Representations of Rwanda have been shaped by the display of bodies and bones at Tutsi
genocide memorial sites. This phenomenon is most often only studied from the perspective
of moral dimensions. This article aims in contrast to cover the issues related to the
treatment of human remains in Rwanda for commemorative purposes from a historical
perspective. To this end, it is based on the archives of the commissions in charge of
genocide memory in Rwanda, as well as interviews with key memorial actors. This study
shows the evolution of memorial practices since 1994 and the hypermateriality of bodies in
their use as symbols, as well as their demobilisation for the purposes of reconciliation
Since the early 1990s, armed actors have invaded territories in the Chocó and Antioquia
departments of Colombia, inhabited by Afro-Colombians and Indians whose collective rights
in these territories had recently been legally recognised. Based on long-term fieldwork
among the Emberá Katío, this article examines social, cosmological and ritual alterations
and re-organisation around violent death. Following a national policy of post-conflict
reparations, public exhumations and identifications of human remains reveal new local
modes of understanding and administration. In particular, suicide, hitherto completely
unknown to the Emberá, broke out in a multitude of cases, mostly among the youth. Local
discourse attributes this phenomenon to the number of stray corpses resulting from the
violence, who are transformed into murderous spirits which shamans can no longer control.
The analysis focusses on the unprecedented articulation of a renewed eschatology, the
intricate effects of an internal political reorganisation and the simultaneous inroad into
their space of new forms of armed insurrectional violence. Thus the article will shed
light on the emergence of a new transitional moral economy of death among the Emberá.
construction of asylums in the early nineteenth century will be juxtaposed with the built environment and the institution-specific needs which drove individual asylums to adapt their buildings in certain ways. Far from homogenous, asylums were highly specialised to their local populations. The material fabric of the buildings themselves evidences the individuality of local authorities in their approach to asylum building, and the varying interpretations of reform ideals such as moral management and non-restraint. Asylum architecture and the use of asylum buildings is
An archaeology of lunacy examines the historic lunatic asylum from an interdisciplinary perspective, employing methods drawn from archaeology, social geography, and history to create a holistic view of the built heritage of the asylum as a distinctive building type. In the popular imagination, historic lunatic asylums were dark, monolithic, and homogenous, instruments for social confinement and punishment. This book aims to redress this historical reputation, showing how the built environment and material worlds of lunatic asylums were distinctive and idiosyncratic – and highly regional. They were also progressive spaces and proving grounds of architectural experimentation, where the reformed treatment practices known as moral management were trialled and refined. The standing remains of the nineteenth-century lunatic asylum system represent a unique opportunity to study a building-type in active transition, both materially and ideologically. When they were constructed, asylums were a composite of reform ideals, architectural materials, and innovative design approaches. An archaeological study of these institutions can offer a materially focused examination of how the buildings worked on a daily basis. This study combines critical analysis of the architecture, material remains, and historical documentary sources for lunatic asylums in England and Ireland. Students and scholars of later historical archaeology and built heritage will find the book a useful overview of this institutional site type, while historians of medicine will find the focus on interior design and architecture of use. The general public, for whom asylums frequently represent shadowy ruins or anonymous redevelopments, may be interested in learning more about the buildings.
, therefore, that the site became increasingly overcrowded.
When the Bethlem Hospital was relocated to a new site in Moorfields in 1676, it was rebuilt in a large, purpose-built institution, a ‘palace beautiful’ for the mad, far removed from the piecemeal architecture of the original Priory site (Arnold 2008 : 87). The baroque architecture of the new Bethlem Hospital marked a shift in attitude towards the insane. Madness was no longer seen as a divine punishment or moral affliction, and the new hospital indicated a move towards the idea of a
museums with strong community ties outside of Europe. The challenges, in
a European museum context, of bridging the colonial divides and of decolonising traditional ethnographic collections drew me, in time, to work, and
apprentice, at the Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (Te Papa),
which forms another part of my personal background for the thinking that
emerges in this chapter.
Being white is a moral choice
‘Being white’, said James Baldwin, is, ‘absolutely, a moral choice (for there
are no white people)’.3
Whiteness4 jumps out of the pages of
John Conolly lamented the lack of consultation between architects and the resident or visiting medical men in public asylums. As an advocate of moral management, Conolly was concerned about the alteration of buildings and furnishings carefully chosen for reasons of moral, as well as physical, management. As discussed in Chapter 2 , asylums like Hanwell (1831) were built and managed from the outset to reflect a more humane and caretaking attitude towards the mad. Features of this new generation of asylums included, variously, openable, paned windows and early
Goldin 1975 ). Victorian asylum architects drew on architectural influences beyond the standard neo-classical style which defined their Georgian predecessors: innovations in management style and corridor layout, as well as material features such as reinforced windows. As such, by the end of the nineteenth century, asylum architecture became more consolidated, bearing less resemblance to the country-house style of institutions like the York Retreat than to general hospitals and other asylums.
Moral management, though occupying a significant
houses. The stylistic resemblance between asylums and other buildings representing the establishment marked them out as part of the same framework of social order and civic improvement. What set asylums apart from workhouses, prisons, and even country houses were the principles of moral management written into the internal divisions within the buildings, as discussed in Chapter 2 , and the designed landscapes which surrounded them. High walls and ha-has – reinforced ditches obscuring boundaries and utilities to provide an uninterrupted view from the main house (Curl
Conal McCarthy, Arapata Hakiwai and Philipp Schorch
(post)colonial demands for
moral redress, political concessions and legal reparations. While legitimate
issues may exist with regard to the initial collection of material treasures and
whether ethical limits were reached or exceeded, another, at least as important, conversation is whether the journey of these ancestral figures is indeed
over.53 Backward-oriented provenance research alone – currently the main
strategy of Euro-American institutions to pacify Indigenous claims – is
not enough; even if it can be proved historically that so-called museum
objects were not