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An essay on the anthropology of humanitarian shame

This post is part of a series linked to the workshop “Assessing the Anthropology of Humanitarianism: Ethnography, Impact, Critique”.

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Humanitarian pluralism

What are the cultural and historical forces and the physical dynamics that shape contemporary human displacements in the Middle East and the humanitarian efforts that follow?

In this essay, I want to focus on those providing aid, and specifically on the members of the ad-hoc, loosely organized group Refugees Welcome to the Arctic (RWTA) who are ordinary people seeking to right, in whatever small way they can, what Stephen O’Brien (UN Emergency Relief Coordinator) has coined “the humanitarian shame upon us all.” I am most interested not in exploring the effects and scale of these relief interventions—the everyday humanitarianism—or their unintended consequences, but rather in looking at these efforts from the perspective of the grassroots providers in Norway, far from the locus of the disaster.

I propose that as scholars of the human condition we can use our ethnographic approach, attentive to local voices and grounded interpretations, to closely follow the refugees along the different routes they take—from the camps and detention barracks, to points of transit, and then further. Following them as far as we can to investigate what the refugee crisis reveals about what I call ‘humanitarian pluralism’, a term that illuminates the spaces/places/distances and ambivalences that surround humanitarian situations and actions.

Humanitarian nurturance

Sometimes flashes from previous, long ago fieldwork revisit us and hone our thinking in unlikely places. For me, that flash from long ago took me back to the genocide survivors in the Armenian Quarter in Jerusalem who I interviewed almost two decades ago. I was revisiting their memories of being fed and cared for when in February 2016 I arrived at one of the hotspots of the refugee “crisis”: the Arctic crossing between Russia and Norway.

Syrian refugees entering Norway above the Arctic Circle, through the border town of Kirkenes, are fleeing war, but they bring with them deep memories of moments of contentment, of times filled with family, delicious meals, and sociable neighborhoods. Geographically remote and climatically harsh as it may be, this part of Norway has a long history, and its people have deep memories of another time, in this case, of World War II, of homes burning, of starvation and cold. This is a place where recollecting history matters. When World War II broke out, Kirkenes was a community drawing its livelihood from the iron ore in the surrounding mountains. During the war, it became an important military garrison for the German army and was a staging area for the German attack on the Soviet Union in June 1941. In October 1944, the Red Army crossed the border and pushed the Germans out of Kirkenes, thus the people of Kirkenes consider the Soviets their liberators. As the Germans retreated, they used scorched earth tactics and burned Kirkenes to the ground.

And so it is that humanitarian practices in Arctic Norway are refined not only in response to the immediate social contexts and circumstances—refugees arriving in Kirkenes in the fall and winter of 2015-16—but also by traumatic historic moments. I use the term “humanitarianism” both literally—as the process through which aid is proffered—and as a practice through which to think about compassion. My argument about how a disaster happening in one part of the world changes lives somewhere on the other side of the globe references what I think is captured in the phrase humanitarian encounter (Nefissa Naguib, “Middle East Encounters 69 Degrees North Latitude: Syrian Refugees and Everyday Humanitarianism in the Arctic.” In International Journal of Middle East Studies 49/4 (2017), 645-60). Humanitarian encounter is a trope I developed to suggest both the geographical voyages of humanitarian disasters—the great distances, the abrupt juxtaposition of cultures and histories, and the many trails of relief—and the very concrete nature of encounters between the recipients of aid and the providers who are caught up in the super-charged terrains of emergencies.

RWTA tactics have a particular resonance in this context, and the focus of its activities—its demands that refugees are fed well and often—have brought issues of global humanitarian solidarity to the forefront. Food is conceived of broadly, not as simply providing necessary calories, but as an essential element in creating living and resting spaces that make other humanitarian activities possible. Members of the RWTA saw in food an experiment in new, collective forms of commitment to global issues. This was one of the defining features of RWTA—it was both a solidarity association and a laboratory for alternative humanitarian forms. Part of the humanitarian experiment was determining how to keep refugees reasonably clothed, fed, and cared for so far away from their homes.

Food, and the way in which it became a core issue for RWTA, is a medium for communicating an alternate vision, both for food humanitarian action and for refugee regulations—an approach based on solidarity. A regular volunteer reflected that, “I feel this is like throwing one Christmas dinner party after another.” Another noted, “We are like mums and dads preparing food for a sports event. You never know how many will turn up or what the score will be.”

In humanitarian thinking, food tells us something about human struggles and vulnerability. As a core issue of humanitarian relief, we see that food makes and unmakes humanity. Food, as an object, and eating, as an act, resonate with attitudes and emotions relating to human understanding of and feelings about self and others and their underlying interactions. Emmanuel Levinas speaks about passivity in our encounters with other people’s sufferings and offers affinity as an alternative.

By contrasting, as Levinas does, the choice of providing with not providing, he can guide contemporary humanitarian research on questions of responsibility, obligation, and social integrity. He encourages us to pay attention to the face-to-face encounter, since it is in the face-to-face that the face of despair becomes transformative. Central to almost all of Levinas’s works is the concept of nourishment, in one form or another. Nourishment is an eminently personal affair: it gives us a sense of who we are in the world, and providing nourishment for others is a specificity of human responsibility and repair (Emmanuel Levinas, Humanism of the Other, trans. Nidra Poller (Urbana, Ill.: University of Illinois Press, 2003)).

Conclusion

I like to think that this Arctic experience—in all its bizarre juxtapositions of disquiet and tranquility, of people from “down there” and those “at the top of the map” as a Syrian mother of two put it, of food and want—has created a new and rich archive of memory, sorrow, and optimism. It gives us the opportunity to develop scholarship on what Sherry Ortner terms the “anthropology of morality and ethics” (Sherry Ortner, “Dark Anthropology and Its Others: Theory since the Eighties,” HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 6 (2016): 47–73. 59) and, as I witnessed the efforts by RWTA, this extends into an “anthropology of compassion.” Surely, the limits of compassion cut to the heart of our research and the politics of it all – “the humanitarian shame upon us all” – every time we read about how many die on their way to a safe harbor, and when individuals are met by high fences, armed police, and terrifying guard dogs. Our engagement as anthropologists is with the world and the human condition, and some of us are engaged in urgent research — with a “reasonable optimism”—tempered, certainly, with a certain realistic pessimism—but nevertheless based on a belief in the unquenchable human appetite for attachment to the world, imperfect and sometimes horrifying as it is.

 

Acknowledgments: Quotes from RWTA volunteers were recorded during research carried out in Kirkenes in the fall and winter of 2015 and into 2016. Research included participant observation and interviews, as well as informal encounters. I am immensely grateful to my interlocutors for the explanations and the thoughtful conversations to which I have been privy.

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Suggested by Public Anthropologist – Nightmarch

The new book “suggested by Public Anthropologist” is Nightmarch. Among India’s Revolutionary Guerrillas by Alpa Shah.

In this vibrant piece of anthropological work, Shah takes us into one of the most unreported rebellions in contemporary India with wisdom and courage. Her analysis of the motivations, modalities of implementation and failures of Naxalites’ struggle shapes a new history of both the exploitation they suffered and their fight for liberation.

Written in a way that provides food for thought and, at the same time, moves hearts, this book is an example of the unique contribution anthropologists can bring to understanding the world we live in, and improving it.

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Border walls and fences: an interview with Antonio De Lauri

There seems to be a current international preoccupation with border walls as a form of security and protection – with people both advocating and protesting their construction. However, walls and barriers are not a new phenomenon. What is the continuing historical factor motivating the construction of border barriers?

Throughout global history border barriers have had at least four main functions: to manifest political power (be it imperial or state power); to seize lands; to protect a territorial domain, a population or a group; and to create categories of people on the basis of whether a person was located on “this side” or on the “other side” of the wall (“civilized-uncivilized”, “citizens-barbarians”, “legal-illegal migrants”, etc.).

In their declared political intentions and purposes, walls are the factual, material response to the quest for collective protection in situations that are perceived as destabilized and at risk. Through a chemical metaphor, we could argue that the wall is the solidification of the liquid idea of protection, which ranges from geopolitics to biopolitics. Indeed, spatial and territorial control is not the only task ascribed to border barriers, since they also prove functional to disciplining populations and to the application of biopolitical governance in the everyday lives of citizens.  The wall is thus a technique of power aimed at governing borders that are differently performed  by a plurality of social actors.

Are contemporary walls and fences a consequence of globalization and increased population movement, or rather a reaction to it?

In terms of contrasting criminal organizations, studies have shown that barriers do not affect illegal trafficking. Rather, there is an ambiguous relationship between illicit flows and the business of bordering. In fact, I don’t see walls as reactions to globalization. They are artifacts rooted in ancient times today fully integrated into a globalized world in which the affirmation of a privileged few who live the promise of globalization and free movement is defended through the erection of barriers to obstacolate the mobility of unpriviledged masses.

In a previous piece on the politics of fencing in the contemporary world, you wrote that the wall plays a role “as an agent of identification and exclusion”. Can you explain what you meant by this?

Walls and fences have a deep impact on people’s ordinary lives. The politics of protection can take different forms. In the 18th century, for example, after several cities in France were devasted by the plague coming from the Levant, the regial adminstration issued the construction of anti-plague walls and the closure of existing town walls. In South Africa, barriers were a crucial element of the apartheid segregation architecture. The fence along the border between Hungary and Serbia today responds to the current European propaganda in preventing refugees from Syria, Iraq, and Afghanistan from trespassing Hungarian national borders and therefore represents a specific politics of citizenship in today’s Europe. In all its different forms, the physical barrier is not merely something that produces alterity and otherness (what remains outside of the wall), but it is also an instrument of governance, control and identification for what remains on “this side” of the wall.

