administration have constructed its enemy; that is, a group of
nativised people (those constituted as
‘natives’) challenging White authority? While we are
familiar with studies of contemporary Nigerian counterterrorism and
security policy (Oyawale 2022 ), we rarely
confront the journey of the post-colonial state – and how
, especially during the Issara independence movement (1945–49). Yet now Savang entered parliament, followed first by Crown Prince Vongsavang and only after by Prime Minister Souvanna Phouma. 1 Savang served a ceremonial but nonetheless crucial role. This was not a given; two decades earlier there had been not a single, but rather several monarchies across Laos. This chapter examines how the modern Lao monarchy was made (and unmade) by partisan struggles. More deeply, it considers questions about what role kings had in a post-colonial democracy and how this was influenced by
’s authoritative monograph provides an analysis of how the maharajas navigated through the last decades of British rule and the transition to independent India, and Yaqoob Khan Bangash has provided an account of the hereditary rulers and the independence of Pakistan. 3 Milton Osborne’s classic biography of King Sihanouk offers a portrait of a king whose reign spanned the colonial and post-colonial history of Cambodia, and Geoffrey C. Gunn has examined in detail Sihanouk’s role in bringing about Cambodia’s independence from France. 4 Herbert P. Bix’s biography of Emperor
Changes in nursing and mission in
Barbra Mann Wall
In 1914, Britain created the country of Nigeria by joining northern
and southern protectorates together. In a colonisation process that
lasted more than forty years, the British employed treaties, battles,
threats of deportation and collaboration with compliant local rulers
as they established a policy of ‘indirect rule’. Yet racial discrimination
and other forms of alienation led to anti-colonial protests and nationalist resistance movements. After the Second World War
Colonial Caring covers over a century of colonial nursing by nurses from a wide range of countries including: Denmark, Britain, USA, Holland and Italy; with the colonised countries including South Africa, Australia, New Zealand, Ethiopia, Nigeria, India, Indonesia (Dutch East Indies) and the Danish West Indies. It presents unique perspectives from which to interrogate colonialism and post-colonialism including aspects of race, cultural difference and implications of warfare and politics upon nursing. Viewing nursing’s development under colonial and post-colonial rule reveals different faces of a profession that superficially may appear to be consistent and coherent, yet in reality is constantly reinventing itself. Considering such areas as transnational relationships, class, gender, race and politics, this book aims to present current work in progress within the field, to better understand the complex entanglements in nursing’s development as it was imagined and practised in local imperial, colonial and post-colonial contexts. Taking a chronologically-based structure, early chapters examine nursing in situations of conflict in the post-Crimean period from the Indian Rebellion to the Anglo-Boer War. Recruitment, professionalisation of nursing and of military nursing in particular, are therefore considered before moving deeper into the twentieth century reflecting upon later periods of colonialism in which religion and humanitarianism become more central. Drawing from a wide range of sources from official documents to diaries, memoirs and oral sources, and using a variety of methodologies including qualitative and quantitative approaches, the book represents ground-breaking work.
(B)ordering Britain argues that Britain is the spoils of empire, its immigration law is colonial violence and irregular immigration is anti-colonial resistance. In announcing itself as post-colonial through immigration and nationality laws passed in the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s, Britain cut itself off symbolically and physically from its colonies and the Commonwealth, taking with it what it had plundered. This imperial vanishing act cast Britain’s colonial history into the shadows. The British Empire, about which Britons know little, can be remembered fondly as a moment of past glory, as a gift once given to the world. Meanwhile immigration laws are justified on the basis that they keep the undeserving hordes out. In fact, immigration laws are acts of colonial seizure and violence. They obstruct the vast majority of racialised people from accessing wealth amassed in the course of colonial conquest. Regardless of what the law, media and political discourse dictate, people with personal, ancestral or geographical links to colonialism, or those existing under the weight of its legacy of race and racism, have every right to come to Britain and take back what is theirs.
This article will query the ethics of making and displaying photographs of human
remains. In particular, we will focus on the role of photography in constituting
human remains as specimens, and the centrality of the creation and circulation
of photographic images to the work of physical anthropology and bioarchaeology.
