land to niggers”’? How many grand strategies for ending inequality and the dominance of the West over the World South have been proposed in meetings of privileged held in buildings whose façade feature the statues of those whose wealth and reputation were founded on inequality, dominance and genocide?
It is only with forceful gestures, sometimes even violent, that it is possible to make a hole in this curtain of silence. In March 2015, student and activist Chumani Maxwele, collected human faeces in the slum city Khayelitsha, where sanitary services are inadequate for the population, and threw them at the Cecil Rhodes’ statue at the University of Cape Town. This single gesture launched a movement that in one month saw the removal of the monument. Just one month. It further opened up a global conversation on the fate of Rhodes’ statues, that included the United States, Caribbean and United Kingdom. Who knows? Diyabanza’s gesture might have a similar impact. That may be determined on September 30th when the trial is due to begin. He and the other militants of his group will risk, with the complaint filed by the Quai Branly, detention and heavy fine. And Diyabanza shows every intention, judging from his statements after he was released by the police, to turn it into a political trial, sending messages to Africans and Afro-descendents to unite and stand up in defence of the ancestors.
This is what Nelson Mandela did, to demonstrate our Cape Town-Paris-Oxford connection, when he risked everything, in April 1964, in his famous speech before the court in which he defended armed struggle, not for love of violence, as he makes clear, but as the only way to end apartheid in South Africa. Fifty years of non-violence, he said, had worsened the conditions of Africans in the country, and he added that this choice to take up arms did not in any way betray his determination to live in a free and peaceful society, where no one would be discriminated against for the colour of their skin. It was a choice for which, “if needs be”, he was prepared to die, knowing that this declaration would probably earn him the death sentence. His lawyers and other members of the African National Congress, his fellow prisoners, tried in vane to dissuade him from saying it. But the judge, realised that a death sentence would make of him a martyr and that a dead Mandela would be more problematic than an alive one, opted for life in prison.
This was not the Mandela to whom the vice-chancellor of Oxford University was referring when she said, generating the criticism of those fourteen academics, that Madiba (the name he was generally and affectionately called to show his belonging to the Xhosa group, not used by the vice-chancellor in her statement), would be against the taking down of Rhodes’ statue. Mandela, out of prison after twenty-seven years, after having become the first black president of South Africa, collaborated with institutions named after Rhodes, and, in 2003, founded the Mandela Rhodes Foundation in London to award scholarship to young Africans. His political intention was not to make the new South Africa a vengeful country. Instead, he embraced the model of the “rainbow nation”, a term coined by bishop Desmond Tutu, and made current by Mandela the President.
But it was exactly this model that was the target of the student protests in Cape Town, the Rhodes Must Fall movement of 2015. The movement accused it of not having changed the structural inequities of South Africa (see Ahmed 2019: 23). After prison Mandela made an enormous moral commitment to not fostering vendetta. On the other hand, however, he became an example for liberal leaders, such as Tony Blair, to deactivate his past struggles, turning him into a sort of “Santa Claus”, a good and wise man who had suffered but who now seeks only peace of mind, and has a nice word and fatherly smile for all. That forgets that the same man was once the head of the military wing of the African National Congress, and was convinced that only an armed liberation would put an end to the monstrous system of apartheid. Those same people who glorified him as Santa Claus once he got out of prison often agreed with those who viewed him as a terrorist when he was in prison. Theresa May, as Prime Minister, in August 2018, on an official visit to South Africa one month after the centenary of the South African leader’s birth, visited, as a tourist, Mandela’s cell on Robben Island, not remembering, apparently, that her party at the time, led by Margaret Thatcher, called Mandela a terrorist and fully supported the apartheid regime of South Africa, as the Channel4 journalist Michael Crick made her notice, embarrassing her on national television.
De-santaclausifing Nelson Mandela was my objective when in March 2018, after the Macerata incidents of February, in which one man indiscriminately shot anyone black he met on the street, I decided to perform his I Am Prepared to Die speech of 1964. My aim, as suggested in the written introduction to the video, was to channel the African migrants, migrants in general and all those who stood in solidarity with them, towards that using that speech as a reference for their own actions; even to employ strong gestures and stubborn persistence. And to act rather that waiting for the Left to show concern for their condition. It was very clear that leftist parties and movements, expect for a few rare cases, simply couldn’t care less that Africans died at the hands of Italian racists.