The Berlin Wall has been a symbol of separation for decades. However, as you previously mentioned walls can be seen to symbolise separation, but also belonging and protection. Would you argue that today’s perception of walls and fences is perhaps more multifaceted in the West?

After the fall of the Berlin wall, efforts have been made in order to create a stable, peaceful European territory, which was built on the ashes of WWII. However, Europe is currently being walled up. Recent events like the financial crisis, the revivification of populist political and social movements, the humanitarian emergencies in the Middle East and the “refugee crisis”, resuscitated the use of walls and fences as securitarian devices in the political discourse of several European leaders. In today’s Europe, walls and fences respond to different political purposes. For instance, the Bulgaria-Turkey, Hungary-Serbia or the Norway-Russia barriers are representative of nation-states’ reaction to the current European migration crisis. The Ukraine-Russia example, on the other hand, responds to a quest for security and territorial control in a framework of nation-state tensions.

In your article Times of Walls you mention the historical example of Dannevirke as a a barrier that “shaped and limited territorial identity.” Dannevirke seems to have been used as an arena to shape and construct a historical narrative and identity over a long period of time, and by different groups. Can you briefly explain the relevance of this example?

An interesting reference here is the book “Murs. Une autre histoire des hommes” published by the French historian Claude Quétel. King Godfrid launched the construction of a series of fortifications in 808 in the Jutland peninsula, in today’s German Schleswig (Danish until 1864). This fortification was dug out by archeologists in the 1970’s and can be compared to the Offa’s Dyke in Wales. The Dannevirke ca be seen as a later manifestation and a reversed Roman limes. Danish tribes confederated in the VIII century, three centuries after the end of the Roman empire, and felt the urgency of defending their territory from the expansionist plans of the Francs. Danish articles titled: “Vikings’ entry door found!” because this defensive palisade included a door (next to Haithabu-Hedeby), a sign that commercial relations with the Francs were never interrupted. The Dannevirke was at the same time a proto-frontier and a bastion (like the Roman limes before). It shaped and limited Danish identity and territory, and acquired a growing importance in Danemark nationalist discourse: during the 19th century, with the second Schleswig war approaching, some Danish newspapers were renamed Dannevirke. Paradoxically, however, after being defeated in Dybbol, Danes lost Schleswig and their precious Dannevirke. During WWII, Germans feared an invasion of Jutland after the Normandy landings. A high-ranking Nazi official proposed to rebuilt the Dannevirke into a trench (turning it upside down). The archeological massacre was about to happen, when the Danish archeologist Soren Telling addressed Himmler resorting to an alleged shared Arian identity: such a symbol could therefore not be destroyed. Himmler interrupted the construction of trenches along the Dannevirke.

Finally, walls have been used historically to divide populations or protect a territory. In your opinion, are walls effective?

As an extension of nation-state ideologies and practices, walls have today a strong theatrical connotation. Despite the knowledge that the power of walls is limited by modern technology and the interdependencies of a global economy, the wall functions as a theatrical performance of state power and sovereignty in the face of a potential external national threat. Indeed, whether a border wall or fence is useful or not, its spectacle can (must) be seen by everybody. One of its main function, therefore, remains the power of creating categories of people. At the same time, however, the materiality of walls and its policing corollary have a deep impact on migrants and refugees mobility. Border barriers aggravate displacement and exacerbate the feelings of fear and insecurity perceived by both local populations and borders crossers.

 

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‘Southern’ and ‘Northern’ assistance provision beyond the grand narratives: Views from Lebanese and Syrian providers in Lebanon

Over the past few decades, scholars have increasingly employed the categories of ‘Global North’ and ‘Global South’ to explore different political geographies and economies in development cooperation and humanitarian aid provision. Without doubt, whether and how these denominations make sense are not merely dilemmas of terminology. The Global South has been historically referred to in a number of ways: as the ‘Third World’, coming after the First World, including the US and its allies, and the Second World, including the Soviet Union and its Eastern Bloc partners; as ‘non-DIAC countries, i.e. not belonging to the Development Assistance Committee of Western donors; or as ‘postcolonial donors’, which, however, does not manage to capture the different positioning of Southern countries vis-à-vis donorship and aid reception.

Against this backdrop, the categorisation of the Global South has existed since the mid-1970s, effectively indicating the changing power relations of this groups of countries with the Global North. With respect to the ‘East’ – a notion tentatively incorporating diverse realities but nowadays embedding them in the Orientalistic discourse first advanced by Palestinian-American scholar Edward Said (1978) – the Global South better allows for multi-directional flows of economic, cultural, and political capital between different countries, and therefore anthropology is surely well placed to explore such multi-directional flows. However, the definition of the Global South has too often been misleadingly reduced to a marginal or anti-imperial positionality, independent from context. In particular, in a bid to learn about and consider different Souths (from an intentionally plural perspective), Global South should not be our episteme – the point of departure for enlarging our knowledge about such a concept. It is in this regard that some scholars have opted for a conception of the Global South as ‘not an exact geographical designation, but as an idea and a set of practices, attitudes, and relations’ (Grovogu, 2011) or ‘a linguistic family, a belief system and an epistemology’ (Mignolo, 2015).

It may be helpful to examine a world map and reflect on the very geographic characteristics of the countries that are included in the Global South category. For instance, given that Australia is a political pole of the Global North, just as China is for the Global South, physical geography cannot fully explain what North and South are, since these categories refer not only to places but also, more importantly, to different political projects related to development and humanitarian action.

As Fiddian-Qasmiyeh and Daley highlight in their introduction to the Routledge Handbook of South-South Relations, the present South-South cooperation and its underlying principles are historically associated with anti-colonial and anti-imperialist struggles around the world: ‘The emergence of a South-South cooperation was originally conceptualized as a way to overcome the exploitative character of North-South relations through diverse models of transnational cooperation and solidarity developed since the 1950s and 1960s, including internationalist, socialist, and regional approaches and initiatives such as Pan-Arabism and Pan-Africanism’. Dahi and Velasco have recently pointed out that, in the decades following World War II, between the 1950s and the late-1980s, South-South trade represented roughly 5–10% of all global trade, but, by 2013, that share had risen to 54%. Over the same period, the direction of these exports shifted to other Southern countries, while global South-South financial flows also increased substantially. This shared interest in mutual collaboration in the Global South, presently championed by Northern actors (that purport to act as facilitators) is also reflected in the so-called ‘localisation agenda’ promoted by the international humanitarian apparatus, as endorsed during the 2016 Istanbul World Humanitarian Summit. At the ‘Africa Stories: Changing Perceptions’ workshop held at University College London in June 2018, Michael Amoah, from the London School of Economics, confirmed Dahi and Velasco’s findings by contending that, in its current form, regional solidarity ideologies like pan-Africanism imply a new material inter-relationality, namely a new shared political economy between African countries, rather than an exclusive political ideology.

Thinking of South-South Cooperation (SSC), which is today incorporated in the framework of the United Nations (UNOSSC), the member states own different levels of economic development (the so-called ‘Human Development Index’) and are viewed as being located at different stages of democratic transition. Many countries partaking in the SSC are, at the same time, both aid donors and aid recipients. Some of those that are also donors do not wish to be defined as such, since such terminology is loaded with negative connotations associated with the Northern aid industry. In this sense, grouping the different realities that form an imaginary South under the banner of ‘emerging’ or ‘non-traditional donors’ is anti-historical as it represents the Northern neglect of a Southern history of assistance, which has similarly been developing for a long time.

In the light of this, should we endeavour to modify the categories ‘South’ and ‘North’ and work towards new definitions that can still grasp power relations without dooming countries to essentialised geopolitical positions? Or, rather, should we liberate the ‘South’ from negative connotations and the ‘North’ from positive biases? North and South are very telling with regard to our mental and cultural maps, not always encompassing the different technical, economic, political, and cultural assets and deficiencies that these political geographies present.

The emergence of UNOSSC is only one symptom of the increasing claim to postcolonial solidarity within the South and between the North and the South. Similarly, it can partially indicate the difference of the South from the North in the way that development and humanitarian assistance are thought about and implemented. These debates go beyond the realms of global economy, international relations, and politics; instead, they relate to the way in which ordinary people conceive of, explain, and concretely manage ideas and issues related to development and crisis management. In March 2018, I had the opportunity to speak with Syrian and Lebanese aid and service providers in Lebanon, among whom were three religious authorities engaging in assistance to Syrian refugees, and meaningful ways of understanding the services funded or managed by countries in the Global North or Global South emerged.

For instance, for a Syrian Sunni sheikh from Homs (western Syria), now managing a school in Tripoli, governance and markets represent the substantial differences between aid actors. He asserted that, in the Global South, governments are more present, while, in the Global North, there are private assistance initiatives that have their own rules and independence. Assistance in the Global North therefore ends up being random (ashwa’iy), reflecting an unleashed labour market behind assistance provision: ‘paying rents, employees, careers, and so on’.