This work has increasingly become the object of ethical scrutiny, particularly
in the context of a (post)colonial politics of recognition in which indigenous
people seek to recover dominion over their looted material heritage, including
the remains of their dead. This ethical concern extends to the question of how
and under what circumstances we may display photographs of human remains.
Moreover, this is not just a matter of whether and when we should or should not
show photographs of the remains of the dead. It is a question of how these
images are composed and produced. Our discussion of the ethics of the image is,
therefore, indivisible from a consideration of the socio-technical process by
which the photographic image is produced, circulated and consumed.
In an age of Imperial confidence, the social rhetoric of Victorian Britain frequently manifested a perceptible unease when considering cultural problems within the home nation. The imagery of ‘darkest England’, dependant as it was upon a powerful colonialist discourse, authorised and transmitted a register of language whereby an internal Other might be configured as uncivilised, and thus capable of being subject to the explorer and the missionary. Much, of course, has already been written upon the Gothic possibilities of this phenomena which characterised an Imperial age which allegedly declined with the nineteenth century. No similar consideration, however, has yet been made of its continuation into the twentieth century, a progressively post-colonial era in which the Imperial (or Imperialised) Other, in consequence, functions differently. This article considers two Gothic short stories, one in a reprinted Edwardian collection, the other a component of an original collection, both of which were issued in volume form in the late 1940s. The two narratives examine classic ‘cultures-within-cultures’, pockets of resistance within the fabric of the Imperial nation, though in a cultural context radically different from their Victorian predecessors. Algernon Blackwood‘s ‘Ancient Sorceries’ (1908), published in the 1947 reprint of his John Silence, and L.T.C. Rolt‘s ‘Cwm Garon’ published in Sleep No More (1948) share a preoccupation with the casual, localised, travelling which has replaced Imperial adventure, and with the decline of identifiable Christian institutions and landmarks themselves the products of earlier missionary activity in a familiar, though threatening, European landscape. In both short stories a form of devil worship is enacted before the eyes of the traveller, and in a landscape which fascinates and somehow holds him. In ‘Ancient Sorceries’, where the Devil does attend the bacchanal, the protagonist is almost seduced into willing participation but, on evading the sexual lure of the sabbat, vows never to return. Rolt, writing after the recent horrors of the Second World War, discards the presiding Devil in favour of a mortal substitute, but still leaves open the possibility that, in Kilvert‘s words, ‘an angel satyr walks these hills’. Neither welcomed nor seduced by the satanic community, Rolts protagonist finds himself fascinated by the land, and thus drawn into unwilling participation. In colonial terms, these two narratives explore the frequently rehearsed dangers of ‘going native’ that lie at the core of, among other works, Kipling‘s ‘The Mark of the Beast’, Rider Haggard‘s She and Conrad‘s Heart of Darkness. A subject people is identified, but their strength either supernatural or merely cultural, the ability to preserve a distinctive and resistant way of life tests the limits of the perceiving power. These are, in a sense, Imperial fantasies for a post-colonial world, a reflexing of colonised culture back in upon the formerly colonising nation.
non-intervention, and came to see that the (post)colonial run-up to genocide was a story of too
much intervention, even in the name of democracy.
During my doctoral research, I rediscovered the case of Somaliland. A self-declared independent
republic in the north-western corner of Somalia, Somaliland had declined US and UN interventions
at the beginning of the 1990s, apart from specific assistance (the clean-up of landmines, for
example). Instead, it took care of its peace-building process internally and with its diaspora.
Over the years, even
The Politics of ‘Proximity’ and Performing Humanitarianism in Eastern DRC
(post)colonial global inequity ( Fassin, 2007 ; Geissler, 2013 ). In MSF, ‘national staff’ – employees who are recruited within their country of origin rather than flown in for short-term ‘missions’ – account for 92% of employees ‘in the field’ ( Fox, 2014 : 106). If MSF is a dispersed collection of individuals, Congolese employees are MSF’s permanent human infrastructure in North Kivu: drivers, guards, logisticians, doctors, nurses, pharmacists, technicians. Senior decision-making positions (such as heads of mission and project coordinators) are held by foreign