The shadow of that speech looms over Diyabanza’s September trial, though, we obviously are not talking of armed struggle, nor the death sentence nor life in prison. We are simply talking, and it is a “simply” pregnant with consequences, of the rebellion of the ethnological object of anthropology. The same thing we witness at Oxford when black students, British, Africans or Americans, forcefully demand for not only the removal of Rhodes, but, through that gesture, for the decolonisation of the university’s space, designed, from the beginning, for the white western male. Even the illustrious recipient of a Rhodes Scholarship, Stuart Hall, through which he came to Oxford from Jamaica in the ‘50s, and became the founder of the New Left in Britain, couldn’t but note, as evidenced by Shilliam (2019: 4), the unquestioned and all-pervasiveness of the colonial context with which the black student has to come to terms when moving through an environment thought for whites upon the exploitation and slavery of black student’s ancestors.
As a student of anthropology at the University of Rome La Sapienza in early 2000, I felt a strange sensation when my professors talked of anthropology as the study of the Other. I felt that here the Other was me, my family’s story, and yet I felt they talked about it just to talk about it, so they could write books, rather than interact without borders with this Other, without knowing where the interaction would have led. I began viewing them with suspicion when I realised that in the corridors and rooms of La Sapienza, there were, in the ‘30s, anthropologists who had written the “Manifesto della Razza”, supporting the legislation, “leggi razziali”, for which my mother could have not married my father, who was born in Panama. But I didn’t know this from them. None of my professors ever talked about it; not even once they mentioned Lidio Cipriani of the University of Florence and Guido Landra, from La Sapienza, assistant of Sergio Sergi, who wrote the actual document. Instead they talked about Ernesto de Martino as the leftist political founder of the discipline, but even then without telling the whole truth. They talked about de Martino the established elitist intellectual, not the one he could have become had he had the courage he had shown, at the beginning of his ethnographic investigation of Southern Italy, when he was in his forties.
Reflecting on the time on the ground spent with the Rabatani people, in a rural district of Tricarico, in the region of Basilicata, he wrote Note Lucane (“Lucanian Notes”), whose epilogue is a manifesto of what anthropology should be, had taken on the task of decolonising itself rather than persevering in the silence of colonial complicity. With the Rabatani people “kept at the level of beast” and fighting against the landowners, he realised how stupid and futile the narcissistic petit-bourgeois debates are over the Other’s dignity. He understands there is nothing left to do than to fight along with them, that his struggle is their struggle. Therefore he thanks them for having made his role as an intellectual clear, and as an intellectual coming from the South, being de Martino from Naples. They were revolutionary words, that de Martino himself rejects, once he had obtained a teaching post in the university and had editorial success. He treated his words as youthful mistakes, when he was already forty-two when he wrote them, four years older than I am now. They were revolutionary words that for me opened the possibility of decolonialising anthropology in the respect of those exploited and abused ancestors (see Berrocal 2009, 2015). My professors, by contrast, let those words fall into a void, worried only about assignments of offices and competition among themselves for research funding. The international debate passed by their very existence.
This is why, in February 2018, inaugurating the place, a rural house in the countryside, where I strategically retired to live and from which I write, with the goal, in due course, of making it a cultural centre of thought experimentation; inside an Etruscan cave, called “The Ancestors’ Cave”, I recited the Note Lucane’s epilogue to launch this new path. For when the ethnological object does rebel, anthropology, as de Martino shows, cannot but accompany the explosion of the conflict, must become that Gramscian organic intellectual, in sentimental connection with their own group, that western anthropology has never been able to become.
The best anthropologist who ever lived was not, in fact, an anthropologist, but a guerrillero: the Insurgent Subcomandante Galeano, previously known as Marcos. Let us look at it this way: before engaging in a field research, the anthropologist advances a proposal, in which, from the table, s/he asks some questions, how s/he thinks to answer them, which type of problems s/he thinks s/he will encounter and so on; then, once in the field, s/he realises those questions and proposals have to be thrown up in the air because reality, in medias res, is another thing. So s/he begins to follow the course of events, become part of it, become modified by it. By the time the fieldwork is over, s/he will be have changed, as a result of an experiential, learning and initiating route.
Marcos who went to Chiapas in the ‘80s did the same. He arrived with a group of classic Marxist-Leninist guerrilleros of Latin American guerrilla warfare, with the idea of “converting” the indigenous to the faith of revolution. After the first few unsuccessful years of being faced with the diffidence of local communities and the considerable challenges of jungle life for a metropolitan bourgeois man, a philosopher from the UNAM of Mexico City as Rafael Sebastian Guillén Vicente was – the rain, insects and discomforts of the place; Marcos and his group leave behind their initial views and end up becoming, thanks to the mediation of the Viejo Antonio, indigenous themselves.