A Lebanese Greek-Orthodox priest who provides aid to refugees and vulnerable citizens on a discontinuous basis in the city of Halba (northern Lebanon) expressed his way of thinking about the South in relation to the aid he provides in terms of what is outside of the Global North. However, he pointed out that, to him, in the mind of the beneficiaries, there is no difference with regard to the source of help and they do not distinguish between actors: ‘If you do lots of sponsoring, eventually your name is going to stick in their minds, but people do not really separate out providers in terms of principles and motivations, only whether the political campaign is massive, e.g. services coming from Saudi Arabia […] in this case, the image easily sticks in their minds, but they don’t know the name of the organisations involved most of the time. I personally think that what differs for Southern and Northern providers is the funding: it is sustainable for UNHCR but certainly not for us. They have governments supporting them, [whereas] we just have the Lebanese government, which neglects us. In that sense, I would identify as a Southern provider’.

Another Lebanese Greek-Orthodox priest working for a branch of the Ministry of Social Affairs in Halba raised the issue of global power holders imagining one homogenous South while departing from the idea of several Northern perspectives: ‘The Global North is the macro-picture for the politics we mostly hear about. As Lebanese providers with few means and little funding, we’re just numbers to be taken care of: I’m a Muslim in the eyes of the West, even though I’m Greek-Orthodox, because we, Middle-Eastern people, are all Muslims in the eyes of outsiders. Instead, I don’t feel there’s a shared understanding or feeling of the East, of the South, as you prefer to put it: there’s no homogeneity outside of the North. I don’t feel any proximity to Asian or African countries, especially to the Arab Gulf, which has its own interests here. Moreover, as a Greek-Orthodox, I have little to do with Arabness’.

The Syrian director of a school in a Tripoli neighbourhood (northern Lebanon) similarly stated: ‘I don’t feel closer to the Arab states with respect to Canada just because we’re all Arabs. Arab states haven’t been supportive at all toward Syrian refugees. I think the real difference between assistance provided by Northern and Southern countries is our hijra [migration with spiritual connotations, related to the migration of the Prophet Mohammad from Mecca to Medina in 622 AD]. The South migrates, and the North doesn’t accept us, even if we are qualified and have culture’.

A Syrian service provider in Tripoli proposed that ‘Northern’ or ‘Southern’ mean something in relation to the social, political, and emotional positionality of the provider: ‘The real difference is not the country we talk about; it’s rather our human condition. It’s about sharing nationality and issues with the displaced you assist [and is] nothing to do with East and West, South and North […]. Beneficiaries identify with countries of reception primarily on the basis of their political position; for example, if I get stuff from Turkey, as a Syrian opponent, I feel closer to Turkey. If you get aid from Saudi Arabia or Qatar, you will prefer one of them if you are a salafi (a follower of Salafism) or ikhwenji (from the Muslim Brotherhood) respectively. So, there’s politics behind our proximity to a country. In this sense, I don’t think I have anything to share with the ‘other South’. As a Syrian, Syria is my Global South’.

Reflecting on the various understandings of ‘Southern-led provision’ is relevant insofar as it allows us to grasp the complex social and political positionalities of assistance providers in the global framework of development and humanitarian action. In this sense, some contemporary academic debates merely re-consign agency to the vulnerable and the disenfranchised, e.g. by seeing Southern actors and refugees as inherently ‘different aid providers’ or by aprioristically defining them as resilient. These debates are tiring at a time when ‘Southern agency’ is heralded as a human and an intellectual conquest of the Global North. Instead, a valuable point of departure may instead be acknowledging the existence of multiplicity and respecting what each side suggests – at times participating and at other times acting by oneself in the realm of development and humanitarian action.

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* This research has been conducted in the framework of the project “Analyzing South-South Humanitarian Responses to Displacement from Syria: Views from Lebanon, Jordan and Turkey”, funded by the European Research Council under the Horizon 2020 Research and Innovation agreement no. 715582.

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Inquiring and writing about migration and smuggling: an interview with Peter Tinti

Luigi Achilli (L.A.): You belong to the most prolific reporters covering conflict, security, human rights, and organized crime issues. I read in your personal website that, in 2013, Action on Armed Violence included you in its list “Top 100: The most influential journalists covering armed violence.” What is it about violence, crime, and conflict that drew you to write about these topics?

Peter Tinti (P.T.): The September 11, 2001 attacks happened during my last year of high school. As someone who studied political science and international relations in college, 9/11 and its consequences were, for better or worse, the backdrop to my entire education. Issues related to conflict, terrorism, and violence by non-state actors were omnipresent.

On a more personal level, the collapse of Mali, a country where I had lived for several years, first from 2008 to 2011 as a Peace Corps Volunteer, and again in 2013 as a journalist, was searing. A lot of people, from academics to diplomats to development practitioners to Malian government officials, were heavily invested in the narrative of Mali as a democratic model for the region. And yet, so much of what these smart, supposedly earnest people were saying and writing proved fabulously wrong.

I think both examples, the aftermath of 9/11 and Mali, are what make me inherently skeptical of consensus narratives. I’m always ready to accept that the frameworks we use to view the world can suddenly, rapidly, feel obsolete. The challenge as a journalist, at least as I see it, is to find better frameworks and alternative voices to better understand the world around us.

I think this is particularly important when we think about the current “migration crisis” and migrant smuggling. There is an inherent tension between the urgency and novelty of the moment, what constitutes a “crisis” for the people involved, and the need to place it within a broader, more measured context.

 

L.A.: Along with Tuesday Reitano, you recently authored the book “Migrant, Refugee, Smuggler, Savior” (2017 – Oxford University Press). How did you end up writing this book? What are its main goals, its accomplishment, and its shortcoming?

P.T.: The book was an outgrowth of our ongoing research for the Global Initiative against Transnational Organized Crime, of which Tuesday is a co-founder. I had done some previous reporting on migrant smuggling networks in West Africa before what came to be known as the “migrant crisis,” but the subject matter took on a new urgency with the explosion of the Eastern Mediterranean route in 2015. Tuesday has been examining issues of transnational organized crime and migrant smuggling for much longer, so she already had deep understanding of some of these issues. I was rapidly bringing myself up to speed as I carried out interviews in North Africa, Turkey, the Balkans and Western Europe.

When Tuesday and I set out to write the book, our main goal was to help readers, whether they be the general public or policymakers, better understand the role that migrant smugglers are playing in facilitating the irregular movement of migrants and refugees. While we didn’t think of the book as a corrective, per se, we did believe that many of the prevailing narratives about smugglers and the migrant smuggling industry were not only incorrect, but counterproductive.

I think we succeeded in helping readers better understand how migrant smuggling works, the different types of actors involved, the shape and structure of some of the main networks facilitating irregular migration into Europe. We wanted people to understand that tens of millions of people around the world are living in precarious situations of protracted, indefinite displacement, and that the international community has failed them. Rather than wait indefinitely for the international community to live up to its own obligations under international law, many of these people have decided to take matters into their own hands. With legal channels for movement limited or completely cut off, many of these people have little choice but to seek the services of smugglers who can help them reach safety and opportunity. It is this pool of displaced and disposed people, and the complete failure of the international system to help these people, that is creating unprecedented demand for smuggler services.

The actors who operate within various smuggling markets carry out their activities along a spectrum of criminality that includes low-level opportunists who seize an impromptu chance to make a quick buck, to highly sophisticated experts who can obtain passports and paperwork for the right price. Some smugglers are highly exploitative and have little regard for their human cargo. Others take pride in their work, operate with professionalism, and are held in high regard by the men, women and children they help reach safety (even if they did so in exchange for payment).

We also wanted readers to understand how polices that seek to block asylum seekers and target smugglers, but do nothing to address the underlying conditions that create demand for smuggler services, are ineffective and counterproductive. In fact, when the borders and barriers to irregular migration increase, but the circumstances that necessitate movement remain constant, lower-level opportunists are pushed out of the smuggling market because the new barriers exceed their criminal skills. Only those with requisite criminal expertise can operate and organized criminal groups, many of which are already involved in activities such as drug trafficking, arms trafficking, and human trafficking, takeover the market and make unprecedented profits.

In terms of shortcomings, I am not sure the book offers the “answers” or “solutions” that many might be looking for. We do analyze the negative impact of certain policies, and we do consider how certain policies might yield unintended consequences, but we refrain from offering a one-size-fits-all solution. Additionally, Tuesday and I came at this work from different backgrounds, so what we consider one of the book’s strengths—the balance between accessibility, timeliness, and rigor—other audiences might view as a weakness. We do cite and reference academic articles throughout the first section of the book, but we do not grapple with existing academic literature or theories of organized crime and irregular migration in ways that academics might prefer.

 

L.A.: The book is one of those rare examples of writings aimed to a broader audience that goes beyond the sensationalism surrounding the rhetoric of human smuggling. It critically engages with the figure of the migrant smuggler while problematizing the simplistic generalizations and representations connected to the phenomenon. In your view, why there is such a discrepancy between informed accounts like yours and mainstream narratives of human smuggling and irregular migration?

 P.T.: In academia, scholarship is an ongoing conversation among experts. It might take place at the speed of annual conferences and peer review, but it is, by and large, taking place in good faith. There are standards and structures in place to actually disincentive sensationalism, and the rewards go to those who do good work.

Regretfully, this is not necessarily the case in journalism, especially since the business models of newspapers and magazines have collapsed in recent years. The monetary incentives at the moment, which often privilege page views and shares on social media, reward the sensational. Those who do great work are still often recognized and lauded by their peers, but they also might go out of business.

While the discrepancy between informed accounts and mainstream narratives is not unique to human smuggling and irregular migration, I do think these particular topics—replete with images of overcrowded boats or masses of foreigners who look different and might practice a different religion—do lend themselves to sensationalism.

