Archaeology and Heritage
The area of Germany which became the Soviet Occupation Zone/German Democratic Republic (GDR) bore the brunt of the Soviet offensive of 1945. This last phase of the Second World War on German soil produced a sensational death toll. Yet, a systematic registration of war burials on GDR soil did not take place until the 1970s. This article analyses a particular facet of knowledge production and mass death by turning to the process of accounting for Second World War burials through lists and statistics in the socialist GDR, with a particular focus on key policy changes in the 1970s. Unpacking the reasons which prompted a large-scale registration of war burials some twenty-five years after the end of the war, I argue that the process of accounting for war deaths was shaped by both domestic and foreign politics, and in particular by evolving relations with non-socialist countries. I also demonstrate that international requirements for the visibility and accountability of war burials, as enshrined in the Geneva Conventions, generated tensions with a domestic ‘politics of history’ which required the invisibility of particular categories of dead.
This article intends to shed light on the influence of gas warfare on the management of dead bodies of violence. It shows that this new type of weapon prompted the setting up of new military centres dedicated to forensic research within the French army. This work notably involved carrying out numerous autopsies on the bodies of deceased intoxicated soldiers. By looking at the reports produced and the work of forensic pathologists, the article demonstrates how dead bodies became a site of knowledge production. It also investigates the tensions related to the treatment of dead bodies resulting from this widespread practice of autopsy. The reports produced also provide precise descriptions of the last moments of the soldiers who died in ambulances or hospitals. Finally, by cross-referencing these sources with soldiers’ grave registers, it is possible to grasp the afterlives of autopsied bodies and the diverse fates of soldiers who fell at the front.
This is the first study dedicated to discussing perspectives on proposals to transfuse blood from people killed in conflict zones. It attempts to present a rounded picture of why the idea has apparently failed to translate into practice. Drawing on a range of sources, from scientific research on ‘cadaver’ blood transfusions to discussions around planning for mass casualty events, the article shows how professional interest in the transfusion possibilities of blood taken from the battlefield dead evolved from Soviet research in the 1930s, spread internationally and endured after the Second World War. It then demonstrates that a range of issues, from taboos to practicability, require consideration if past challenges to utility are to be reliably understood. It notes, too, that some early obstacles may, today, be outdated.
This article shows how the medicalisation of death in wartime can be seen as integral to a broader medicalisation of war that it both stems from and sustains. More specifically, it highlights the pivotal role of post-mortem examinations – which were widely performed in French military hospitals during the First Indochina War – in advancing clinical knowledge and monitoring the quality of care, as the only way of providing diagnostic certainty. Pathology procedures also contributed to the introduction of therapeutic innovations, which were largely the result of ongoing interactions both within the armed forces medical service and with the wider military and civilian French and international medical community.
This chapter introduces the three major case studies in the book – Aleppo, Mosul and Tadmor-Palmyra – and examines the narratives we have created about destruction relating to these places, both in the deeper past and the present. I show that some of our narratives around destruction and change in the past relating to Aleppo and Mosul often do not take full account of the impact these would have had on those living with those changes. Instead, we seem to hide those impacts behind an emphasis on continuity and longevity. In the case of Tadmor-Palmyra, however, we see a rather different situation where the trope of destruction seems to have stuck to the city, even when the archaeological evidence seems to point to other kinds of change. In the accounts of what happened to Mosul, Aleppo and Tadmor-Palmyra from 2011 onwards, I tease out the different trajectories of the conflicts in these places and the modes and motivations for cultural heritage destruction. These add nuance to the kinds of ‘bad guys v good guys’ narratives that we often see in the media and instead show the complexity of what happened to the people and cultural heritage of these places.
Here we look at a range of different architectural approaches to the issue of cultural heritage destroyed in conflict and examine how these both seem to fetishize the past and can develop overly prescriptive approaches that are built on Western scientific knowledge production. I provide a deep-dive into the architectural competition run through UNESCO to rebuild al-Nuri Mosque in Mosul. I show that there was potential for this competition to have been more beneficial to the people of Mosul that might have imbued the project with the collaborative spirit that would ensure its success and the complex’s (re)incorporation into the daily lives of Moslawis. Here the master’s tools have decidedly not been successful in dismantling the master’s house. Some of the unsuccessful competition entries, however, demonstrated much-needed creativity and vibrancy, together with collaborative care and attention towards local communities and stakeholders. These included consideration of pressing climate issues, wellbeing and memory.
Here we look at various creative responses in visual media to issues around the ownership, destruction and reconstruction of cultural heritage in Iraq and Syria. In all cases the artists have responded with sensitivity and humility, always considering how their works relate to the people and communities in Syria and Iraq. They take up activist positions to probe more deeply into the histories and complex networks of relationships that have wrapped themselves around both Syrian and Iraqi cultural heritage. They demonstrate powerfully how ghosts can work in practice to destabilise and challenge the status quo. In so doing, the works looked at in this chapter frequently point to ways of conceptualising heritage reconstruction that may be more beneficial long-term to the needs and wellbeing of Syrians and Iraqis, wherever they may currently be living their lives.
This chapter is an opportunity to explore some of the potential reasons behind the knee-jerk responses to demands for reconstruction that may be rooted in misplaced assumptions around the fixedness and unchanging nature of our built environment. I argue that reconstructions that leave no space for demonstrating that change has happened may be akin to zombies. By refusing to acknowledge change, however painful, such projects may, albeit unwittingly, be entrenching trauma responses and feeding into repressed memories. The author proposes instead that we take a two-pronged approach. First, we need to pay more attention to the research into PTSD and traumatic memory to help us find solutions that are grounded in proven practices of recovery from trauma. Second, the author offers the metaphor of ghosts to give us the conceptual space in which to pause, reflect and process before moving headlong into solutions that may do more harm than good.
What should we do with heritage damaged in conflict? Instead of succumbing to the tempting response of ‘reconstruct it, just as it was!’, British Iraqi archaeologist, Dr Zena Kamash, invites readers to think first and foremost about what might be most beneficial to the local communities of Syria and Iraq. Charting a path through the colonial histories of, and into the trauma of war in, Syria and Iraq, this book examines the projects and responses currently on offer and explores their flaws and limitations, including issues of digital colonialism, technological solutionism, geopolitical manoeuvring, media bias and community exclusion. By drawing on current research into the psychology and neuroscience of trauma and trauma recovery, as well as inspiration from artists and creative thinkers who challenge the status quo, readers are encouraged to reflect on how we might use heritage to promote healing and wellbeing for Syrian and Iraqi communities. In so doing, this book asks us to envisage gentler, ethically driven ways to respond to heritage damaged in conflict that recentres people, and their hopes, dreams and needs, into the heart of these debates.
The chapter starts with a reflection on the author’s positionality, especially as a British Iraq archaeologist, and how this influences key themes that run through the book regarding who heritage reconstruction is for, the limits of heritage reconstruction, heritage preservation and consensus seeking. This chapter includes several reflections that may seem provocative, perhaps even heretical, to a reader who has been digesting a Western preservationist paradigm most of their life. The author invites readers to reflect on their own positionality and how they are responding to the ideas presented here. The chapter ends with an overview of the histories of colonialism, Orientalism and nationalism as they relate to cultural heritage in Syria and Iraq.