An anthropologist, having reached this point, of becoming “native”, and having accessed the secrets of the local culture, normally returns home to academia, writes a book on the experience which is read by students and debated in seminars, conferences, anthropological meetings. The people the book talks about have no opportunity to read and/or understand what is written about them, since the text is so full of anthropological jargon and bibliographical references, so packed with anthropological jargon themselves, that only university students or professional anthropologists can understand it. By contrast, Marcos stays there and builds with the Marxists become indigenous and revolutionary indigenous projects of life, political-communitarian experiences of liberty. The reciprocal recognition of the Other happened in the field, in the name of which the initial diffidence falls and the initial project is modified, becomes the pivot of an identity project based on such possibility. A possibility that starts from an ethical fundamental pre-comprehension that Marcos certainly had before going to Chiapas, because if it is true that an anthropologist deliberately chooses her/his object of study, the contrary is also true. The anthropologist is chosen by her/his object of study, in this case, a great calling from the ancestors, to be respected and honoured.
It is so that also with Marcos and the Zapatista movement it was necessary to inaugurate the new space. A video shot in July 2018 was published on YouTube in November, and centred around Entre La Luz y La Sombra, a speech made by Marcos in 2014 in which he announces the death of Marcos; that is, Marcos the character. In his characteristic literary style, he recounts the twenty years that had passed since the insurrection of January 1st 1994. He recalls the invention of the mask with the balaclava to make fun of the media and through them let the indigenous “giants” speak; those giants that the midgets of the communication system, so used to looking at their feet and never able to look up, couldn’t see. Yet they could see the only midget as tall as them, him and, via him, the giants could finally be heard. But even here, in order to break the wall of silence that had fallen over the original peoples of America, killed and violated since 1492, it was necessary to rise up in arms. And if on a previous occasion, Marcos had said that whoever recurs to violence lacks great ideas, therefore, implicitly conceding that on January 1st 1994 the Zapatistas lacked great ideas; in May 2014 he maintains, on being authorised, he clarifies, by Insurgent Subcomandante Moisés, the new leader of the movement, that nothing good or bad that in these twenty years happened in Chiapas could have been possible without the armed insurrection of San Cristóbal de las Casas.
All that happened in 2018, annus horribilis for Italy, from the racist resurgence both in Parliament, as represented by Salvini-Di Maio government, and on the streets, with continuing and insolent Nazi attacks against the Other that rendered everyone speechless. Words were certainly not spoken by anthropologists, who showed themselves to be insignificant, aligned with the white western left, unable to face the racist storm.
2020’s silence is the child of that silence, but this time there is an insurrection in the making. And toppling down racist statues might lead to the dethroning of locked-up-in-chairs anthropologists, who have done nothing to combat racism while everything to fatten up that system with the illusion of being against it, of wanting its end. The silence we see in Paris, Oxford, Rome may be the harbinger of an extinction of colonial anthropology, may finally open up the possibility for anthropology, de-colonised.
For anthropology remains the only great alternative for defeating racism. Its being founded on prolonged fieldwork, face-to-face relationships, that involves senses, emotions, that can lead anywhere, towards unexplored shores, and destinations previously thought as unreachable, makes of it a valid empiric demonstration of what an ethnic identity is: its possibility of always reshaping itself, reformulating, never stopping, continuing to move, to climb trees, falling and trying again. Fieldwork is open ground that awaits to be walked upon, and that is the territory of original mixedness, the persistent promise of new combinations, new developments, new destinations.
Achille Mbembe, Cameroonian philosopher, has defined, to then change his own initial position, the Rhodes Must Fall movement in Cape Town as similar to Boko Haram, the fundamentalist Islamic terrorist group of Western Africa (see Ahmed 2019: 120-121). His consideration was based on some despicable facts. After the removal of the statue, Chumani Maxwele was denounced for having assaulted a white professor shouting “whites must be killed”. This is because, Mbembe’s argument against the students movement goes, rather than being demythologised, whiteness has remained an obsession in South Africa (see Ahmed 2019: 123-124), in a country where, during and after Mandela, the whites have kept their monopoly intact and little has changed for the black population. All of this speaks to a vicious result of the process of the santaclausification of Nelson Mandela, through which, and thanks also to the corruption of his successors heading the ANC, a veil has been lowered to mask the unsolved problems of the country.
However that university movement has also been transformed, as Abdul Kayum Ahmed notices in his PhD thesis, by its feminist and trans-feminist component. Practicing intersectionality, the recognition of the overlapping and interdependencies of the systems of discriminations, has allowed this movement to create the space for a new discourse on an open identity claimed in Africa before any other western country, in an intriguing way and with concrete results. The women of the movement consciously adopted, in connection with the critical theory of Californian feminist and African-American movement, the wording “womxn” to define themselves, adopting this x in the most inclusive way so as not to exclude the forms of being woman that the patriarchal language “man” cages in the binarism of gender choice (Ahmed 2019: 124-136). It is an interesting use: it recalls the incognita of Malcolm X which was intended to let people know that because of slavery he could not know his origins. Today we need to claim this x as a condition of humanity that with the incognita means the conscience of the yet to come, of the always possible, of the possibility of the original mixedness of leaving its mark on any identity process. The x, as I propose, can stand for original mixedness.