I guess the prevailing question, then, is what is the best response to sensationalism. I’m all for calling out the worst examples on social media or in letters to editors, but it seems like the best response in the long term is to counter them with better journalism and scholarship.

Rather than highlight the problematic narratives, Tuesday and I set out to write an accurate one for a general audience. We said in the introduction that our book sits somewhere between a work of journalism and social science, and that it was neither a call to action nor a work of moral outrage. We wanted to write something that is accessible but also challenges readers. That’s why it was important for me that we constantly weave in the characters involved, both migrants and smugglers, so that readers understood that we are talking about real people, not faceless actors operating in the shadows or hidden among the masses.

 

L.A.: Your work involves multi-sited research in increasingly dangerous zones. How did you approach research participants and conduct your investigation? Have there been any dangerous situations during your work?  How did you deal with those?

Depending on the location, particularly in North Africa and the Sahel, I usually make arrangements with people in advance who can introduce me to some of the actors involved. In other cases, such as in the Balkans or in Calais, it can be as straightforward as showing up and asking questions and developing relationships from there. In every case, the key is to establish some sort of trust with people who can help you better understand what is going on.

Mitigating risk and danger is always a complex endeavor. In places that are unambiguously dangerous, I make sure I work with fixers and translators who have a proven track record of working in hostile environments. In places like northern Niger and Mali, I’ve worked with a lot of different interlocutors, and I’m constantly reassessing where I can go and how long I should stay in a certain place while I’m there.

In 2015, for example, I was in Agadez, northern Niger, with a film crew and it was hard for us to keep a low profile given our equipment. The shoot was taking a bit longer than anticipated, and a few of us stayed behind to follow-up on a promising lead. I received a phone call from a Nigerien contact I had met with during a previous trip and with whom I occasionally text. He is not someone I completely trust, and he associates with some sketchy actors who split their time between northern Niger and southern Libya. I had not told him I would be in Agadez, but when he called, he told me that he heard I was in town and asked how long I would be there. It turns out someone else in Agadez notified him of our presence, and now he wanted to know our itinerary and where we were staying. I told him we had already left northern Niger, and then we immediately changed locations for the evening. We left the next day.

 

L.A.: Did you have a translator with you? And how important are translators for your daily work?

 P.T.: I prefer not to have a translator whenever possible, which for me, means finding people who speak English (or often, broken English) or French. Tuesday and I also hired local researchers to carry out fieldwork on our behalf in certain locations. Beyond being able to overcome language barriers, local researchers can be invaluable in navigating the socio-cultural landscape. I have no doubt, for example, that some refugee and migrant women we interviewed were much more comfortable sharing their experiences with a woman than with me.

 

L.A.: As your work involves enquire into criminal business, it steps into a delicate field where ethical and safety issues are of the outmost importance. Since the late 1960s, anthropologists have begun taking seriously the ethical dilemmas entailed in working and living in a world fraught with political turmoil. Today, when anthropologists carry out their researches, they face a whole set of ethical issues including – but not limited to – the need of protecting the autonomy, wellbeing, and dignity of all research participants whose safety our research might endanger. As a journalist, what ethical dilemmas did you confront? And how did you did deal with those?

 P.T.: Unlike in academia, where various disciplines have well-defined, if evolving, ethical standards and researchers are subject to institutional review boards, ethics in journalism is much less clearly defined. Most reputable outlets, broadly speaking, have similar standards and subscribe to similar codes of ethics, and most reputable journalists adhere to them, but heady concepts such as “the public interest” and “newsworthiness” can be pretty murky.

Generally speaking, my main preoccupation is making sure that my own reporting does not put anyone in danger or cause harm. That’s the minimum. For this book, we granted anonymity to anyone who wanted it, and in some cases I assigned pseudonyms to people who, despite the fact that they knew I was a journalist, might not have had a clear understanding the extent to which the information they gave me would be made public. Some of these people were talking to me only minutes after surviving a boat crossing, or as they were preparing to place their lives in the hands of a smuggler, and I constantly reminded myself of that.

A lot of newspaper editors and magazine editors would probably not be comfortable with the levels of anonymity we granted, and I don’t blame them. It makes these stories nearly impossible to fact-check, but for me, it was the only way we could write this book in a way that was truthful and ethical. Some of the people we reference, for example, were in the process of applying for asylum, and I did not want our book to potentially complicate their lives in any way.

 

L.A.: Let us talk about your work one more time. During their fieldwork, researchers usually develop a strong empathy and a sense of personal responsibility for the peoples they study and live with. Neutrality or activism. This dilemma has led scholars like Nancy Scheper-Hughes to question the idea that field researchers can be neutral, detached, and objective observers. In your work, how do you strike a balance (if you do) between being the neutral observing reporter and the engaging, sympathetic human being?

P.T.: I personally do not have much interest in objectivity when it comes to my work. The most important thing for me is that my writing and reporting is factual, accurate, and fair. I actively avoid chasing a false sense of neutrality, because I think it is a slippery slope to inaccuracy. That’s my own preference, and it informs the types of stories I choose to work on. But not everyone prefers this approach, and that is fine.

One ethical dilemma I am always facing, however, is to what extent it is acceptable to ask people to recount or relive traumatic experiences. During recent trips to Libya and Honduras, this was constantly in the back of my mind as men and women were telling me about being tortured and terrorized. How do I justify asking them to incur the emotional and psychological costs of talking to me? I think that is a question that not enough journalists ask themselves.

 

L.A.: Over the past years, the EU member states have developed controversial governmental policies to respond to the refugee and migration movements. What is your take on Europe’s current role in the so-called migrant crisis? From your reporting over the past years, what do you think would be a more ethical and effective European response to the current crisis?

 P.T.: I’m highly critical of the EU responses to refugee and migration movements. When it comes to refugees, I don’t think these are complicated or complex phenomena. You either believe in the 1951 Refugee Convention or you don’t. I find debates over the “politics” of this tiresome and, to be honest, disingenuous. So much of what European policymakers and commentators are framing as clear-eyed realism is really just an exercise in rationalizing why it is acceptable to ignore obligations under international law. The fact that Europe is collaborating with unaccountable militias in Libya, Sudanese security forces, and a range of other unsavory actors in order to stem the flow of refugees speaks for itself.

The most effective way for Europe, and the broader international community, to reduce the number of refugees arriving would be to commit resources to ending and preventing the types of conflicts and situations that produce mass refugee populations, and to address the needs of populations who have found themselves living in situations of protracted displacement. It would require leadership and investing in the types of institutions and structures that can adequately address these issues. That’s easier said than done, but I don’t think anyone can say with a straight face that the international community has committed sufficient resources and energy toward reducing the global pool of refugees and displaced persons. Before we dismiss such proposals, I would at least like to see them tried.

Now, when it comes to economic migrants, that is a much trickier question and one over which I think reasonable people can disagree. It ultimately comes down to whether European countries want to provide safe, legal opportunities for migrants from developing countries to access European labor markets. My personal opinion is that those countries that do, and do it well, will benefit tremendously. But given the current political climate in Europe, even those policymakers who agree with this in theory seem more concerned with finding ways to curb migration for the sake of political expediency.

 

L.A.: Beyond the European context, what do you believe is a realistic approach to irregular migration worldwide? And what do you think would be an ideal solution to human smuggling?

P.T.: These are the types of questions I always try to avoid, in part because people have radically different interpretations of “realistic” and “ideal solution.” The “solutions” question can be particularly dangerous, because it often means tacitly accepting someone else’s framing of the “problem.” When European policymakers ask me what they can do to combat migrant smuggling, for example, they aren’t actually interested in any solution that means taking in more migrants or making migration easier for prospective migrants.

As we say in the book, smugglers exist because in the world we have created, tens of millions of people have deemed them necessary in order to live safe, productive lives. They are the supply in a time of unprecedented demand. The solution to human smuggling, therefore, is to render them unnecessary. For refugees, that would mean providing safe, legal channels for them to reach safety and to escape scenarios of indefinite, protracted displacement. And for economic migrants, that would mean providing more safe and legal opportunities for migration while committing to making the world a radically more equitable place across the globe.

Now, if you do believe that political or security imperatives demand hard borders and restrictions on movement, then you need to accept that human smugglers are going to exist. That’s the tradeoff. People need to and want to move, and restricting their movement means that smugglers will step in to provide services that allow them to reach safety and opportunity. But even within this framing, policymakers and law enforcement officials could adopt a “do no harm” approach. That is, European policymakers could consider if a given policy is likely to put migrants in danger or empower the most exploitative actors within the migrant smuggling economy. If the answer is yes, and it almost always is unless the policy is coupled with actions that credibly engage the drivers of migration and displacement, then moral imperatives might dictate that the policy be discarded.

That’s not a solution, but it would so much better than the status quo.

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Suggested by Public Anthropologist – Searching for a Better Life

Searching for a Better Life. Growing Up in the Slums of Bangkok by Sorcha Mahony is an engaging but highly readable ethnography of youth in Thailand’s capital.

What does searching for a better life mean for those struggling to get by in a rapidly developing and globalizing economy? How do they try to fulfil their dreams? And how do they deal with the outcomes and side effects of their endeavours?

By avoiding sensationalism and by penetrating the everyday dimension of a group of slum dwellers in Bangkok, Mahony develops a reflection along three main axes: living the teenage life, doing the right thing, and forging the future. These translate into forms of engagement in global cultural practices, in local cultural practices, and in educational and economic activity designed to reduce hardship and improve material standards of living

As searching for a better life is currently a dominant concept on the global level, this book is a welcome contribution to scholarly and public debates on inequality and struggles for change.

