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scramble for the bomb, and the world became a more dangerous place. As the Cold War crept into being, nuclear weapon tests flung carbon-14 and other isotopes into the global atmosphere, and trees locked away some of these radiation residues with each growing 264 Nature season. The charred stumps within Hiroshima’s blast zone began to thrust out fresh buds. Six ginkgoes recovered. While the blast had destroyed their foliage, their underground root networks endured. These trees became known as hibakujumoku – the A-bomb survivor tree – and Hiroshima regrew and recovered
, who was lame in one leg. During a childhood game he missed his footing, grabbed hold of the waterwheel in the family mill, and went spinning around it, the electron around the nucleus, the individual, now on a new trajectory. There’s a strong connotation of post-war Europe to this Hulme photograph, but also of post-bomb Hiroshima. Epping Walk Bridge, the site of the famous image of Joy Division captured by Kevin Cummins in January 1979, speaks to the idea that Manchester is now a post-industrial, Cold War city. This idea has become a lightweight trope in many ways
Manchester: Something rich and strange challenges us to see the quintessential post-industrial city in new ways. Bringing together twenty-three diverse writers and a wide range of photographs of Greater Manchester, it argues that how we see the city can have a powerful effect on its future – an urgent question given how quickly the urban core is being transformed. The book uses sixty different words to speak about the diversity of what we think of as Manchester – whether the chimneys of its old mills, the cobbles mostly hidden under the tarmac, the passages between terraces, or the everyday act of washing clothes in a laundrette. Unashamedly down to earth in its focus, this book makes the case for a renewed imaginative relationship that recognises and champions the fact that we’re all active in the making and unmaking of urban spaces.
in this literature to the fact that ‘Development was conceived both as a Cold War antidote to communist revolution and as a means by which ex-colonies could be maintained as subordinate suppliers of resources and raw materials for Northern capital.’ Britain's investment into the continued functioning of Kenya's civil service was thus to no small degree motivated by intertwined economic, geopolitical and military interests in the Cold War context. From the outset, OSAS was justified by raising the spectre of communism. Before the announcement of
Henry VIII's castles at Sandgate, Deal and Walmer; a run of 27 stocky Martello Towers arrayed along the shoreline between 1805 and 1809; the 28-mile Royal Military Canal running from Iden to Seabrook as a defence during the Napoleonic Wars; World War I anti-invasion trenches, infantry blockhouses and gun emplacements; World War II sea forts and anti-tank concrete blocks; coastal pillboxes; Cold War radar stations; civil defence observation posts; and nuclear bunkers. Arguably, the security fences and CCTV surveillance that surrounds the Eurotunnel constitutes the
. The cartography of apocalypse The third case of Bunge using cartography as novel geographical re-description was perhaps the most difficult, certainly the most haunting and chilling. The aim of Bunge’s (1988) Nuclear war atlas was to re-describe the geography of nothing: the world after the bomb. The bomb was a menacing presence from early on in Bunge’s adult life. He was seventeen when Enola Gay dropped Little Boy on Hiroshima and twenty-two when he taught ‘nuclear war’ at Camp McCoy. From then on, he experienced the continual existential threat of Cold War
breed’ of expatriate, a social role that emerged out of previous forms of imperial migration which were being transformed in response to decolonisation. Early IHRM literature thus proves insightful, offering historical perspectives sorely missing from today's scholarship. Decolonisation, the Cold War and the new breed of expatriate Early IHRM literature was (and to some extent remains) US-centric, primarily concerned with US multinationals, before beginning to turn to European and Israeli MNCs in the 1970s, and Japanese firms in
) officers and, closely related, British regional influence for the post-colonial period. The newly conceived ‘expatriate’ OSAS officer was key to British international development assistance, which was understood as a tool to retain global influence in a Cold War world. In Kenya, the institution of greatly privileged ‘expatriate’ civil servants had the indirect but significant effect of entrenching socio-economic inequality in the Kenyan civil service and Kenyan society more broadly. Yet, if the category expatriate was used to translate colonial into postcolonial
financiers to the activists, in order to understand the interests that shape how we think about environmental breakdown. As it aims to demonstrate, the key battleground on climate change is no longer with those who deny the existence of climate change, its human origins, or importance, but the ‘wolves in sheep’s clothing’ who advocate delay and diminution of vital action. In contrast to the loud condemnation of climate denial, this cold war bubbles beneath the surface of environmentalism, a fight for knowledge, policy, and
cities across the continent. A dismal science that draws on the medium- and long-term imperatives of a utilitarian calculus to make a case for the rationalisation of the future African metropolis. If cities in Africa can be made to look more like the successful engines of growth in other parts of the world, then majoritarian prosperity and economic development (however benefits are distributed) will follow. In the post-Cold War decades, such science may have escaped the juxtaposition of development models that owed their legitimacy either to