We don’t know if Mwazulu Diyabanza is an anti-hero like Killmonger of Black Panther, even if Killmonger, albeit in reach for power, is likely more useful than dangerous to the Wakanda reign. He looks like a typical PanAfrican leader. His call is to Africans which might suggest that a closed notion of identity is behind his plan. The discussion has to move quickly on to the fact that the ancestors Diyabanza wants to respect are not only African, but belong to everybody, are part of everybody’s heritage, from whom we all became who we are. It is right that they come back to Africa to have Africans decide what to do: no question about it. But there’s an anthropological discussion to be had, an all levels, about decolonialisation of thought, about recognition of the infinite combinatory possibilities, and in the making, of original mixedness. That is why it is hugely important for anthropology to be present for the 30th September’s trial, and in preparation for it. It will occur during a time we might feel strongly the bad byte of the covid19-related economic crisis, when the authoritarian discourse may return more aggressively than ever. It is essential thus for anthropology to get onto the battle-field, defend Diyabanza and widen the horizon.
We cannot repeat the same errors of the past. Errors such as the historic PanAfrican movement that adopted the idea of the European nation, that claimed the borders set by the colonialists by a ruler on the table, that declared war on the traditional authorities in the name of “progress”, throwing away a precious opportunity to show the African way of modernity to the Europeans, spitting, they themselves for first, on the memory of their ancestors. We cannot allow the same error to happen today. It is because we need to found a new knowledge, one that decolonises our thought while simultaneously championing respect for the ancestors.
There is a strong resonance that supersedes all others: the Medici’s Neo-Platonic Academy by Cosimo I. That project sought to re-discover Plato as a means of re-accessing ancient thought which was rejected by Aristotle, at least as he was referenced in the Middle Ages. It was a project that showed its limitations by enmeshing Plato inside Christianity, conforming him in great part to St Augustine’s reading. Marsilio Ficino freed Plato from that reading and then he imprisoned him there again, when he became a priest. Today our “scienza nova” (between Latin, nova, and vulgar from which Italian scienza) will be more successful the more it rests on the hands of Marcos’ giants: our, that is, of all humans living in 2020, ancestors.
Casolare del Pensare
NB: since writing this article, June 20th, several declarations by some European professional associations of anthropologists have been made, such as the statement by EASA, European Association of Social Anthropologists, of June 22nd, motivated by the strong statement made in the previous few days by its Anthropology of Race and Ethnicity Network that explicitly supports the Black Lives Matter movement and, channelling the statement, released on June 6th, by the Association of Black Anthropologists (section of the American Anthropological Association) invites anthropologists to reflect on the problem of whiteness in the discipline and how this is reflected in hiring, career, etc. Even the Association of Social Anthropologists of the UK & Commonwealth, almost obliged, finally released a statement, rather weak, on racism. However in none of these cases is there a direct reference either to the Oxford Rhodes Must Fall movement, even though, at least ideally this is implied in the Anthropology of Race and Ethnicity Network’s statement, where the removal of statues and figures of the colonial past “also linked to our discipline” is recommended, or to the Mwazulu Diyabanza’s case in Paris. Still no mention of this last case from the French associations of anthropologists. The good news, however, comes from the Pitt River Museum in Oxford, whose director, archaeologist Dan Hicks, appears to be strongly committed to decolonise the institution.
Ahmed A. K. 2019. The Rise of Fallism: #RhodesMustFall and the Movement to Decolonize the University. PhD Thesis. Graduate School of Arts and Sciences. Columbia University.
Amselle J. L. 1998 . Mestizo Logics: Anthropology of Identity in Africa and Elsewhere. Stanford CA: Stanford University Press.
Berrocal E. G. 2009. “The Post-colonialism of Ernesto De Martino: The Principle of Critical Ethnocentrism as a Failed Attempt to Reconstruct Ethnographic Authority”. History and Anthropology 20 (2): 123-138.
Berrocal E. G. 2015. “Other-Hegemony in de Martino: The Figure of the Gramscian Fieldworker between Lucania and London”. Journal of American Folklore 128 (507): 18-45.
Kopenawa D & B Albert 2013 . The Falling Sky. Words of a Yanomami Shaman. Cambridge, MASS & London, UK: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press.
Shilliam R. 2019. “Behind the Rhodes statue: Black competency and the imperial academy”. History of the Human Sciences. 32 (5) 3-27.