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Suggested by Public Anthropologist – A World of Babies

Today’s suggested book is A World of Babies: Imagined Childcare Guides for Eight Societies, edited by Alma Gottlieb and Judy DeLoache. With a first edition published in 2000 and widely read, the almost entirely new, updated edition of A World of Babies confirms the authors capacity to merge ethnography and informed research with original and accessible writing.

Simply put it, the editors explain that the primary aim of the book “is to illustrate how childcaring customs of any community, however peculiar and unnatural they may appear to an outsider, make sense when understood within the context of that society, as well as within its broader geopolitical context. Childcare practices vary so much across time and space precisely because they are firmly embedded in divergent physical, economic, and cultural realities.”

The book also addresses the challenges that poverty and globalization pose for parents. A good example of public scholarship.

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A View from Beyond the Ivory Tower: An Addendum to Elizabeth Dunn’s “The Problem with Assholes.”

I am a fourth generation academic. I am the daughter, niece, granddaughter and great-granddaughter of professors.  I left academia soon after I got my PhD, because I had neither the money nor the patience to keep playing the adjunct/visiting appointment/job market game.  I became a teacher.  So my fight is not your fight.  But by way of encouragement, and caution, I would like to add some observations to those of Elizabeth Dunn.

1)            Beware the manipulation of selective targeting, by means of which the assholes corrode the solidarity of their weaker colleagues.  “Well, he doesn’t treat me that way,” as readers may know, is one of the notorious traps that women fall into as they form relationships with abusive partners. In our  highly prestigious PhD-granting department (yes, we two Elizabeths take our inspiration from the same program), the confusion of selective targeting was endemic to maintaining a culture of assholery.  One cohort had a great experience with a professor who was abusive toward another class.  Professors were verbally abusive of different individual students.  Professors who abused some students comforted others when their colleagues abused them, thus winning their undying loyalty – their colleagues may well have been doing the same thing for them!  My abusive advisor was entirely supportive of me for several years – until I became “his student,” formally as well as de facto.  During those years I heard plenty of stories and even witnessed his abusive behavior toward other students – but, I thought, he doesn’t treat me that way, and he was really supportive when Professor X… etc.  I fell into a trap that I had known about before starting grad school, due to recovery from an abusive relationship with a professional mentor outside of academia that I ended by… leaving for graduate school.  What if people who are NOT treated abusively supported those who are?  Assholes who think nothing of bullying one student, or a few students, might reconsider their sense of entitlement if they faced consequences from ALL their students.

“Do not be a bystander!” is a key point in our middle school anti-bullying curriculum.  I have presented scenarios from my graduate school experience in our anti-bullying lessons, and it’s pretty sad to see 8th graders better able to identify abuse and discuss counter-measures than people with PhDs.

2)            I have seen “amplification” work, and it’s awesome.  A professor with whom at least one of my female colleagues had a great advisorial relationship, go figure, quickly showed our class that he was ready and willing to offend anybody – you’re a woman, you’re Jewish, you’re gay, you’re black, whatever, he had something for everyone.  But there were more women in the class than members of the other groups, so we were his main focus.  I don’t know how the guys stumbled onto it, but tag-teaming by male graduate students won us the battle, if not the war.  Two minutes after he dismissed somebody’s point, a hand would go up: “To get back to the point that My Female Classmate made a few minutes ago…[that you dismissed instantly], I wanted to add…”  and then, after another two minutes, another hand:  “But to return to the point that My Male Classmate and My Female Classmate were pursuing [before you cut both of them off]….”   It was utterly supportive and completely disruptive of the professor’s assholery, all without breaking a single rule of academic discourse.   I have never forgotten it.  I am grateful to this day.

3)            At one point, I went to a consistently supportive professor who was being worked half to death by emotionally supporting every victim who came to her, and said, “He behaves in this way because his colleagues allow it, and his graduate students allow it.” She replied, “This is not a confrontative culture, Elizabeth.”  And it wasn’t.  And under the prevailing circumstances she may well have been right to wait for her own, eventually inevitable, turn to be chair – when she, with allies, could, and did, make changes.  But I think the era of Wounded Warriors waiting for their turn for institutional power within the inherited institutional structures is over.  Those institutional structures are collapsing all around us. Is it worth the wait?  How much remains to inherit?

4)            Specifically to Dunn’s first suggestion, “Creating a Disciplinary Code of Conduct:” the most liberating thing ever said to me in response to my describing my situation, to a friend who happened to be ethicist by academic specialty (thank you, Michael Jaycox), was “Oh! That’s unethical.  You know, academics don’t have a code of professional ethics that covers our relationships with students and colleagues.  We are entirely dependent on the mentoring we ourselves received.  One of my professors is working on that.”  In this case the person I was describing was the female enabler (the “F.E.”), an undergraduate advisor not yet mentioned (it’s quite a society, isn’t it?).  His comment allowed me to move from, “How could she have done that to me?” to “How would she have known not to do it?”  I was then, from the safety of my non-academic career, able to approach my F.E. with some empathy.  The empathy was abusively rejected because empathy inevitably implies a wrong having been committed; it is a step forward from utter anger.  The F.E. was unable to face up even to my having been angry, past tense; she was unable to face my clear persistence in thinking that I had been wronged.  She had also been wronged.  That’s one of the ways that assholery perpetuates itself – “I survived, and I decided it was all worth it, so it was all right for me to encourage you to get into the same situation.”*  The F.E. perceived an implied accusation, and was hurt by it, and I can understand that.  But she got an academic career out of it, in a supportive environment that gave her, in due course, institutional power.  That outcome is rare now.  Even at my highly prestigious program, the kind which fills more than half the jobs, as Dunn writes, only about half of the PhDs of my decade got tenure track appointments (this from departmental records that I had the opportunity to scan)**.   And that coveted outcome often comes at an unsustainably high cost — financial, emotional, personal, physical.  Our institutions cannot be saved by people whose professional socialization and working conditions just suck.  Too many anthropologists are people who are either damaged, or damaging others, or both.  We need academics who have not had their spirit sucked out of them by the dementors, who have not become vampires by the bites of other vampires.

5)            It’s change or die, people.  Education from kindergarten through the PhD and beyond has been under persistent attack from the political right since those late 80’s days when we frittered away our seminar time in spurious debates about post-modernism (I thank Ira Bashkow for that point).  That I view the disintegration of academia from the safety of a secure job with a decent salary, here in my poverty-stricken urban school district, depends on this city’s decades of history in the labor movement.  Charter schools?  We FILL that approval hearing room with well-prepared, angry teachers.  Inequitable funding?  We sue the state’s ass.  Unsupportive elected officials?  See you in November.  I may be a fourth generation academic by birth, but after I got the damn PhD, I had the luck to find a job teaching among the grandchildren of factory workers, who understand that mutual respect = survival.  It is a lesson that my community of origin would do well to learn, fast.  Some on the political right, I believe, simply stand back and laugh while we destroy one another, while responsible state legislators legitimately wonder why state budgets should fund Assholery.  Academics, whether privately or publicly employed, are supposed to be public servants, not assholes.  Assholery is indefensible in the state houses, as much as in the Halls of Academe.  State universities educate over 70% of American undergraduates, according the U.S. News and World Report, so when underfunding forces them to casualize and cut, the entire sector is affected.  Departments filling over half their positions with the damaged and the damaging – blindly hiring from the Highest Citadels of Assholery – is an existential threat.  Solidarity is a survival strategy.

*There were other ethically iffy specifics to my situation, which combine to make it unique. However, they also fall under the general question, “How do we think about our personal experiences as we ethically give professional advice?”  A thoughtful answer to that question belongs in Dunn’s suggested Disciplinary Code of Conduct.  I would be delighted to help write it.

**Those records also show that the above-mentioned Supportive Female Professor brought twice the number of students through to the PhD than any other professor in that department, during that decade – another workload reward of being a decent person within a Culture of Assholery.

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The Problem with Assholes

Anthropology has an asshole problem. If the recent revelations about misconduct at the journal HAU have made one thing clear, it’s that there is a culture of mistreatment and bullying in the discipline. There is a pervasive elitism that enables some people – those at elite institutions or in structural positions of power – to act like assholes to people who are weaker, including students, junior faculty, and scholars who are deemed unworthy.

The asshole problem is far larger than one editor at one journal. It’s a problem that has haunted the discipline for decades, at least since I have been in anthropology. I remember being a first-year anthropology student at a Prestigious University in the Midwest, sobbing in the bathroom because a Big Famous Professor had stood up in front of the class and delivered a 15 minute lecture on how he was against my being admitted, how he’d seen nothing so far to change his opinion, and how I would never, ever make it as an anthropologist. I was eight weeks into graduate school, and I had had a cerebro-vascular accident on the first day. With one exception, every other woman in my first year class ended up crying that first year, having been keelhauled by a faculty member. It was a culture of brutality that, thanks to the spread of the department’s students to other departments, became a part of the norms of the discipline. We learned it was normal to see people treated this way; we learned to enact those forms of brutality in every day action and we replicated them.

The point here is that assholery is not antithetical to the discipline, despite our self-declared commitments to equality, decolonization, appreciation of the diversity of humankind, and other high-minded principles. Assholery structures the entire discipline from top to bottom, shaping the goals and dreams of graduate students, allowing faculty at every rank to sneer at those in lesser positions (or, God forbid, working outside academia), and determining our formal criteria for hiring, promotion and tenure. We are a discipline of assholes.

Why do I use the word “asshole,” a term so vulgar that it rarely appears in scholarly discourse? Think of it as a technical term. Aaron James is the author of Assholes: A Theory, a brilliant book that defines assholery in rigorous philosophical terms. James uses three criteria to identify an asshole:

  1. He allows himself to enjoy special advantages and does so systemically.
  2. He does this out of an entrenched sense of entitlement.
  3. He is immunized by his sense of entitlement against the complaints of other people.

Assholes take advantage of other people because they feel that it is their natural right to do so.   They yell and berate other people because they think they are so brilliant or so busy or so moral that they have the right to do so, they deceive other people because they think it’s in the service of a higher good (usually their own), and they demean other people because they feel that they are already superior to them.

Assholes are, of course, the scourge of the modern era. Self-serving narcissists are in every walk of life, from the grocery store to the White House, and assholery has become not only the moral principle behind American life, but the driving force in contemporary capitalism. But assholery in anthropology takes on a special aroma, because of the formal and informal hierarchies that structure the discipline. So, to James’ three general criteria, we could add three special ones to define AnthroAssholes:

  1. They value theory, preferably pitched in impermeable language meant to scare away outsiders and addressed at issues only of interest to those in the In Crowd, at the expense of ethnographic inquiry into other people’s lives. (This, ironically, was the thing HAU was founded to move away from but ended up replicating).
  2. They judge the worth of an idea by the pedigree of the person advancing it, particularly by their past or present affiliations to prestigious institutions.
  3. They engage in what Carlota McAllister has called “bigtiming,” or the ritual enactment of their own status in relation to others both by belittling, ignoring, and excluding others and by ritually anointing those they deem worthy.

Notice that criticizing the ideas of others is not on the list of asshole behavior. That is both because it is a legitimate function of scholarly discourse, and because in the ritual dance that is bigtiming, criticism is a mark of honor and inclusion, not of dismissal. Assholes know that the real cut in anthropology is not to be criticized, but to be ignored.

One of the major reasons there is a disciplinary nomenklatura in the first place has to do with the way anthropology reproduces itself. More than 20% of the jobs are filled by graduates of the top five placing departments; more than 50% are filled by graduates of the top 15. This has led to incredible elitism, in which the worth of someone’s contribution is often judged by the place they got their PhD or the institution where they hold a job. Those anointed “superstars” have, by the virtue of their position and status, the privilege of anointing others by publishing their work or by naming them to huge and largely non-functional editorial boards whose rosters serve as lists of the nomenklatura. Those with the power to anoint generally anoint others who have the same PhD pedigree, who do work that agrees with theirs, and who circulate in their same networks, which leaves people with degrees from outside this small range of departments, who aren’t in the networks of people from elite institutions, with little chance to break in (see Kawa et. al. 2016, which offers startling statistics on this).

This has created a class system that incessantly reproduces intellectual and social elitism in which people with the social capital to get into a “prestigious” institution in the first place reap more social capital by virtue of their networks. Classism is thus a fundamental platform for assholery. Firing one editor won’t change the disciplinary class system, nor will reorganizing a journal that has the same editorial board, connected to the same networks. We have to break the star system by finding ways to let people who did not go to the top five institutions enter these networks. That means using a conscious strategy to publish scholars from outside elite networks, to invite them to conference panels, editorial boards and visible service positions, and to open the social world of the discipline (AAA parties, etc.) to them. Every Ph.D. producing department, every hiring committee, and every single journal in the discipline needs to make formal commitments for including scholars at community colleges and land-grant institutions.

In the wake of the HAU debacle, many anthropologists have suggested that AnthroAssholery is a manifestation of the discipline’s perennial racism, coloniality, and misogyny. This may well be true. There have been long and very credible explorations of the discipline’s racist history and the ways that has affected its canon and hierarchy. Likewise, there have been significant revelations about the discipline’s enduring sexism. But assholery is not limited to white men, even though they certainly make up a good portion of the assholes. Assholes can be women (I know because I have been one, frequently) and people of color. Some women of color even have a term for white women’s assholery: “Beckyism,” or the crying of crocodile tears after they throw somebody else under the bus to advance their own cause (I thank Kaifa Roland for this information). Assholery is contagious. Once people see an asshole being an asshole and winning, actually gaining power and prestige by being an obnoxious self-interested bully, it creates a huge incentive for other people to emulate that behavior. Assholery has ripple effects as it spreads in the form of disciplinary norms that not only enable, but hyper-value nasty, elitist, demeaning behavior.

To say this a different way: Racism, colonialism and sexism are like the congestive heart failure of the discipline, long-standing but slow-moving problems that will eventually kill it, that we have all known about for decades but have been unwilling or unable to change our habits to address. Assholery is more like a heart attack, an emergency caused by the deeper underlying problem. When an emergency caused by assholes hits, it’s immediate and throws everyone into crisis mode. Limiting assholery does not invalidate the deeper critique of the discipline’s racism or sexism. It’s emergency medicine, meant to stop more damage from occurring while the underlying etiology of the problem can be solved. Thus the immediate question then isn’t why people are assholes (although that’s a problem that has to be understood in the longer term), but how to limit the assholes in the short term, so that we can gain the space to deal with the fundamental problem.

Luckily, there are steps that can be taken immediately. Aaron James suggests that the flourishing of assholery in the general culture is due in part to the weakening of what he calls “asshole dampening systems.” He mentions family, religion, and the regulatory state as three systems that put limits on how much an asshole could do before he was sanctioned. What are potential asshole dampening systems that we could enact as a discipline? This is the conversation we need to engage in now. I propose six, as a starting point:

  1. Creating a Disciplinary Code of Conduct: The AAA has a code of conduct for protecting human subjects, meaning the people we work with in the field. But we have no code for protecting students, contingent faculty, and colleagues. We need a code of conduct that spells out in detail what kind of behavior is beyond the pale and that sets a tone for disciplinary interactions. AAA’s new sexual harassment policy is a start, but we need a policy for harassment that isn’t overtly sexual but is nonetheless harassment. Moreover, we need mechanisms to enforce this code in ways that do not unduly burden the aggrieved party.
  2. Treating Graduate Students as Employees: In some European countries, graduate students are not students, but employees of the university. They get a modest but livable wage, full benefits, and access to all the structures that ensure (or at least attempt to ensure) the fair treatment of workers. It is true that making graduate students into employees would be costly, and would dramatically reduce the number of PhDs granted. Given the state of the job market, wouldn’t contracting the labor supply while treating that labor more equitably and humanely be a good idea.
  3.  Practice Amplification: “Amplification” was the name given to a strategy used by women in the Obama Administration. When a remark made by a woman was passed over, her female colleagues would repeat the comment and give credit to the person who first said it. It worked: Obama noticed and began taking the ideas of women more seriously.   Anthropologists can practice amplification by placing a special premium on publishing the work of people from outside the usual networks and by making special efforts to cite underrepresented scholars and people from outside the top 15 institutions. This not coincidentally tends to also valorize work by women, people of color, and members of other marginalized groups, as the #citeblackwomen campaign has shown.
  4. Creating a Metric for Hiring Beyond the Top Five Departments: In 2016, the top ten Ph.D. granting departments filled 43% of jobs. AAA and EASA should publish this statistic annually, and we should set a target that reduces this number substantially. Members of hiring committees can contribute to this effort by not using Ph.D. granting department as a proxy for the worth of candidates’ work, and by devaluing letters of recommendation from high-profile scholars.
  5. Issuing a Disciplinary Standard for Tenure and Promotion that Valorizes Work Beyond Journal Articles and Monographs: One of the problems that the HAU scandal brought to light was how much young scholars are dependent on editors of the top five journals for progress in their careers. Because departments often demand that junior scholars publish single-authored articles in a top five journal, the editors of these journals have enormous power. If the discipline devalues these journal articles and valorizes other forms of scholarly activity, the oligopoly that runs the discipline will be broken. The AAA Guidelines for Tenure and Promotion Review go in this direction.  We should value work published in wide-circulation media more highly, not less highly, than scholarly journal articles. We should value work in new digital media, including scholarly blog posts.
  6. Change Editorial Practices: HAU had a whopping 61 people on its editorial board, few if any did any actual work for the journal. The editor was editor-for-life. Editorial boards should be small and term-limited, and should have real oversight of the practices of the journal and its editors. Either the editorial board or the board of parent institution should regularly review the financial reports of the journal and provide an ombudsman to deal with complaints of misconduct. Editors in chief, too, should be term limited.

Anthropology has always seen itself as a profession that roots for the little guy. We pride ourselves on our commitments to equality and fairness. In an era of unrestrained social assholery, in which the rich and powerful have come to feel their wealth and power is their natural right, anthropology has the power to throw those assumptions into question. But to do so, we have to save our own discipline from the assholes. This will require some steep uphill battles – but it is well worth the fight.

 

* Many thanks to Kaifa Roland, Jason Cons, Martin Demant Frederikson, Antonio De Lauri, and Tom Widger for their thoughts on an early draft of this piece.

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Question Time

“I think that the anthropology of morality and the morality of anthropologists are two interrelated subjects that cannot really be separated. In this sense, I think that someone who does not have a moral stand is not in a very good position to explore and understand the morality of others. We need a moral compass. For example, if we knew that somebody has intimidated, bullied or even sexually harassed others, how should we behave? I think we should do everything in our power to prevent those actions from happening again and to undermine the social status of the perpetrator. But, in practice, what can an undergraduate or postgraduate student in anthropology do? An early-career anthropologist of morality, like myself, what can I do? A senior anthropologist, what can they do? Thank you.”

I asked these questions at a symposium, “Where is the good in the world?” on May 18th 2016. I have been thinking about these issues, in these terms, since the beginning of my association with HAU – Journal of Ethnographic Theory.

For 2 years, from March 2013 to March 2015, I was the treasurer of HAU. I progressively became aware of its internal disorders. I was never a victim of the abuses (although I came very close just before I left) but some of my close friends and colleagues were. I could not remain indifferent, for I know that being subjected to abuse changes you, and not for the good, especially when no one cares to help. I tried to give my friends and colleagues some support, but I realized there was no way I could do much: there was a general fear that seeking justice was going to have negative consequences on their careers. Some were also afraid of having to defend themselves in court, without the financial means to do so. In short, it was an issue of power and money.

The power and money imbalance was the result of the way HAU was constituted and realized. Power was concentrated in the hands of the Editor-in-Chief because of two main factors: the perception of public support by famous academics and respected institutions, and the HAU constitution. The victims lacked money, because, quite simply, the majority of junior anthropologists live in precarious working conditions. The power resulting from the perception of public support is perhaps the most effective and the most inexplicable factor. The way the constitution enabled Giovanni Da Col to maintain his position of power, instead, is easy to illustrate.

Journals need a constitution to prevent concentrations of power so strong that it unilaterally intimidates scholars. It should contain an article stating that the position of Editor-in-Chief must be subject to terms, to prevent the accumulation of excessive power and influence over successive terms. Such an article was absent from the HAU constitution. We also need another crucial article, one that gives the Editorial Board the power to remove an Editor-in-Chief, or any other member, who breaches academic ethics. Such an article was also absent in the HAU constitution. Hence, even if members of the Board wanted to remove the Editor-in-Chief, they could not.

A more precise statement of the opening question is: what can we do when the constitution of an institution in which unethical deeds have become a public secret does not enable us to intervene? We should probably resign. Then, if everybody else does the same, the institution will lose its power and, by extension, so will the person whose deeds are problematic. But what if we are not sure that everybody else will resign? What if we cannot be sure that there will be enough support to turn this individual action into a collective action? That is exactly the situation in which many of the victims, as much as some members of the Editorial Board, found themselves: maybe they wanted to take action, but the context made them doubt whether it was a good idea. Hence, individual consciousness and courage to intervene is not necessarily the problem. The problem is that we work in a culture in which speaking up against unethical deeds perpetrated by powerful members of our academic network may turn out to be completely useless, and instead punish the ingenuous whistle-blower(s).

We need a system of incentives that encourage victims to speak without fear of professional retaliation. This system should have simple procedures that are clearly explained in the constitutions of journals and societies. It should be obvious that victims of abuses will be supported, they should have no doubt about the support they will get, no matter what. The fact that a media storm was necessary to encourage the victims of the abuses to declare, still anonymously, what they went through, is perhaps the clearest evidence that a system of incentives is currently lacking or non-existent. The lack of a system to encourage ethics of care and inclusiveness means a greater risk of their opposites to concretize: exploitation and exclusiveness, which is what happened.

The situation remained an open secret for many years and those who knew what was going on did not intervene early enough. I think it is fair to say that no one involved is entirely exempt from at least some degree of responsibility. A widespread but ill-managed sense of guilt might perhaps explain the vitriolic tones of many comments circulating on social media in the past few days. Personally, I perceived a lot of fear, presented in a variety of ways, as suspicion, hate, and panic. The Statements of the Board of Trustees, the tweets of @haujournal, and the supposed “leak” of emails, show the authors acting like important chess pieces frantically moving to the corner squares of a chessboard. Although this is perhaps an apt metaphor for a productive confrontation of arguments, we cannot hope to build a better ecology for our discipline in this climate.

Every one of those who have had something to do with this regrettable affair now needs to sit for a moment with their own consciousness and think about the people they have interacted with.

There are people who were afraid to say “help me.” They were able to come forward last week and is important to continue to give everybody the space to do so. At the same time we have to pave the way for people to say “I am sorry.” We should not be too concerned about accusing, defending our reputation, finding culprits and punishing them. We should be much more concerned with listening to our own inner voice and asking ourselves, “have I hurt someone?”, “have I failed to intervene?”, “have I done enough?”, “am I afraid to say sorry?” If we feel we have someone we should apologize to, we should probably just do it. Now. It might surprise you how easy it is, in retrospect.

What I am trying to say is that the HAU Affair is not the result of a single person’s deeds, but that of a context, a culture, a climate of fear. If we want to recreate the Society of Ethnographic Theory we need to change the atmosphere in which such a society will be able to grow and thrive. How do you feel about your colleagues? Trust? Fear?

Calling for anyone who dares to care to come forward, in private or public, give an apology, receive it, and maybe reciprocate it, might perhaps appear to be too idealistic. But I’ll do it anyway.

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Suggested by Public Anthropologist – Private Oceans

Today we suggest the reading of Private Oceans. The Enclosure and Marketisation of the Seas by Fiona McCormack.

What does neoliberalization of oceans mean? What implications does it have on fishing communities and endangered fish species? How does the privatization of ecosystem services work? And what long term effects does it have?

Through fieldwork conducted in New Zealand, Iceland, Ireland and Hawaii, McCormack develops a comparative study of the dynamics driving the profound changes unleashed by a new era of ocean grabbing.

 

 

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Assessing the Anthropology of Humanitarianism: Ethnography, Impact, Critique

What is the aim of an anthropology of humanitarianism? How is anthropology addressing the growing convergence of policing and aid? To what extent does the humanitarian imperative to save lives influence the work of the ethnographer in the field? What is the relationship between moral anthropology and humanitarian ethics?

In this workshop, we will address these questions by developing a comparative reflection along three main axes:

1. The ethnography of humanitarianism;
2. The impact of anthropology on the broader field of humanitarian studies;
3. The need for a political critique of humanitarianism.

The main aim of the workshop is to assess what anthropology has been able to produce in this field of study and explore the future developments and articulations of the discipline in a world where humanitarian exceptionalism is becoming the rule in a number of spheres of ordinary governance.

Organizer: Antonio De Lauri (Chr. Michelsen Institute)

Conceptually, we consider the construction and reproduction of “crisis” as a key element in the analysis of contemporary humanitarianism. As several researchers have emphasized, to describe something as “humanitarian crisis” implies facilitating specific forms of action to the detriment of others; enabling the public to think a contemporary issue (i.e. human mobility) in one way, but not in another. More than that, once a crisis is qualified in specific terms (i.e. the humanitarian crisis), it directly calls for a power that is able to manage and administer it. In opposition to a historical narration that is “disrupted and episodic” (A. Gramsci), humanitarianism corresponds to a universal narration that creates a constant nexus between crisis and the politics of exceptionalism.

The workshop places particular emphasis on the use of ethnography as a crucial instrument to investigate humanitarianism in practice. Building on the idea of ethnography as political critique, we ask what the ethnography of humanitarianism is able to reveal and produce. Ethnography does not simply hold potential for a theoretical critique of humanitarian politics, but is a form of action itself in its evidence-making practices and in its relational dimension. To understand the point of view of the “ethnographic subject” in the realm of humanitarianism means to be aware of a number of different institutional and political subjectivities who deliver “aid” as well as a wide range of social and political actors who “receive” it. At the same time, ethnography reveals a complex map of social interactions that questions the simple equation giver-receiver. Participants will reflect on the main opportunities and the main challenges of doing ethnography of/within humanitarianism, in terms of political concerns, methodological questions and ethical issues.

Participants:

Erica Caple James, Associate Professor of Medical Anthropology and Urban Studies, Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

Andrew Gilbert, Assistant Professor, Department of Anthropology, McMaster University.

Synnove Bendixsen, Postdoctoral fellow, Department of Social Anthropology, University of Bergen.

Lauren Carruth, Assistant Professor at the School of International Service, American University, Washington DC.

Carna Brkovic, Lecturer and Postdoctoral Researcher, University of Regensburg.

Katerina Rozakou, Postdoctoral Researcher, University of Amsterdam.

Alexander Horstmann, Associate Professor in Modern Southeast Asian Studies, University of Tallinn.

Julie Billaud, Post-Doctoral Associate, University of Sussex.

Nefissa Naguib, Professor of Anthropology, University of Oslo.

Ekatherina Zhukova, Visby Programme Postdoctoral Researcher, Lund University.

Heike Drotbohm, Professor, Heisenberg Chair of Anthropology “African Diaspora and Transnationalism,” Johannes Gutenberg University Mainz.

Jon Harald Sande Lie, Senior Researcher, Norwegian Institute of International Affairs.

Nichola Khan, Reader, University of Brighton

25 – 26 October 08:00 – 17:00 | CMI, Jekteviksbakken 31

Organised at CMI with funding from the Wenner-Gren Foundation.

If you wish to attend the workshop, please contact antonio.delauri@cmi.no

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Suggested by Public Anthropologist – Against Charity

This time’s “everybody must read” book is Against Charity by Daniel Raventos and Julie Wark.

The book is both a critique of institutional charity as based on the unequal relationship between giver and receiver and a defense of kindness, understood as a call for equality and fraternity.

Raventos, a Spanish economist, and Wark, an Australian/Spanish human rights activist, develop a reflection that transcends disciplinary boundaries (anthropologists will be particularly familiar with the analysis of the “gift”) and promotes concrete instances such as the universal basic income. Against Charity is accessible and engaging. It presents a position not all readers will necessarily agree with, but one that everybody should certainly be fully aware of.

 

 

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Teaching humanitarianism in Lebanon, Turkey, and Italy

In an attempt to reflect on some lectures I have delivered on humanitarianism in Lebanese, Turkish, and Italian universities over the last three years, I would like to advance a few reflections on the “public afterlife” of my experience of teaching, the language I used in those classes, and the response I received from different cohorts of students. Delving into the afterlife of my humanitarianism classes allows me to tease out some of the current epistemological challenges of my primary area of studies and underscore the very importance of de-centring the humanitarian discourse.

Humanitarianism was born from the will to assist crisis-stricken populations and alleviate their suffering, thus humanitarian intervention has historically been a symptom that states are not doing too well. As such, speaking of and teaching humanitarianism cannot produce the same effects everywhere, especially when the framework used to explain theories and concepts is not culturally customised, but is rather drawn on the one developed in British and Northern American universities and institutions.

The act of teaching humanitarian ideologies, policies, and practices is thus necessarily an act of social positioning. It is about positioning the social and public Self as a teacher, and it is about the teacher presupposing the social positioning of her own audience.

More generally, in order to teach, we all rely on what Pierre Bourdieu used to define as “linguistic capital”, the set of linguistic capabilities, ways of expressing oneself, and embracement of normative terminologies which characterise everyone’s speech. In that sense, we are all linguistically political when we choose a term at the expense of another one.

As lecturers in class we own the biggest linguistic and epistemic power: But is the language I use legitimate in response to different students and backgrounds? I am not a native English speaker myself, but having received my postgraduate education in humanitarianism in an Australian university, English is my mother tongue for teaching humanitarianism. This became a factor which is worth reflecting on, especially when I delivered lectures in countries diversely familiar with the English language, and where English is not the official language.

What shapes the cultural pattern of students across Lebanon, Turkey, and Italy is certainly not their very national origin, but I here refer to an overarching cultural framing of a multiplicity of backgrounds that come to forming an identifiable “academic culture” within different countries. It is in this sense that I will now compare my teaching experience in Lebanon, Turkey, and Italy.

In this post, my primary goal is to explain how this long established theoretical framework, that increasingly populates academic books and media outlets, does not meet its listeners identically. I believe teaching humanitarianism particularly tests the students’ cultural dispositions – dually meant as both habitus and cultural capital – with respect to teaching something like physical quantum theory or algorithms. This is not because quanta and algorithms are bereft of imperial history: Let’s think of the way such scientific studies emerged, of the social classes in which they became objects of study, and the way these studies were funded and even traded worldwide. Rather, what I mean is that speaking humanitarianism overtly puts down the veils of the relationships between Others, breaks down the Other and the Self, demolishes certainties between the Self and the Other through the exploration of the necessarily dialogic act of assistance provision and aid reception.

Likewise, teaching exposes the lecturer to multiple encounters at once. The encounter with the students first – the immediate interlocutors of the teaching frame. Second, the encounter with one’s own society at large, which may identify with a single geographic space or more than one – as the teacher, by conveying knowledge and, hopefully, triggering critical stimuli, comes with an experiential baggage accumulated in one or more societies that historically shape the teacher’s way of thinking, speaking, and building the teacher-student encounter. Third, it is also an encounter with the multiple societies of the others, that is all of the societies “summarised” into the intellectual presence of each student in class.

It is exactly this collective moment, made of several encounters at once, that characterises the ways in which humanitarianism is both individually thought and culturally nuanced.

In light of this, each academic culture frames displacement, migration, and humanitarian action differently. The latter are undoubtedly tied up to broader politics and social processes which often intertwine, but each of them is differently thought and responded to in Lebanon, Turkey, and Italy. I experienced solipsism when I lectured in Turkey, as I realised how unfamiliar the students were with my Anglo-centric way of explaining humanitarianism-related topics. The most responsive to my lectures were the Lebanese students, who seemed to be highly familiar with the catastrophe discourse. This therefore led me to further reflections, as the fact that Lebanon has historically been more exposed to crisis than Italy and Turkey did not sound entirely convincing to me. There are, in fact, two factors that contribute to the students’ response to humanitarianism delivered in the form of an academic framework: The first is academic literature, and the second is postcoloniality – which, surely, to some extent, underlies the former. In fact, the Anglo-centric character of the humanitarianism framework – as it is globally discussed nowadays – is fully reflected in the academic literature which is delivered to students. Neither literature nor students themselves are bereft of political history.

Lebanon, having become home to several refugee groups, has often been studied in international academia in the context of the catastrophe discourse. Thus, humanitarianism has framed a large part of local learning about external interventions, especially since the years of the 1948 Palestinian Nakba. In this vein, even local infrastructures and local populations in Lebanon have drawn greater academic attention when turning into humanitarian spaces, host communities, displaced people, or migrants. Contrarily, Turkey is a country where catastrophe does not need to be there to justify tough security, anti-democratic measures, and political states of exception. Therefore, Turkish scholars have set up a mostly legal and policy-oriented framework for discussing refugee influxes and humanitarian practices,. The catastrophe narrative neither needs to strengthen a state which is already centralised and has rather enhanced domestic accountability by carefully gate-keeping refugee-populated areas, international support and involvement in domestic humanitarian affairs. In other words, in Turkey refugee influxes have been studied as a means to capture domestic changes, e.g. in market, employment, and housing. In Lebanon, however, the very goal of humanitarian research has long since revolved around refugees and NGOs themselves. Scholars of humanitarianism now increasingly address Lebanese people, governance, and services in light of the Syrian crisis. However, local people and services are still approached in the light of their response to crisis and given their relationship with refugee-related issues. In Italy, humanitarianism-related issues start stimulating academic curiosity in the wake of the Kosovo war in 1999, the 2001 western intervention in Afghanistan, and more recently, the migration flows from African, Asian, and Middle Eastern countries. Often unfamiliar with the anglo-centric ways of setting and naming the humanitarian framework, Italian students increasingly find themselves in the need to manage a foreign language and tackle diverse conceptual universes (mainly published in English) before encountering humanitarianism in their own language and academic culture. It is indeed meaningful that domestic emergency crises and humanitarian management – such as the earthquakes in central Italy– have primarily been tackled through the lens of disaster and risk reduction.

The postcolonial character of Lebanon vis-à-vis Turkey and Italy also sets up different student responses to learning humanitarianism in class today.

The French colonial mandate in Lebanon between 1920 and 1943 consistently shapes today’s student response to humanitarianism; familiar with postcolonial governance and catastrophisation as a way of understanding the current humanitarian discourse, my Lebanese students seemed to rely on categories of thinking which easily suit the humanitarian framework. The colonial mandate and the intervention of international assistance providers to back domestic parties and local communities gradually overshadowed the pre-existing thick network of local community services in academic literature. The present literal inundation of international crisis managers in Lebanon makes local students suitable interlocutors on the humanitarian mainstream narrative as well as its critiques.

In Turkey, humanitarianism has been acquiring international colours way before the beginning of the Syrian refugee influxes and the latest intervention of several humanitarian agencies. The 1915 Armenian genocide and deportations from Ottoman Turkey prompted the first cases of foreign charitable assistance in the region, in addition to the international refugee regime set up to deal with the massive displacement caused by the First World War. Overall, Ottoman authorities were reluctant to accept unconditional international assistance because they did not want to see their political power undermined. Traditionally decentralised and domestically managed, humanitarian services to forced migrants during the Ottoman Empire were mostly delegated to local communities, making the contemporary humanitarian approach to crisis and assistance unsuitable in the Turkish context. Nevertheless, while the Turkish government has already been pursuing a politics of intervention in Somalia since 2011, the recent intervention of international humanitarian agencies inside Turkey in response to the Syrian crisis is unprecedented.

Italy seemingly looks to humanitarianism with an ambiguous gaze. Past colonial governors in the Horn of Africa, and historically imbued with the Christian Catholic culture of assistance to the vulnerable, Italian students responded to my humanitarianism classes with the curiosity of the potential missionary. Approaching the catastrophe discourse to understand how new migration flows are shaping politics and ethics in the Mediterranean doorway, Italian students tended to associate humanitarianism either with human rights – which would require several political steps ahead – or with philanthropic charity. Italian students were rather inspired by the future possibility of doing good, and focussed on humanitarian sentimentalism, such as the pros and cons of compassion: Humanitarian governmentality, managerialism, donorship, and bureaucracy seemed to scarcely inhabit their humanitarian imaginary.

These reflections of mine also suggest that alternative humanitarianisms should be taught at school to unlearn their “alternative” – that is non-mainstream – character. This can be done if students are also allowed to develop contents and critical consciousness in their first language too. Skipping these stages leads to the imposition of one among many possible understandings of – and ways of teaching – humanitarianism. Individual responses, cultural patterns, ideologies, and material circumstances will always colour humanitarianism differently. The teacher’s challenge should be expanding the students’ gaze across political histories, human behaviours and moral expectations, while conveying one’s own identity peacefully. This is certainly not an easy job.

This research has been conducted in the framework of the project “Analyzing South-South Humanitarian Responses to Displacement from Syria: Views from Lebanon, Jordan and Turkey”, funded by the European Research Council under the Horizon 2020 Research and Innovation agreement no. 715582.